Page 3 of The Last Letter of Rachel Ellsworth

That evening, she sat in the cold, tiny second bedroom at her desk and watched the snow falling. It was a magical scene, flakes sparkling through the bar of someone’s porch light. A girlhood in northern New Mexico had given snow almost mystical properties, and she loved it every single time.

It was quiet.Soquiet. That was the thing about the apartment that bugged her the most. She’d prepared for an empty nest—as much as was possible, anyway—by taking on a new volunteer position at the tiny gold rush history museum. She’d already had her garden club and the part-time position at the nonprofit.

But just as the kids launched—Tim off to graduate school in Chicago; Jenna starting her junior year at the University of Colorado, where her dad taught philosophy; and Ben starting his freshman year at Stanford—the world closed down for COVID. Lacking resourceson their various campuses, the kids all drove home, and the family sheltered together.

Veronica loved it. It was an unexpected reprieve, having everyone under the same roof for over a year, the kids enrolled remotely in classes. She’d hear one professor lecturing on Shakespeare, another on some math formula that was over her head. In his own den/office, Spence held forth on Socrates and Marcus Aurelius and the reliability of logic. Ruler of the house again, Veronica happily made vats of soup, baked sourdough bread, and served meals every night in their cozy dining room.

Then, over the course of eight months, her world shattered. The kids went back to their various apartments and dorms.

But then her marriage abruptly—or it seemed like it at the time—fell apart. Her husky mutt, Sophie, had died at fifteen. She had to move out of the house she adored.

Veronica had not been the slightest bit silent or docile or dignified about that, much to her embarrassment now. Among other things, there had been one memorable night she had called him twenty-seven times after drinking a bottle of rosé.

She had prepared for the loss of her beloved dog, as much as a person could. She had prepared for her children to leave home. She had even been looking forward to the next chapter of her life with a certain amount of anticipation.

The loss of her marriage had blindsided her. Everyone said that wasn’t possible, that she must have known on some level, but she hadn’t. One day she’d thought she was happily married, and the next, she was the unwanted wife. He sobbed when he told her that he’d fallen in love with a visiting professor. An Irish poet as ethereal as a Maxfield Parrish painting.

Spence was so sorry, but he had to end the marriage. Immediately.

Not that Veronica gave in, just like that. Oh, no.

Shebelievedin their marriage, the union other people envied. How could they have such great sex (twice a week!) if they weren’t still very attracted to each other?

But in the end, she lost him. He was in love with someone else. Because the house had been handed down through his family like some medieval manor, not to mention she couldn’t afford the upkeep of a hundred-year-old house, she’d had to give up her beloved house and garden to move to this apartment, where the only voice was her own.

Now she didn’t just have anemptynest; she hadnonest. It was just an apartment in an old house without even a pet to keep her company. The only noises were noises she made—clattering dishes or singing against the dark. Sitting here in the cold of a Thanksgiving night that should have been spent around the raucous noise of board games with her family, it was so quiet she could hear the creaks of the old floorboards.

The all-too-familiar waves of fury and grief rose like magma through her body, but she had cried and screamed enough for twenty women. Irritated, she stood up, snapped on the Bluetooth speaker, and played an upbeat list of favorites.

Do something productive,her therapist’s voice said in her mind. She’d had to quit the expensive sessions a couple of months ago, but that didn’t nullify the help she’d discovered.

Instead of scrolling through Facebook, she clicked on LinkedIn to look for a job. Her alimony was meager because even a full professor didn’t make a huge sum of money, and he did have a second family on the way, along with three kids still in college. She had to find something soon, and preferably not secretarial. Not that there was anything wrong with the work, but it had never been something she could bear. It literally made her fall asleep.

She liked being active. Maybe something outside.

It wasn’t like she had many credentials in any field. Good education, but no experience in anything except raising children and grant writing. She’d done a lot of grant writing for various nonprofits over the years and was good at it. She hoped there might be a position for her somewhere in one of the many nonprofits in town, but she had not had much luck so far.

A person could find work, she told herself. She would. She scrolled down and stopped, electrified.

Seeking female companion to assist with travel and research. History major preferred, must be able to lift 40 lbs., walk for several hours in any weather and climb steps. Three to four weeks, itinerary including London, Paris, Morocco, India. Fluent French preferred, other language experience a plus. Salary dependent upon experience. Contact [email protected].

For a minute, she stared at the entry as if she might have imagined it. How could this even be a real job offer? The cadence of the destinations sang through her—London, Paris, Morocco, India.

India.As if she’d conjured it.

Fierce, hotwantsuddenly awakened in her chest. It was such a strange sensation that she had to press a hand to her sternum. Her heart thudded beneath her palm, and the music of place-names sang through her body.London, Paris, Morocco, India!

Her heart raced, and she told herself to calm down. It was probably some weird scam. And even if it was real, she probably wouldn’t qualify. But she was fluent in French, though it was rusty, and she’d graduated with degrees in history and women’s studies,and she could certainly walk several hours and lift forty pounds. It couldn’t hurt to try.

If bad luck could fall on a person all at once, maybe good luck could, too.

Without a second’s hesitation, she sent an email.

Chapter Two

On Thanksgiving night, Mariah Ellsworth ate chicken noodle soup and a grilled cheese sandwich. Her mother, a gourmet before the wordfoodiewas invented, had hated the holiday. She’d said it was filled with overcooked meat, oversweetened everything, badly cooked vegetables, and sloppy potatoes. She liked to skip it in protest, and whenever Mariah happened to be home, they’d spent it watching the rich historical dramas her mother loved.

She was making tea in her mother’s cavernous kitchen when her phone dinged with an email notification. It was on the table in the dining room, approximately fifty million steps away, so she’d just pick it up on her way through.