Page 73 of The Last Letter of Rachel Ellsworth

“It makes me think of a van Gogh painting.”

“I know which one you mean.” He took off his glove and offered his bare hand. “Shall we?”

Pleasure ran through her body as she took her glove off. His hand was warm, enormous, enfolding hers completely. She liked the way he led them through the crowd, and wondered if they’d even be able to sit down.

But inside, it was much less crowded. A young man asked if they wanted a table, and Henry said to Veronica, “Good?”

“Great.”

The table was small, tucked against a wall, but offered a good view of the dining room and a bank of windows. “Ah,” Henry said, “do you see the plaque on the wall above the banquette?”

Above a booth occupied by two men having a fierce conversation, their heads close together, was a brass rectangle. “Yes.”

“That’s one of the places he wrote. Hemingway.”

Veronica allowed herself to imagine the young writer bent over his paper, scribbling away. She wondered if he’d preferred pencils or pens—which led to wondering when portable pens were even invented—and whether he liked lined or unlined paper. It gave her a sense of excitement, that this person, so long now gone from the earth, had started his journey here. “It’s unexpectedly thrilling,” she said. “I mean, some of his molecules might still be hanging around in here.”

“Could be.”

A waiter came by asking if they wanted drinks, but Veronica said they needed a minute, realizing that she’d responded in French without thinking about it. It was coming back. “I don’t really want a martini or anything like that,” she said, “but you have whatever you want.”

He scanned the menu. “I’m not much of a hard-liquor guy.”

“Not even in Algiers?” she said.

He laughed as she’d hoped, and his eyes twinkled when he said, “Not even in Algiers.”

“You’re completely ruining my imaginary vision of a hardened war correspondent.” She scanned the menu, too. “What do you think, then?”

“How about kir?”

“Yes! Perfect.”

“And a profiterole. We’ll split it, have a couple of bites, just to say we have.”

“I’m going to waddle home, I swear,” she said, and allowed the menu to fall. “But yes.”

After they ordered, Henry said, “People turn to booze in war zones to shut things off. I tried the gin answer as a young photographer, but for me, it doesn’t work. I just can’t find the switch to forget, and instead I ruminate and replay endlessly.”

“I get that.” She admired the shape of his cheekbone against the soft light, thinking of him as a young man. “It just doesn’t seem to give methe big thrill other people get from it. Now, give me some pizza rolls, and I’m there.”

“Pizza rolls?”

“Yes,” she said. “The pepperoni ones.” The waiter returned. “Merci.” She sipped the drink. “I grew up in a house with a working mom and not a ton of money—a little MTV, some pizza rolls or maybe some ramen noodles, and a can of root beer, and life was seriously great.”

He laughed. “Youngster. I was overseas when MTV got big.”

“Oof, so you arereallyold.”

He measured her across the table, his eyes bright. “Am I?”

To her amazement, she blushed ever so slightly. To cover, she said, “By the time you were overseas you were eating oysters on the half shell, right?”

“Hardly. You’ve not seen junk food addiction until you’ve seen a college guy two hundred miles from home.”

“Like what?”

“The usuals—chips and candy bars and pizza.” He leaned forward, dropping his forearms on the table, which put them much closer together. “But when I was a kid I didn’t want anyone to know what we were eating at home. Working-class Italian family, and although everybody likes spaghetti and lasagna, they don’t thinktrippais so great.”