Within 2 hours, Margaret had sent me a complete breakdown of my holdings and the current corporate structure of Pacific Coast Airlines.
What I learned made me smile.
As one of the founding shareholders, I still held certain privileges that had been grandfathered in when the company went public.
These included access to the executive boarding lounge, priority booking status, and something I’d completely forgotten about, a permanent upgrade authorization to first class on any Pacific Coast flight.
My next call was to Pacific Coast’s customer service department.
When I identified myself using my shareholder credentials, I was immediately transferred to their VIP services division.
“Miss Morrison, it’s an honor to speak with you,” the representative said. “How can we assist you today?”
“I need to book a trip to Hawaii. Departing this Friday, returning the following Friday.”
“Certainly. Do you have a preferred departure time?”
I happen to know exactly when David and Mayor were traveling because Mayor had made sure to mention it during her cruel phone call.
“The 2 p.m. flight to Honolulu.”
“Perfect. I have you confirmed in first class seat 2A. As one of our founding shareholders, there’s no charge for this booking.”
No charge.
I’d forgotten about that benefit, too.
My final call was to a boutique hotel in Maui that I remembered from my travel agent days.
The Sunset Palms Resort was small, exclusive, and incredibly expensive.
When I’d booked clients there in the 1990s, it cost more per night than most people made in a week.
“I’d like to book your penthouse suite for a week starting this Friday.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but our penthouse is booked months in advance. We do have a lovely ocean view room available.”
“This is Estelle Morrison. I believe I have priority booking status.”
Another pause, then typing.
“Oh my goodness, Ms. Morrison. Yes, absolutely. The penthouse is yours. It’s our pleasure to host you again again.”
I’d never actually stayed there myself, but apparently the resort remembered me from the dozens of VIP clients I’d sent their way over the years.
By Thursday evening, I was packed and ready.
I’d gone shopping for the first time in years, buying clothes that made me feel like the successful businesswoman I’d once been instead of the invisible widow I’d become.
A crisp white linen blazer, elegant trousers, a silk scarf in Pacific Coast’s signature blue, a subtle nod to my connection with the airline.
I’d told no one about my plans.
Not David, not Mayor, not even my neighbor, Mrs. Peterson, who usually watered my plants when I was away.
I wanted this to be a complete surprise.
Friday morning arrived gray and drizzly, but my mood was bright.
I called a taxi instead of driving to the airport myself.
No point in leaving my car in long-term parking when I could afford the luxury of door-to-door service.
The taxi driver was chatty, asking about my destination.
When I told him Hawaii, he whistled appreciatively.
“Lucky you. Vacation.”
“You could say that,” I replied, thinking about the look on Mar’s face when she saw me at the airport.
I bypassed the regular check-in lines and went directly to the first class counter.
The agents eyes widened when she saw my name in the system.
“Ms. Morrison, what an honor. You’re all set. Would you like to wait in our executive lounge?”
The lounge was a world away from the crowded gates outside.
Leather chairs, complimentary drinks, and floor to ceiling windows overlooking the runway.
I settled in with a cup of coffee and watched the plains taxi back and forth, remembering the early days when seeing Pacific Coast’s blue and silver livery had filled me with pride.
At 1:30, boarding was announced for my flight.
As a first class passenger, I was among the first to board.
I settled into seat 2A, accepted a glass of champagne from the flight attendant, and waited.
The boarding process continued, economy passengers filing pass toward the back of the plane.
I was reading a magazine when I heard familiar voices approaching the first class cabin.
“Excuse me, I think there’s been a mistake.”
Mayor’s voice was sharp with irritation.
“These are our seats.”
I looked up to see Mayor standing in the aisle, boarding pass in hand, glaring at a flight attendant.
Behind her stood David, looking embarrassed by his wife’s tone.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but you’re ticketed for seats 12B and 12 C in economy plus.”
“That’s impossible. I specifically requested first class when I booked.”