Page 39 of The Last Letter of Rachel Ellsworth

He turned the spines toward her. “More Mughal history. I seem to be on a kick.”

“That’s a lot of weight to drag around on a trip.”

“Yeah, but I like used history books.” He opened one and flipped through the pages, showing her the notes someone had written in the margins, blue ink in a spiky hand. “I like seeing what somebody else thought about the material.”

In this light, she could see silvery threads in his dark hair. “That’s a good way to look at it.” She closed her magazine, placed a hand on the glossy cover. “I was just contemplating the question of what the hell I’m going to do with the rest of my life.”

“Pretty weighty question for a rainy day.”

“I guess.” She showed her palm, which had marks from the pavement. “I slipped, a couple of girls rescued me, and I felt about four hundred years old.” She laughed at herself. “I mean, it brings home thoughts of mortality.”

“Maybe you could ask Mariah where she got her cane.”

She laughed again. “I’ll do that.”

“Maybe,” he said calmly, “the question to ask is, What do you want?”

“I wanted the life I had,” she said, aware of the bubble of grief expanding again. She cleared her throat, forcing the tears back.

He nodded. “What was that?”

“It’s hard to capture in a sentence or two. And I’m afraid it will sound unbearably suburban.”

“Try.”

She took a breath. “Okay. I miss my garden. I planted this massive garden over twenty years, and it was one of the most beautiful things I ever made.”

“I’m sorry.”

His quiet manner gave her courage. “I miss my beautiful kitchen. And when my kids were little, and when I thought I’d just live in that house until I died.”

“None of that is suburban.”

“It is, though. The house is in a nice little leafy neighborhood in Boulder, and my ex was a professor, and we had dinner party rounds once a quarter, and—” Tears gathered in the back of her throat, andshe paused to let them recede. “And it’s all ... gone. I have no idea what’s next.”

He nodded. “It’s hard to make a transition like that. Mariah is right there, too.”

“I guess she is.” Veronica gave him a rueful expression. “Hers is so much worse than mine.”

“It’s not a competition,” he said kindly. “You’ve lost the life you loved, and so has she.”

She closed her eyes, breathing slowly. Nodded.

“Maybe you just need to look at it in a different way. You’re free in a way that you probably never will be again. Maybe freer than you ever have been.”

“Well, except for that pesky little money thing.”

He shrugged ever so slightly. “Money isn’t the same thing as your life.”

“That’s a very privileged point of view. Money is at the core of everything. You can’t do anything without it.”

“I mean, sure, to a degree, but you’re a woman of some education and resources. You can make money.” He gestured to the shelves. “What about a bookstore?”

A puff of possibility blew away some of her despair. She raised her eyebrows. “I might like that.”

“I thought so. There might be lots of things like that. You don’t have to get it all figured out in the next five minutes. There’s some freedom in not knowing the next step.”

“That has honestly never occurred to me,” she said. “Thank you.”