Page 74 of The Last Letter of Rachel Ellsworth

“There’s a lot of judgment around food. Classism, really, if you think about it.”

“Such as?”

“Well, like your tripe, and my pizza rolls. I learned to cook using Hamburger Helper because hamburger was a dollar a pound, and my mom could make it quickly when she got off work—as a waitress, by the way, working with food all day to come home and make more food for the family.”

He looked over his shoulder with mock furtiveness and turned back with a glitter in his eye. “What’s the worst thing you still eat as an adult?”

Veronica laughed, loud enough to draw a mini scowl from the men across the way. “So many,” she said, sotto voce. “My kids are so humiliated that I like sweet-potato casserole.”

“The kind with the little marshmallows on top?”

“Yeah.”

He let go of a soft moan. “Man, I love that stuff. My aunt Rita used to make it every Thanksgiving.”

“Yes. But I have to admit ...” She glanced to her left and peered around Henry’s shoulder. “My worst failure as a foodie is that I love”—she dropped her voice to a whisper—“Miracle Whip.”

“Not Miracle Whip!” He shook his head. “I’m sorry, I can no longer be seen in your company.”

For one second, she thought she’d revealed too much, and then he laughed. “I hate it, but I have something I bet you don’t like.” He leaned in. “Bologna. With pork rinds. On white bread.”

“Ooh, that’s pretty disgusting.”

He grinned. “It’s a gift. I also love cheap hotdogs. The cheaper the better.”

She nodded in perfect agreement. “How about those little casseroles with beans and wienies?”

“God, yes! And boxed macaroni and cheese with the packets.”

“SpaghettiOs!” she cried.

“White Castle,” he said, and kissed his fingers.

She laughed. “We didn’t have those, but, baby, I ate my share of Taco Bell tacos.”

“Now that’s not a bad food, really. It’s basically meat and lettuce and corn tortillas. Not so junky.”

She raised her brows.

The waiter brought their profiterole at that moment, as if to underline the horrors of the conversation. Veronica looked at the exquisite creation and started laughing. Henry grinned. “Don’t tell anyone.”

“Not a word.”

Outside the bar, they paused. “Ready to head back?” Henry asked.

She looked at her watch. “It’s only seven thirty.”

“That is the answer I was hoping for.” He took her gloved hand in his, and they walked toward the shine of the cathedral in the dark. The whole city sparkled, living up to its moniker of the City of Light. “We can head for a metro station farther down and take the train back. Good?”

“Great.”

“How long were you in Paris before?”

“Three days was all we could afford. Enough to hit the highlights, but that was about it.”

“The Louvre, the Eiffel Tower, that kind of thing?”

“Oh, no. No way Spence wanted any museums. I was dying to visit the Musée d’Orsay, but he didn’t want to spend our honeymoon in museums.”