Page 68 of The Last Letter of Rachel Ellsworth

She’d protested at first. “I’m not a fan. He was such a ... scion of the patriarchy,” she said.

Henry laughed. “You’re not wrong. He was also a great writer. This is my favorite of his books, aside fromThe Old Man and the Sea.”

“Of course you like him,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “You’re a manly kind of guy, aren’t you, with a dangerous career and eyes that have seen too much?”

He grinned, undaunted. “You’re not wrong there, either.” He lifted a finger. “How about you let me read a passage and then you decide?”

“Okay.”

He flipped through the pages, and found what he was looking for, then read two paragraphs in his deep voice about regret that pierced her. Before she could openly weep, she snatched the book from his hands. “You win.”

“Of course. If you hate it, I’ll double the purchase price. But you won’t.”

A sliver of sun broke through the cloud cover, gilding her hands and the book as if it were some sacred text, and who knew, maybe it was. But as she paid for the worn leather volume, standing with Henry on the banks of the Seine with the smell of chestnuts in the air and a belly full of sweet foods, she felt entirely happy. It moved in her body like a song.

Mariah hobbled up to them, displaying her find. “Epidemics,” she said.

“Are you interested in diseases?” Veronica asked, accepting her change. “Merci.”

“No, but it looks kind of cool. Plague and smallpox and leprosy. I guess future editions will include COVID. Which was very interesting, you have to admit.”

“In a way,” Veronica agreed. Tugging a lock of windblown hair from her mouth, she asked, “Where did you spend it?”

“The pandemic?”

“Yes.”

“It was boring for me,” Mariah said. “No competitions for a couple of years, although it was cool to have such empty slopes.”

“How about you, Henry?”

He shook his head slightly. “I was headed home from Egypt when everything was grounded. I ended up spending a year in Greece.”

“That doesn’t sound terrible,” Veronica said.

“It was, though. I lost an uncle and my grandfather, and I couldn’t go to their funerals.”

She remembered that his family was near New York City. “I’m sorry,” she said.

He gave his usual shrug. “That’s how life rolls.”

She was glad of the chance to take the metro again, so she could study people without notice. This train was filled with a diverse crowd, their languages and accents flowing like music around her, Brits andAmericans and Africans and Asians; students of all backgrounds, and tourists speaking a dozen languages to each other. She lingered on one tall, very thin man dressed in a robe made of printed orange cotton, wondering what his apartment looked like and who lived with him and what he did for work. He got off the train a few stops in, and Veronica switched her attention to a young woman, round and blond, her feet in Dr. Martens. She texted the entire journey.

When they emerged from the metro, Henry directed them to Café Farroukh. It had vines and bougainvillea painted on the plastered exterior, and a large window lined with plants in clay pots. If it had been in her neighborhood back home, Veronica would make it a regular stop. Inside was even more appealing. The fragrance of mingled spices and roasting meat and onions filled the air—she could pick out garlic and cumin and something just out of reach.

“Wow,” Mariah said. “Sure you can’t manage a bite or two?”

Henry patted his stomach. “Not me.”

“I don’t know,” Veronica said. “It smells amazing.”

Mariah let go of a small whoop and held up a hand for a high five. Veronica laughed and raised her own hand, alarmed when Mariah nearly overbalanced when their palms slapped. She caught her by the upper arm. “You good?”

“Fine,” she said, shaking her off.

Henry lifted an eyebrow. “Let’s make this short, maybe take a taxi back. It’s been a long day already.”

“Back off, people. I’m good.” Mariah smiled at the young man who approached them with menus. In English, she asked, “Can we have a table for three?”