Page 82 of The Last Letter of Rachel Ellsworth

Marrakech

Traveling—it gives you home in thousand strange places, then leaves you a stranger in your own land.

—Ibn Batuta

Chapter Thirty-Six

Marrakech was sunny, and warm enough to get away with a sweater—a very welcome change. As the passengers wandered out of the airport, they visibly relaxed, shedding heavy coats and thick mufflers, speaking in happier tones. Veronica tipped her face up to the cascade of warmth as they waited for a taxi, smiling at the negative sun that stained her eyelids. “I thought I loved rain. But this is heaven.”

“We’ve hardly had a single sunny day since we left,” Mariah said, stepping back as the taxi driver loaded her bag into the trunk. “That never happens in Colorado. You’ve lived there all your life, right?”

“I moved there from northern New Mexico,” she said. “Same difference. Sunny, almost always, even in the depth of winter.”

As they drove to the medina, the view reminded her of New Mexico. A line of blue mountains pinned the horizon at the end of a flat, open span of desert. Instead of walking stick cacti, there were small groups of palm trees. People obviously lived among them, dressed in draped bright fabrics, heads covered against that very sunlight, and probably by religious observance. The earth was reddish, and big homes were built of adobelike materials, walls keeping out the desert. Within were likely courtyards, just as there were back home.

Home. She hadn’t really thought of New Mexico as home for a very long time. And yet, it was impossible not to see it here, the enormousimpossibly turquoise sky, the reddish earth, the brown faces. The streets were busy with foreign tourists and women carrying cloth or net bags, their feet in sandals beneath flowing skirts. Two young men traded conversation on a corner, tapping each other as they told stories.

The taxi driver stopped outside a big square and said, “I can go no farther. Can you make your way?”

Henry said, handing over a fistful of bills, “Shukran.”

“I’m starving,” Mariah said as they got out. “Can we eat soon?”

“Let’s get to theriadfirst,” Henry said, shouldering her backpack along with his own. “Do you have a protein bar or something?”

“Dude, they’re packed with sugar.”

He gave her an unconcerned shrug. “Your choice.”

With a disgruntled sigh, she reached into her cross-body bag and pulled out a wrapped bar, making a show of peeling it and taking a big bite.

Veronica grinned at Henry. He lifted an eyebrow in return.

They made their way through a labyrinth of alleyways, shaded and cool. They passed shops offering all sorts of things—spices and chess sets and leather bags meant to appeal to tourists, but also a store with small appliances and another with beans, all a jumble of narrow stalls, some brightly lit, like the jewelry shop where an orange cat lounged on the step, his tail flicking up and down, some darker, some illuminated by skylights cut into the roof, covered by grids and clear roofing.

It was the oldest place she had ever been, Veronica thought with some wonder.

She thought of Rachel’s letters, the endless warrens of the market in Mumbai. It was probably very like this, an ancient form of marketplace.

And here, too, it opened to a central plaza where vendors sold foodstuff and household goods. Cats were everywhere. Slumped in the shade, perched on steps, peering through a shop window. “Why so many cats?” she asked.

“They’re good mousers,” Mariah said, reaching out to scratch the ears of a tortoiseshell sprawled over a display of toilet paper. He lifted his head against her fingers as if it was his due.

“Cats are considered ritually clean,” Henry said. “The Prophet had several.”

“I love that,” Veronica said. “I miss having cats.”

“Did your kids have pets growing up?” Mariah asked. “My mom said we were never home enough, and she was probably right.”

“My ex doesn’t like cats, so we had dogs.” A perfect visual of Sophie’s gray-and-white face rose in her mind, eyes blue as morning. It choked her unexpectedly, and she had to hold her breath for a second. “Ihad a dog,” she said, thinking of Sophie following her room to room, patiently sleeping at her feet wherever she was, kitchen, living room, bedroom by the side of the bed. “She died suddenly when I was getting divorced.”

“Terrible timing,” Henry said.

She saw herself taking a walk of shame down the sidewalk between her perfectly planted perennials, each one set in place with her own hands. “It was pretty awful.”

Surprising how much pain the memory still caused. Veronica felt it in her chest, pressing against her heart, filling her lungs with congested loss; in her gut, the shame of it. And there, like lava running along the edge of a black rock, hatred.

It startled her. The emotion was quite, quite clear. Not the anger she had believed it was, not frustration—hatred, clear and burning.