Page 60 of The Last Letter of Rachel Ellsworth

“Maybe we can at least drop our bags?”

“We can ask.” Veronica held out a hand. “What can I carry for you?”

“I’m good. I’ve only got my coat.”

Henry was overloaded. He had his own bag, with at least one heavy book, his camera bag, and Mariah’s bag. “Let me take hers,” she said.

“Sure?”

She nodded and flung the pack over her right shoulder. “Now I’m balanced.”

They stood outside the station awaiting a taxi, and Veronica took a deep breath. It was chilly but sunny. She absorbed the scene with asense of happiness, taking in the traffic, the tourists pouring out of the station, young people in knots of three and four, families dressed up nicely, a group of children around ten or eleven years old, clearly on a school trip. They wore cranberry sweaters and plaid lowers.

“Five Guys!” Mariah exclaimed. “Let’s go there first.”

“Really?” Veronica said. “All these amazing places to visit, and you want a hamburger you can get in all fifty states?”

She shrugged. “I’m hungry and tired. Would it be so terrible?”

Henry touched Veronica’s back. “We’ll have other experiences. We can try Five Guys, too.”

Veronica looked up at him, laughing. “You traitor! You want it, too.”

“I’m hungry,” he said. “Aren’t you?”

She allowed herself to be led inside. She’d never actually been to one—so she couldn’t tell if it was the same as all the others. It smelled good, of grilled onions and beef. The music overhead was some kind of pop. They scooted into a booth, Mariah by herself so she could stretch out her leg. She rubbed it absently.

“Does it hurt more in the cold?” Veronica asked.

“Yeah, I think it’s the metal. But I’m all right. I can’t wait to go to Angelina. That was one of my favorite places when I was a little girl.”

“Is that why it’s on the list?”

“I don’t know. She had a thing for all kinds of cafés, and she had a couple of favorites in Paris, and New York, and Marrakech.”

“And that Greek place in Colorado Springs, remember?” Henry said.

“Oh, yeah! I forgot about that one. Michelle’s. The ice cream, oh my God.”

“Did you know that the first café to open anywhere served ice cream?” Henry said, clearly parroting.

“And did you know the butterfat at Michelle’s is the richest in the city?”

Veronica listened to them trade memories, scanning the menu, trying to calculate the incalculable calories on a menu like this. Cheeseburgers and french fries and fried everything. And they’d beeating again a couple more times while they were here. She’d have to be careful.

Her stomach growled in protest.

“Somebody is hungrier than they admit,” Mariah said, and slapped her menu down. “You need a real meal. Actual food, with no diet stuff.”

Veronica flushed, ears hot over addressing food and diets in front of a man. “I’m a grown woman. I know how to feed myself.”

“You know how to starve yourself, babe,” Mariah said, sliding out of the booth with her cane. “I’m ordering for all of us,” Mariah said. “Cool?” She looked at the other two. “Three cheeseburgers with everything, fries, and ... what? Cokes, you guys?”

“Ugh. No Coke,” Veronica protested. “Café, s’il vous plait.”

“Same,” Henry said. “Et eau gazeuse, aussi, s’il vous plait.”

When Mariah went to the counter, Henry said, “I worked in a burger joint when I was a kid. My uncle owned it, out on the highway to the shore, and it was always busy.”