Page 84 of The Last Letter of Rachel Ellsworth

Henry appeared at the door with a tray in his hands. “Are you busy?”

“Not at all. Just daydreaming.”

He’d traded heavy boots for leather sandals, and the sight of his naked arches gave her a jolt. “I ordered some tea and snacks to see usthrough to dinner. Mariah is still sleeping, but we can order her more when she wakes.”

The carved silver tray held a selection of apricots, dates, olives, almonds, and bread. Her stomach growled, right on time, and she laughed. “I guess I can’t protest that I’m not hungry.”

“Good.”

She delicately filled a saucer with three dates, two apricots and four almonds. “I love dates,” she said.

“I remembered.”

She’d bought some in London, at the grocery store, but these dates were moist and enormous and filled her mouth with a recognition that she’d never eat dates with the same understanding again. She closed her eyes, focusing. “Oh my God,” she whispered, “this is one of the best things I’ve ever tasted.”

He watched her eat. When she swallowed, he picked up another date and offered it to her. “They’re fresh.”

She held out her hand, but he shook his head slowly, his eyes going golden, and held the fruit between his fingers. A shimmer lit her body, and she leaned forward and opened her mouth. His thumb grazed her lip. She blinked, chewing, and reached for an apricot, holding it out for him.

He leaned in to take it, deliberately closing his mouth over her fingers. “Mariah will be here any minute,” she said.

“She will,” he agreed, and picked up another date. She slurped at his finger and laughed, then bit it lightly. He glanced over his shoulder. “I’d kiss you, but for all that she’s being laid-back, I’m not sure Mariah would be all that happy about something between us.”

“I agree,” she said, leaning forward decisively, the action making her shirt gape at the top. She wished for her pandemic cleavage, but maybe a glimpse of breast would be good enough.

He seemed to enjoy it.

Their knees brushed. Veronica covered his almost naked foot with her entirely naked one, and electricity shot between them, almost shocking.

And then, of course, Mariah’s door opened, and the girl came rolling out, all muscular energy—and her limp, quite pronounced today. Her expression was sad, or maybe it was only the angle of the light against that scar cutting through her cheek. Veronica wondered that it hadn’t been more carefully repaired by plastic surgery—or was this the best they could do?

Maybe not everything was fixable.

The phrase settled in her body. Maybe not everything was fixable. She thought of her life, the divorce, the fact of children not stepping up the way she hoped, the mess of Christmas for everyone back home, her own struggle to keep her appetites under control.

Under control. She wanted everything to be in her control, and maybe it just wasn’t. The thought brought release, a sense of ... possibility. If everything was not in her control, maybe she could spend more time enjoying whatever was right in front of her.

She blinked. What would that even feel like?

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Mariah felt beautiful tonight. As she settled a napkin on her lap, she felt eyes on her. Her hair was freshly washed, her dress of Moroccan origin, made of light airy cotton with long sleeves and a modest neckline, the hem falling just below her knees. She’d cinched the waist with a long braided-leather belt of her mother’s and worn long, delicate earrings that caught the light of the candles. People noticed her, the women and the men, and she beamed a little, knowing it was random, not unique to her, like being a flower in bloom. Once her mother told her to enjoy it—it didn’t last forever.

Veronica received a text. “It’s from Jill,” she said. “First of all, your uncle is home.”

“Yay!” Mariah said.

“She also sent more of the letters from your mom to my email, which is good. I got a lot out of the first few.” Veronica, too, looked especially good tonight, Mariah thought. Her hair was loose on her shoulders, waving softly, and she’d lightened up on the makeup, just a little shine on her mouth, some mascara. There was a glow in her eyes, and Mariah thought it was Marrakech. It affected some people that way.

But those clothes! She wore a plain white shirt that buttoned up the front, and jeans. She needed something new. “Let’s go shopping tomorrow. Find some clothes. Yeah?”

Veronica hesitated. “I’m happy to go with you, but I’m not a big shopper for myself.”

“We’ll see,” Mariah said. “Tonight”—she raised her mint tea in a glass decorated with blue and gold around the top—“let’s enjoy Marrakech.”

“Is there another city with more of a sense of mystery?” Veronica asked, raising her glass.

“So many,” Henry said in his rich voice. “You’d like a lot of them, I think.”