Chapter 11 - The Flight to Lisbon
When Derek received Marcus’s email outlining the legal offensive, he didn't call Cassie’s lawyer. He didn't call his firm.
He drove to the Charlotte Douglas International Airport.
He had spent the last seventy-two hours sitting in an unfurnished one-bedroom rental, looking at the detritus of his life packed into five cardboard boxes. In those boxes were the real artifacts of his thirty-four years: photo albums of camping trips with his father, high school diplomas, and a stack of hand-knit wool blankets his mother had made him for every major milestone of his life—blankets that Cassie had banished to the attic because they "clashed with the neutral color palette."
He had pulled his mother’s quilt out of the box and buried his face in it. It still carried the faint, indestructible scent of lavender and dried cedar.
He had wept until his ribs ached.
He realized that for eight years, he had traded unconditional, sacrificial love for a shallow, conditional mirage. He had let his wife starve his mother’s soul because it was easier than enduring Cassie’s temper. He had been a coward.
At the airport ticket counter, Derek pulled out his personal debit card—the one account Cassie hadn't managed to taint—and booked a red-eye flight to Lisbon via Madrid. He packed a single duffel bag containing three changes of clothes, a manila envelope filled with bank records proving his wife's fraud, and an old, battered wooden rolling pin that had belonged to his grandmother.
The flight across the ocean was a blur of turbulence and agonizing introspection. While other passengers slept beneath thin airline blankets, Derek stared out the oval window into the pitch-black void above the Atlantic. He knew he had no right to expect forgiveness. He knew that the woman waiting in Portugal was no longer the quiet widow who would smile through an insult at a Thanksgiving table.
He landed in Lisbon at dawn on a gray, mist-shrouded Tuesday.
He rented a small car and drove north along the A8 highway, through rolling hills dotted with wind turbines and ancient stone villages, until the medieval towers of Óbidos rose against the sky like a crown of aged gold.
His hands shook on the steering wheel as he parked outside the ancient city gate, where no cars were permitted. The cobblestones were slick with morning rain. The air smelled of woodsmoke, wet stone, and wild rosemary.
Following the address Marcus had cautiously provided after Derek practically begged him on his knees, Derek walked through the arched gateway, beneath the blue-and-white tile murals of the Passion of Christ, and climbed the winding, narrow stone alleyways toward the northern wall.
His heart battered against his ribs like a trapped bird.
He reached a small, whitewashed cottage with bright cobalt-blue trim around the door and windows. Flower boxes overflowed with purple bougainvillea, defying the winter cold.
May you like
Derek stood on the wet stone threshold, his duffel bag hanging heavily from his shoulder. He raised a trembling hand and knocked three times on the thick oak door.
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