Page 72 of The Last Letter of Rachel Ellsworth

“I didn’t really set out to do it,” he said. “But I’m glad for the privilege.” He glanced at her. “I gather the divorce has been difficult on that level?”

“Yes.” She sighed. “My own fault, though. I should have prepared. Virginia Woolf warned women that they need some money and a room of their own.”

“Well, she had a lot of privilege, right? I’m guessing you saw marriage as a way of helping nail down some security.”

The observation lessened her creeping sense of shame. “That’s true. I still knew better, and now I’m trying to figure out how to create a life I love and will support me when I’m a bit too long in the tooth.”

“Pish,” he said, more sound than word. “You’re not that old.”

“Well, thanks.”

In the middle of the bridge, they stopped to look toward the Cathédrale Notre-Dame de Paris, still cloaked in scaffolding. The water shimmered and danced, catching orbs of orange from the streetlights, and, magnificently, the lights shining from the enormously imposing cathedral. Veronica caught her breath. “Imagine you’re a peasant bringing your produce or your goats or whatever to market, andthisrises up in front of you.”

“I have never once thought of that,” he said, his arms propped on the balustrade.

“I’m so fascinated with history.” She looked into the river, following the line of the church in the water.

“You have a unique view of the world.”

“Do I?” She shifted her view, following the scaffolding up and up until it almost made her feel dizzy. “I always feel like I’m so boring.” It surprised her, that it just popped out like that.

“From where I sit, you’re always thinking about what you see, how it connects to other things.”

“Thanks.”

“You’ll do a great job with the book, I think. Rachel would be pleased.”

A gust of wind slammed into them, forcing her to close her eyes until it passed.

“Time to go,” Henry said.

She nodded, looking back to the cathedral, wanting a selfie with him in this magical moment. But was that too weird?

He’d taken three steps away when she said, “Wait!”

He turned.

“Would you hate it if we took a selfie?”

“Not at all.” He loped back, hands in his pocket, and leaned down to position his face near hers. She smelled something sun washed and clean, and shampoo, and felt his shoulder pressed into hers. Veronicasmiled without showing her teeth, but he grinned and leaned close. Before he could move away, she said, “A couple more.” She dared herself to smile broadly, all teeth, and felt his hair curling into the side of her face.

“Thanks.” She tucked the phone back in her pocket and slid her glove back on.

“Send me a copy, will you?”

“Of course,” she said on a swell of delight.

A couple of blocks on, he pointed out a few landmarks. A bar, a house, a little café, all once frequented by the famous writer. “Can we stop in that bar?” Veronica asked.

“There’s a better one.”

“Okay. I trust you.”

He grinned. “Glad to hear it.”

She knew when they came upon it, a building on the corner, light both above and below. Crowds of people smoked at the tables along the sidewalk, their voices making a musical weaving of their enjoyment. Someone laughed, a boisterous sound, and Veronica felt herself smiling in response. “This is it, right?”

“Yes.”