Chapter 17 - The Journey To Coastal Maine
The next morning, without telling anyone except Genevieve, I boarded a morning flight to Portland, Maine, and rented a car.
I drove two hours north along the rugged, foggy coastline until I reached a small, peaceful fishing village named Bar Harbor.
The address listed on the Swiss bank document led to a small wooden cottage sitting on a rocky cliff overlooking the cold Atlantic ocean.
Flowers filled the front yard, and an old wooden easel stood on the back porch, holding a half-finished oil painting of the sea.
My hands shook on the steering wheel as I parked the rental car along the narrow gravel driveway and stepped outside.
The smell of salt water and pine needles filled the cool air as I walked up the stone steps toward the front porch.
Before I could reach the doorbell, a woman in her late fifties stepped out through the screen door holding a pair of gardening shears.
She had soft grey hair, kind eyes, and wore a simple canvas apron covered in dried oil paint spots.
When her eyes met mine, she froze in her tracks, the shears slipping from her fingers and clattering against the wooden deck.
She didn't ask who I was; she knew my face instantly from the photographs my late wife must have kept.
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“You’re Thomas,” she whispered, her voice carrying a deep, ancient sorrow that matched the sound of the crashing waves below.
“I knew this day would come when Eleanor’s accounts were finally unlocked.”
