Page 56 of The Last Letter of Rachel Ellsworth

“I don’t know.” He shrugged. “Your mom wrote to me about it just a couple of years ago.” He nodded, looking around. “It captures the feeling of Parsi cafés,” he said, and tapped the menu. “You should read all this. It’s great background.”

Veronica hardly knew where to focus her attention first—the setting itself, and the beautiful young servers, the music playing a soft jazzy something that underlined the mood, the cocktail menu classic favorites like Negronis and martinis, all with a little extra twist. “Great nonalcoholic cocktails,” she commented.

“Seriously,” Mariah said. “I’m even tempted.”

Veronica read the story told on the menu, about Parsi cafés coming into their own in the Bombay of the 1930s. There was a graphic of what looked like the winged man but, on closer inspection, was a man and a winged circle. It was the same Zoroastrian symbol they’d seen at Café Guli. She needed to read more about the religion for context. She added a reminder to the growing list of notes on her phone.

And then, with a quiet sound, she dove into the menu. Her mouth actually watered. “I want every single thing on this list,” she said, and called out possibilities. “Lamb samosas! Gunpowder potatoes! And, oh! The letters talk about goat, but I don’t see any on the menu. I’ve never tried it.”

Mariah raised her head. “You got the letters?”

Veronica had spoken impulsively. Carefully, she said, “Yes, a few. Do you want to read them?”

“Not yet.”

“Understood,” Veronica said.

Henry tapped the menu. “They also havekulfi. That’s a very Indian thing.”

Mariah said, “You know you want the lamb chops, Miss I Couldn’t Eat Another Bite.”

“I definitely wouldn’t mind tasting them,” Veronica said with concerted understatement, “but can we try both? The chopsandthe samosas?”

Mariah raised an eyebrow. “You’re getting the hang of this. What else?”

They settled on a wide variety of dishes and drinks to sample, including a rose lassi and a cardamom lassi, which Veronica wanted to try just for the beauty of the ingredient names,nimbusoda, chai, of course, for thebun maskaand two of the nonalcoholic cocktails. Henry insisted they add a salted lassi.

The server smiled as she collected the menus. “I can see you are here to indulge. I hope you enjoy it all as much as I do.”

For the first time, Veronica felt like she had something of a handle on what Parsi meant. “Is this anywhere close to the Parsi cafés you’ve experienced in India?” she asked Henry and Mariah.

“I’ve never been to one,” Mariah said. “We never went to India.”

“Really?”

“She nixed it every time. Once we almost went, and then she canceled at the last minute. It really freaking annoyed me.”

A well-tended woman in her mid-forties approached. “I’m so sorry to bother,” she said to Mariah in a posh, dulcet voice, “but I am such a fan. Can we have a selfie? Is that horrible?”

“Happy to,” Mariah said, leaning in to grin at the phone, flashing a shaka sign.

“I’m sorry you won’t be in the games this winter. You were always my favorite.”

“Thanks,” Mariah said. A chilly glass fell around her. The woman took the hint, and hurried away.

“‘Mean Mariah,’” Henry said.

“I was never mean to fans,” she said. “I got a reputation for being a jerk, and the press loved it, but I was never mean to just”—she gestured—“people.”

“Why were you mean?” Veronica asked.

“I wasn’t really. I didn’t see why I owed anybody any of my mental space or time. My mind was on the training and everything that goes into it.” She twisted her mouth. “The boys don’t get slammed for being aloof or short or whatever. They’re more ‘serious.’” She put the word in air quotes.

“That’s brave.”

Henry had a half smile on his mouth.

“What?” Mariah said.