Page 32 of The Last Letter of Rachel Ellsworth

But her thin finances were always at the top of her mind, and it would definitely be worth a try. “You’d have to pay me more.”

She shrugged. “I get that. We can figure it out.”

Veronica focused on taking a small bite of omelet, trying to hide the fire that suddenly burned in her chest. Excitement, possibility, but also pride in asking for more. “I still want to do the research I want to do, too.”

“Maybe we could trade that out somehow.”

Veronica raised her brows. “We can definitely talk about it. In the meantime, I’m taking the notes you wanted anyway.” Which reminded her to type notes into her phone about the bun, about the dishes, all their names. “What is that called again?” she asked, pointing to the eggs and tomatoes. She looked at the menu she’d kept at her elbow, and typedtomato per eedu.

Henry said, “So good. All of it.” He looked around, assessing the room. “I need to get permission to shoot photos, maybe make an appointment to come back at some other time.”

Mariah nodded. “Whatever you need to do.”

“You’re supposed to be spearheading this,” he said, cocking an eyebrow. “It’s your project.”

She’d just taken a massive bite of thebun maskaand covered her mouth with her napkin, using a thumbs-up to show him she heard. “God,” she said around the food to Veronica. “You’ve gotta try it.”

Veronica nodded, but now she was assessing the room, too. If she wrote about it, what would bring it alive? She’d talk about the people, the young couple by the window, he in a turban, she in a bright-yellow outfit, a long tunic over loose pants—what was that called? She needed to find out. Several men sat by themselves, obviously businessmen out for lunch, some in short sleeves, others slightly more formal, with polished shoes. A woman in a rose-printed hijab sat with a child who ate a sandwich almost bigger than his face. She laughed when food fell out the other side.

“Is this connected to the places we’ll see in India?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” Mariah answered. “I’m guessing maybe. I wish my mom had talked about this part of her life, but I only found out she’d been to India after she died, when my aunt gave me some stuff she bought.”

“I wonder why she didn’t talk about it. Was she private?”

“God, no.” Mariah rolled her eyes. “Not private enough, if you ask me.”

It seemed like a clue. She’d only hidden her time in India. Maybe Rachel had been planning to excavate something from her past. “What did your aunt give you?”

“Just some clothes and jewelry. I think she wrote letters, but I didn’t want them.”

“Hmm.” Veronica perked up, but kept her external reaction small. “Letters might be helpful.”

Mariah closed her eyes. “I can’t look at her handwriting.” She pressed two fingers into her solar plexus. “It just ... I can’t.”

“Okay.” Veronica touched her arm, and Mariah allowed it. In a moment, she was steadier.

“I’m going to go ahead and shoot a few things now, and he said I can come back in the morning before they open, too. Better light. His mom is the owner, and he thinks she’d love to talk about the café for a book. She’s really proud of it.”

“Can we interview her?” Veronica asked, a fluttery mix of nerves and anticipation mingling in her body.

“That would be the idea. He said she’s just run an errand and will be back shortly.”

Mariah excused herself to go to the ladies’ room, limping dramatically enough that Veronica frowned. “Maybe the stairs to the train are too hard for her.”

“Agreed. We’ll head back.”

A woman in her fifties came out of the kitchen, tying a red apron around her short, curvy body. She had thick, dark hair cut short and wore a single gold bracelet. “Hello,” she said, standing beside Henry’s chair. “I’m Hufriya Mistry. You wanted to talk to me?” Unlike her son, her accent rolled with the cadence of India.

Henry spread a hand toward Veronica, who gulped and said, “We’re working on a book about café culture, and one aspect is Parsi cafés. It’s fascinating that you opened your business here. There are not very many Parsi establishments outside of India, are there?”

“Not many at all! I’m surprised Americans even know about them. What brought you here?”

“It’s kind of a treasure hunt,” Veronica said, improvising. “I think Mariah might be able to say more. Here she is.”

The woman watched Mariah limp toward them. Her brows pulled down in a frown as Mariah sat down.

Veronica saw the thunderous expression and felt suddenly protective of Mariah, wondering if she should stand between them or—