Page 18 of The Last Letter of Rachel Ellsworth

Travel brings power and love back into your life.

—Rumi Jalalud-Din

Chapter Ten

Veronica realized within five minutes of landing that her employer was more than a little drunk. Or drugged. It was hard to wake her, and then she was groggy—and cranky—as they made their way through the long snaking customs lines. Veronica had raised three teenagers and knew to simply refuse to engage, though she made a mental note to have a little chat about it before their next flight.

Once they got through the line, they had to wait for another half hour for their bags. The whole time, Mariah was bleary eyed and bad tempered, snapping at a woman who bumped them as she passed with a big suitcase.

“She’s just cranky,” Veronica said to the woman, who looked alarmed and hurried by. “Maybe don’t spit on the passersby,” she said mildly.

“She ran over my foot! The sore leg.”

“It’s crowded. She didn’t do it on purpose.”

“Don’t,” Mariah said with venom. “You’re not my mom.”

“That’s true. But I am your companion and deserve not to be embarrassed.”

She glared through red-rimmed eyes. “Fine.”

Veronica rescued the bags, and they made their way into the main terminal. “I think it might be a good idea to get a quick meal,” she said. “Some tomato juice for the ... grogginess?”

“Henry is meeting us.”

“Henry?”

“The photographer my mom wanted for the book. They’re old friends.”

Veronica blinked, scanning faces for anyone who looked like a photographer. “Okay. Is he traveling with us?”

“He’s not staying with us, but he’ll do some driving and that kind of thing.”

“Do you know what he looks like?”

“Yeah, they were friends from, like, college days.”

Veronica stood by as Mariah scanned the waiting people. Even this gave her a thrill, seeing so many faces and modes of dress. A swell of excitement penetrated the slight anxiety of arrival and not having a clear plan. She liked a plan.

“I don’t see him.” Mariah exhaled heavily. “There’s a café. Let’s get something.” She set off limping. Veronica pulled the bags, reminding herself that this was not her child, but her employer, and this was what she’d signed on for.

And her own need for caffeine had hardly been touched. They ordered lattes and tomato juice. Veronica lingered over the pastries, not wanting to overindulge but aware that she was very, very hungry. She finally chose a flaky-looking Danish with apricot filling and a sugar glaze. Mariah took her time, too, and finally chose a croissant and an enormous cookie. She carried the bags and cups while Veronica wheeled the suitcases, and they settled where they could see the open area outside arrivals.

“What does Henry look like?” Veronica asked, taking her pastry out of the white paper bag, leaning in to take a grounding whiff of butter and yeast and the reassuring sweetness of apricot.

Mariah gulped tomato juice, all of it at once like she was chugging a beer, one finger raised. She slammed it down and took a breath, wiping her face with a paper napkin. “That was great.” In seconds, her color was better. It was like watching a video-game character revive. “Henry’s tall and skinny and kind of eccentric looking. Not like a war photographer, actually. More like a ... I don’t know. You’ll see.”

Veronica squinted into the distance, trying to imagine what an eccentric war photographer would look like. “He’s a war photographer, and he’s going to shoot pictures of cafés?”

“He’ll do a great job.”

Veronica took a delicate bite from the edge of the pastry, trying to catch a bit of sugar with the dough. It crumbled exactly right, dough layered with butter, baked to a perfect crispy brown. “Mmm,” she said with approval, and took another, bigger bite. Pretty dry, but decent. Licking sugar off her fingers, she asked, “What is this book, exactly? Do you have an outline, or a prototype or anything? I’m not sure what we’re going to be looking for when we visit the spots on this list.”

“I don’t really know a lot, honestly. I brought all her notes, but I’m not a writer, so ...” She shrugged. “I think Henry knows more.”

Unease settled with prickly edges against her solar plexus. This was the opposite of having a plan. She pinched off a teeny tiny piece of the pastry and settled it in her mouth. It was too small to taste, and she took another one, bigger. “Can you make me copies of all that material?”

“That’s the stuff I already sent you.” She wolfed down bites of her pastry like she might lose the chance if she didn’t hurry up. Brushing her chin and the front of her T-shirt, she said, “Is there, like, a special way to do research?”