Chapter 8 - The Highlands BeckonBy June, the legal dust had completely settled.
Mr. Henderson successfully protected my remaining assets, and the estate venue quietly dropped all secondary claims once they realized my lawyer was prepared to subpoena their entire internal communication logs regarding hidden markup fees.
My garden was in full, glorious bloom—rows of bright red roses, purple lavender, and golden marigolds swaying gently in the summer breeze.
And on a quiet Tuesday morning, exactly one year and eight days after Thomas had passed away, I sat at my kitchen table with a cup of tea and a brand-new, glossy travel brochure I had picked up from the local AAA office.
Discover Scotland: The Isle of Skye, Edinburgh, and the Highlands.
I opened Thomas’s small, leather-bound notebook to the very first page, where he had written our itinerary. Beside it, I placed my passport, a newly printed plane ticket for a flight out of JFK on September 12th, and a reservation confirmation for a rented Mini Cooper manual transmission—just like the one we had always dreamed of driving through the misty mountain passes.
My cell phone chimed on the table. I picked it up and saw a text message from Daniel:
“Hey Mom! Just finished my quarterly review at the firm. Got a performance bonus—nothing crazy, but enough to take a few days off in September. Do you think I could tag along with you for part of that Scotland road trip? I promise I’ll carry the bags this time.”
I smiled, my thumb hovering over the screen.
I looked from Daniel’s text message to Thomas’s handwritten notebook, and then out the window toward the bright, open road stretching out beyond my driveway.
I tapped out my reply:
“Only if you promise to learn how to drive on the left side of the road, Danny. See you for Sunday pot roast at five.”
May you like
I locked my phone, slid it into my pocket, and took a long, deep breath of the summer air.
The wedding was gone. The debt was clearing. And the highlands were waiting.
