Chapter 119 - Departure from Kloten
The private car arrived at the Baur au Lac at five o'clock sharp. The driver, an immaculate Swiss gentleman named Marcus, loaded my single suitcase into the trunk of the Mercedes and opened the rear door.
"To the airport, Mrs. Vance-Pendleton?"
"Yes, Marcus. The executive terminal at Kloten, please."
As the car glided smoothly through the pristine streets of Zurich, passing the lit shop windows of the Bahnhofstrasse, the ancient stone spires of the Grossmünster, and the calm, gray expanse of the Limmat, I felt a lightness in my chest I hadn't experienced in half a century.
Forty-four years of quiet subservience. Forty-four years of keeping the peace, of swallowing grievances, of enduring Arthur’s condescension and Eleanor’s ghost. It was all gone. Washed away like sleet on a granite ledge.
At the general aviation terminal, there were no lines, no TSA checkpoints, no crowded boarding gates.
Patrice was waiting for me in the private lounge, sitting in a leather armchair with a glass of champagne in hand and a leather folder on her knees. When she saw me walk in, she stood up, a broad, radiant smile spreading across her weathered face.
"Martha," she said, wrapping me in a warm, fierce embrace. "You look ten years younger than you did in Lisbon."
"I feel forty years younger," I said, returning the hug. "Is it finished?"
"The wire transfers cleared without a hitch," Patrice said, handing me a glass of champagne. "Arthur’s Swiss defense attorney is already negotiating a plea to avoid immediate extradition to the United States, but the canton authorities are holding him on separate corporate fraud charges. Eleanor is being held without bail as an undocumented foreign national using fraudulent travel documents. They won't see daylight outside a courtroom for at least five years."
"And Maine?"
"The deed for the Bow farm was signed over to the Merrimack County historical trust an hour ago, with an eviction notice served on Caleb and Tori effective the end of the month. The timberlands in Penobscot Bay belong to the people of Maine forever."
I took a sip of the champagne. It was crisp, dry, and cold.
"Where to now, Patrice?"
May you like
"The jet is fueled for Lisbon," Patrice replied, her dark eyes sparkling with adventure. "Or... we could take the route through Milan, stop in Florence for three days to buy leather coats, and head down to Sicily for the winter. You have nothing holding you down, Martha. Not a husband. Not an ungrateful son. Not a single soul to answer to."
"Sicily sounds lovely," I said. "I've always wanted to see the Mediterranean in the winter."
