Page 69 of The Last Letter of Rachel Ellsworth

The server inclined his head. Veronica had not spoken French much in decades, but she could manage this small amount. “Une table pour trois, s’il vous plait.”

“Oui,” he said, and took them to a booth by the window.

It wasn’t busy, likely due to the hour—post-lunch, predinner. Veronica pulled her little notebook out and started jotting downnotes. The floor was black and white tile, and the tables had the same checkered tablecloth covered with glass as the London café. The ambiance was quite winning, and next to her, Henry shot a series of photos, his shutter a whir.

But this menu, while still Middle Eastern, was quite different from the Parsi café menus she’d been studying. “We need to taste the bread, see if it’s the same as the bun in London,” she said, scanning the offerings. “And the fresh lime soda. That’s such a great beverage. I’m going to learn to make it at home.”

“They use a spice that’s pretty intense,” Henry said. “Takes a little experimentation.”

She grinned. “I’ll remember that.” He sat across from her this time, next to Mariah, and the light made his eyes the color of pears. For a moment, she was caught in them, surprised when he didn’t look away.

She said, “I would gladly sample every lamb dish on this menu, but I would die of my stomach splitting open.”

Henry stood. “I’m going to find out if the owner is here. This would be a good time of day to talk to someone.”

“Did you see the story on the back side of the menu?” Mariah asked. “I can’t read it, but maybe you can.”

Veronica flipped it over and started reading. It was slow at first as her brain tried to arrange the French into a form she could digest. As the story cleared, she said, “Oh, wow. This is really good.” She put the menu down and took a photo of the entire story so she could come back to it later.

“What does it say?”

“Paraphrasing: Café Farroukh was established in 1997 when Chamani Irani emigrated from Bombay to Paris and brought many of her family traditions with her. When she married a dashing Egyptian, the two combined their cultural food traditions to come up with a unique and popular cuisine that has been a Paris favorite for over two decades. Chamani returned to India when her husband died, and the restaurant continued in the capable hands of her daughter, Nav.”

Henry approached the table, a woman beside him. “Our hostess,” he said, gesturing toward a strikingly beautiful woman in her twenties with enormous dark eyes and thick, black hair caught in a barrette. She wore an apron over a T-shirt and jeans. “This is Navaz Osman.”

“Hello,” she said in English. “How may I help you? You’re searching for information on my family?”

“We are,” Veronica said. “Can you sit with us?”

“Yes, thank you.” She slid in next to Mariah, who looked like a sturdy sunflower next to a rose.

To Veronica’s surprise, Mariah said, “We think my mother might have been friends with someone in your family back in India.”

“I don’t know if I will be much help. I was born in Paris.”

“Is the café named for someone, do you know?” Veronica asked.

“My grandfather. He had a Parsi café in Mumbai years ago, Café Guli.” She pointed to the menu with the story. “I know he moved to Delhi.”

Café Guli matched the name of the London café. “Did your mother have siblings?” Veronica asked.

“There were four of them. Three girls and a boy. Something happened to the brother, but my mother would never speak of it.”

A shiver of excitement ran up Veronica’s arms. “Was it linked to the family leaving Mumbai, do you think?”

“Yes, I think so.” She glanced toward the window to the kitchen, twirling rings on her fingers. “She would not like me talking about this.”

“Is she here now?”

“No, no. When my father died, she wanted to return to India. She lives in Delhi now.”

Henry said, “Would she talk to us, if we went there?”

She shrugged, made a noise. “Who knows? She does what she wishes, my mother.”

“Can you give us her phone number or email or something?”

Navaz pressed her lips together, looking from Veronica to Henry, who sat beside her, then over to Mariah. She touched Mariah’s hand. “My mother would not be pleased if I did that.”