Page 66 of The Last Letter of Rachel Ellsworth

“Sure. Anything you want me to get?”

She pointed to the Yule log, frosted in red, and the macaron trees. He took shots of them, and then more of her; she felt the lens focus on her face as she leaned in to read the little cards before the pastries. Her tongue swept over her teeth in anticipatory glee.

They returned to the table to order, and when the server hurried away, Mariah said, “My mom and I came here the first time when I was very little, maybe only four or five. She loved it here. We had hot chocolate and the pistachioMont-Blancevery time, and took macarons back to the hotel.” She looked wistful. “I feel like I can see her here.”

“I came here on my honeymoon,” Veronica said, and the startling blue of Spence’s eyes that day rose in memory. “We sat right over there.” The arrowheads rustled, and she rubbed her breastbone. “I always hoped we’d come back eventually.”

“Why didn’t you?” Mariah asked, direct as ever.

Veronica shrugged. “Who knows? Life just ... takes you where it takes you.”

“True that. How about you, Henry?” Mariah asked. “Any memories of Angelina’s?”

“No,” he said, looking around, then back to them, “but I am making some now.”

A glimmer of a narrative flitted over Veronica’s mind. Places as points of time, or memory. She leaned forward. “So, cafés are places people visit, and return to. They can be touchstones, carry memories. Families, lives.”

“That’s good,” Henry said.

“I’m thinking of myself at twenty-two,” Veronica said, “and you’re thinking of yourself at four, and we’re all here together at the ages we are now, having a different experience than the ones we’ve had before—” She frowned. “I’m not saying that very well, but I’m feeling it.” She touched her belly. “Did your mom come here before she brought you?”

“I don’t know. Maybe Jill would know.”

“I’ll ask her. But not now.” She pulled out her notebook and sketched the scene loosely, then made some notes about their orders. Twice she looked over to the table she had shared with Spence, but redirected quickly.

“I’m starting to see a kind of shape for this book,” she said as they sipped chocolate and coffee and sampled pastries, a napoleon that was the flakiest thing she’d ever tasted, the quiche creamy and salty with the layers of cheese and bacon. “I’ll draft an outline, and you can take a look.”

“I trust you,” Mariah said.

Veronica hesitated a moment, then decided to ask for what she needed, clearly and directly. “But I need to know you’re going to pay me properly for my time. We need to hammer that out.”

“Oh, snap. I forgot.” She wiped cream from her chin and fingers. “Why don’t you come up with what you think it should be, and draft out some kind of agreement, and we’ll go from there.”

Veronica straightened, feeling a sense of ... soft power. “I can do that.”

Chapter Thirty

Mariah stretched mightily out on the street, feeling an easy happiness over the memories of her mother and herself drinking chocolate and gorging on pastries. It was a good memory, one she wanted to carry with her forever. Maybe noticing that was a good sign.

“After that feast, maybe we should walk to Café Farroukh,” Henry said, consulting the maps on his phone.

“Feast!” Veronica echoed. “More like gluttony. I will not be able to eat a single bite at a new café, I don’t care how far we walk.”

“We don’t have to eat there,” Henry said. “This one isn’t about the café so much as the connection to India.”

“You read the notes!” Veronica exclaimed. “Thank you.”

“Of course. This café is a good lead,” he said, directing them toward a busy intersection. “Looks like it’s too far to walk all the way, but let’s head down the Seine and get the metro from a bit farther down.”

“I love the name,” Mariah said. “I can eat for all of us if you guys are wimps.”

Veronica laughed. “You eat more than anyone I’ve ever met.”

“Good metabolism, thank God.”

“Are you up for the walk?” Veronica asked Mariah.

Her leg was fine this morning, and so was her heart. “I’m good! Great, actually.”