For the first time since Tommy died, I felt something other than resignation about my future.
I felt possibility.
But with possibility came fear.
What did I know about living in Switzerland? About managing property and trusts? About being the kind of person who owned a villa instead of renting a one-bedroom apartment?
My phone rang, interrupting my spiraling thoughts.
David’s name appeared on the screen.
“Mom, what was that about yesterday? Marin’s upset that you hung up on her.”
“I didn’t hang up on anyone,” I said calmly. “I simply told you I had other plans.”
“What plans? You never have plans.”
The words stung because they were true.
When had I become someone who never had plans?
When had I accepted that my life was so empty that my absence wouldn’t matter?
“Maybe it’s time I started having plans,” I said.
“Mom, you’re being dramatic. Just come to Thanksgiving. Marin didn’t mean anything by what she said.”
I looked again at the photos on my computer screen, at the life Cordelia had left me.
At the chance she’d given me to remember who I used to be before I made myself so small.
“Actually, David, I think I might be traveling for Thanksgiving.”
“Traveling? Where?”
I could hear the disbelief in his voice.
Poor old mom. Traveling.
The woman who hadn’t been anywhere farther than the grocery store in years.
“I’m thinking of going to Europe,” I said, surprising myself with how good the words felt as I spoke them. “Switzerland, specifically.”
There was a long silence.
“Mom, are you feeling okay? Did you hit your head or something?”
I laughed, and it felt like the first genuine laugh I’d had in months.
“No, sweetheart. I think I’m finally feeling like myself again.”
After I hung up, I called Mr. Peton back.
“I’d like to see the villa as soon as possible,” I told him. “Can you arrange for me to fly there next week?”
“Of course. Cordelia would be delighted.”
As I began to plan my trip, the first real trip I’d taken since my honeymoon 45 years ago, I felt something I’d almost forgotten existed.
I felt excited about my future.
David and Marin had no idea that their humiliating phone call had been the catalyst I needed.
They thought they were putting me in my place, reminding me that I was the poor relation who should be grateful for scraps of attention.
Instead, they’d reminded me that I’d once been brave enough to choose my own path, even when it cost me everything I’d known.
Maybe it was time to be that brave again.
The plane touched down in Geneva on a crisp Monday morning, exactly one week after Marin’s humiliating phone call.
I pressed my face to the small window, watching the Swiss Alps emerge from the clouds like something from a fairy tale.
My heart hammered against my ribs, not from fear of flying, which I’d managed better than expected, but from the enormity of what I was about to discover.
Mr. Peton had arranged everything.
A driver waited for me at the airport, holding a sign with my name, my real name, Elellanar Fairchild, written in careful script.
He was a middle-aged Swiss man named Klouse, who spoke perfect English with a slight accent that made everything sound more elegant.
“Welcome to Switzerland, Madame Fairchild,” he said, taking my single worn suitcase. “Mrs. Ashford spoke of you many times. She was very eager for this day to come.”
As we drove through the countryside, Klaus told me about Cordelia’s final years.
She’d lived quietly at the villa, he said, tending her gardens and reading voraciously.
She’d never married, never had children, but she’d maintained friendships with people all over the world through her extensive correspondence.
“She received a letter from someone in your town,” Klouse said, glancing at me in the rearview mirror, “about 2 months ago. After she read it, she called the lawyers immediately to make sure everything was in order for you.”
My stomach tightened.
“A letter from my town?”
“Yes, from a woman who knew your family. She had seen you at the local market and recognized you from photographs in old society papers. She wrote to Mrs. Ashford about how difficult your circumstances appeared to be.”
I closed my eyes, embarrassment washing over me.
Someone had written to Cordelia about poor Mabel Prescott, the former heiress living in a tiny apartment, shopping with coupons, wearing clothes that had seen better decades.
The thought of being pitied by my childhood friend made my cheeks burn.
“Mrs. Ashford was not pitying you,” Klouse said gently, as if reading my thoughts. “She was angry. Very angry. She said it was wrong that someone who had sacrificed so much for love should spend her golden years struggling.”
We turned through a set of iron gates, and my breath caught in my throat.
The villa rose before us like something from a dream.
Three stories of honey-colored stone with ivy climbing the walls and tall windows that reflected the afternoon sun.
Gardens stretched in every direction, filled with late blooming roses and perfectly manicured hedges.
Beyond the gardens, Lake Geneva sparkled like scattered diamonds.
“My God,” I whispered. “Beautiful.”
“Yes.” Klouse smiled. “Mrs. Ashford always said it was waiting for the right person to truly appreciate it.”
He parked in front of the main entrance where an older woman in a crisp gray dress waited on the steps.
Klouse introduced her as Mrs. Hoffman, the housekeeper who had cared for the villa for the past 15 years.
“Madame Fairchild,” she said with a slight curtsy that made me feel simultaneously ridiculous and regal. “Welcome home.”
Home.
The word echoed in my chest as she led me through the front door.
The interior took my breath away.
High ceilings with ornate molding, walls covered in silk wallpaper, antique furniture that belonged in museums.
Every room we passed through was more beautiful than the last.
A library with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, a music room with a grand piano, a dining room that could seat 20 people in comfort.
“Mrs. Ashford left specific instructions that nothing was to be changed,” Mrs. Hoffman said as we climbed the wide staircase to the second floor. “She said you would know what to do with everything.”
She opened the door to what had clearly been the master suite.
The bedroom was enormous with French doors opening onto a balcony that overlooked the lake.