Page 49 of The Last Letter of Rachel Ellsworth

“Spence!”

“Not my problem.” He was practically whistling with victory. “I’ve got to go.”

And he hung up.

Veronica couldn’t sit still. She knocked on Mariah’s door. “I’m going out. Do you need anything?”

“Nope. I’m good.”

“I’ll have my phone.”

“I’m not twelve,” Mariah said, pulling open the door. “Are you okay? I heard a fight.”

Veronica squared her shoulders. “Nothing I can’t manage.” She tugged her sweater down over her hips. “Are you planning to pay me on Fridays, still?”

“Definitely. Do you need it sooner?”

Her cheeks flamed. “No. I’ll be okay.” But that was a lie. “Honestly, yes. My ex and I are struggling over alimony.”

Mariah reached into her back pocket for her phone and pulled it out. “I have the routing number here. You want to check it and make sure it’s right?”

Relief poured through Veronica, cooling the fury, slowing her heartbeat. “Thank you.”

“No problem.”

Veronica said, “Right now, I’m going to take a walk. Do you want me to pick up something for dinner?”

“I think I’m going out,” Mariah said. “Feeling kind of restless. You do you.”

Which meant she had the night to herself. “Sounds good.”

She donned her coat and ran down the stairs rather than wait for the elevator. For the first time, she saw that there were profiles of the Bloomsbury set on the walls. She paused to read them, feeling something lighten with each bio. This one a painter, that one a writer, this one a lover.

What was the appeal of this group? Why did she identify so much with them? As she headed outside and crossed the street to Russell Square where she proceeded to speed walk around the winter-yellow grass, she pondered the question. Some of it was right here, these graceful squares with agreeable homes around them, a London that no longer existed.

The air was sharp and smelled of the watermelon notes of today’s rain, and it was far more appealing to think about the Bloomsbury set than about her own life, which was such a shambles right now. It still amazed her that everything was so upside down. It made her think of a Leonard Cohen quote about expectations, that everyone thought they’d go out and slay the dragon, but growing older taught you that the dragon often slayed you instead.

Her nerves settled a bit as she walked. Another round and she could take a deep breath again. The dragon of mental illness had slayed Virginia Woolf, and her sister, Vanessa, loved the adamantly gay Duncan Grant all her life. Brandi Pusset had slain the dragon of her history and emerged as Veronica, the wife of a professor, who had an enviable life.

But the dragon had turned on her, burning to ash the gilded life she’d built. She was at ground zero again, her goals abandoned for the lure of children and family and comfort, with decades stretching out ahead of her and no idea what she was going to do with them.

However, unlike Virginia, who had walked into the River Ouse, she was still alive. As long as there was life, there was hope, as somebody else had said. Probably not Leonard Cohen.

Be practical,her calmed mind offered. What could she do to address this problem? She could call her landlord, for one thing, and explain the problem. Her car was sitting in front of Mariah’s house, and maybe shecould get Jenna to go down there and pick it up. It would be collateral for the rent.

Feeling freer, she wandered back to the hotel, and came into their suite just in time to greet Mariah pulling on a leather jacket. Below, she wore a low-cut T-shirt and several necklaces falling in layers over her ...cleavagewould be the wrong word ... chest. Her hair was shiny clean and loose over her shoulders and back, and she even had a little makeup on—some mascara, lip color, faintly rosy cheeks. “You look gorgeous,” Veronica said.

“Do I? Thanks.” She gestured to her body. “I haven’t been out at all, really. Since ... the”—she waved a hand—“thing. All of a sudden, I just want to be in the world. Does the cane make me look super weird?”

Veronica shook her head. “No way. You look like the eccentric daughter of a billionaire.”

“I was kind of going for Eurotrash.”

“Nope. You, my dear”—she pushed a lock of hair over her shoulder—“are an American even at a hundred paces.”

Mariah lifted both thumbs and pinkies in shaka signs, maybe ironically, and topped her look with a knitted cap that had the Olympic logo on the front.

“How many medals have you won?” Veronica asked.