Page 20 of The Last Letter of Rachel Ellsworth

Henry gave a curt nod, adjusted the mirror, and pulled out. “Do you mind if I play music?”

It surprised her that he’d even ask. “Of course not. It’s your car.”

He plugged in his phone and a mellow brand of jazz emerged. Of course it would be cool. She smiled.

“What?” he asked. “Does this bring back memories?”

“Not at all.” She tried to think of a way to say what she thought without sounding like an idiot. “Just”—she spread a hand toward the radio—“I’m so not surprised that you’d like something hip like jazz.”

He slowed at the entrance to the parking structure, waiting for traffic, glancing over. His eyes were a clear hazel-y green. “Am I hip?”

“Maybe,” she ventured. “You’re a photographer in London. You’re driving a pretty fancy car. That’s seems kind of hip.”

He shifted, pulling into traffic. “I guess. I don’t live in London, though. I’m just here for this.”

“The book, you mean?”

“Partly. It’s really for Rachel.”

“Mariah’s mother?”

He nodded. “She’d want somebody to be in Mariah’s corner.”

“Are you familiar with the project?”

“A little. She’d been working on it in the background for a while. We were in Morocco a few years ago, and she got into it. We did some planning, but nothing all that detailed. I’m not sure what Mariah has now.”

“I can still hear you,” Mariah said from the back.

“We don’t care,” Henry called back. “Jump in any time.”

Henry continued, “I think her main fascination is—was—with Parsi cafés. Are you familiar?”

His voice was resonant enough that she wondered if he’d done on-screen reporting himself. “I’m not,” she said.

“The Parsis arrived in India a long time ago, around the seventh century. They were fleeing persecution, and they needed to find a new place to live, so they went to northern India.”

“Say more?”

“I don’t know a huge amount about the history, but the cafés were big in the 1920s and ’30s.” He changed lanes. “The food is a mix between Persian and Indian. The cafés are known for a kind of art deco look, and the buns they make. It was my idea to start with Dishoom inLondon because it’s a modern take, but they’re based on the old cafés in Mumbai.”

All the talk of food made her stomach growl. Loudly. She clapped a hand over it, appalled. “Sorry.”

“I’m always starving when I land. They have good room service at this hotel.”

“Thanks.” She glanced at her phone, wondered if there were messages. She hadn’t turned it back on in order to avoid charges.

Henry said, “There’s Wi-Fi in the car.”

“Cool.” She powered it on, pleased when she was prompted to connect to Wi-Fi. A long line of texts scrolled over her screen, some from her kids, and her friend Amber, and also Spence. Several from him, which twisted a rope of anxiety in her gut.

Or maybe she was just hungry.

She didn’t want to hear from Spence and maybe could pretend she didn’t get his messages. Instead, she started with Jenna, who’d texted eleven times over the course of the previous day, which wasn’t even slightly unusual. Most of it was just chat, staying in touch. The last wasText me when you get there or I’ll be worried. G’night!

She texted back,Here, safe. On the way to my hotel. ttys

She answered the others, then opened Spence’s.Call me when you can. Trouble with Tim.