Chapter 59 - The Morning Over the Atlantic
The following morning broke over Lisbon in brilliant, triumphant gold.
I sat at a café table on the Praça do Comércio, the massive plaza opening wide to the gleaming waters of the Tagus. For the first time in three weeks, my shoulders did not ache with tension. The weight that had rested on our family since Arthur took those tainted envelopes in 1988 had dissolved into the morning air.
My phone chimed on the marble tabletop. It was Patrice, calling on FaceTime.
I tapped the screen, and her familiar, wrinkled face filled the display. She was sitting in her own sunny kitchen in New Hampshire, holding a plate of buttered toast, looking entirely unbothered by her ordeal the day before.
"Well," Patrice said, chewing thoughtfully. "Did they lock that smooth-talking snake up tight?"
"He's in a federal holding cell awaiting extradition," I said, lifting my cup of espresso. "Davies says the fraud charges alone will strip the Vance trusts down to the bare floorboards."
Patrice grinned, her sharp gray eyes twinkling. "Good. And Caleb called me this morning. He signed the divorce papers, Myrna. Tori tried to demand alimony from the holding cell, and the judge practically laughed her out of the county. He's taking the kids to the apple orchard in Hollis this weekend."
"He needs to be their father now," I said softly. "Without excuses."
"He will be," Patrice replied. "He spent yesterday replacing the deadbolt on your front door and painting the porch railing. He asked if you were coming home on Sunday."
May you like
I looked out over the river, watching a white ferry carve a clean, foaming wake through the blue water, heading toward the open sea. The sky was vast, cloudless, and completely free.
"Tell him I'll be home when I'm ready," I said with a slow smile. "I haven't seen Porto yet."
