She eased herself out of bed, ignoring the aches in her limbs, and took painkillers for her headache. From her bedroom window she could see the ocean in the distance and had a sudden yearning to be skimming the waves in a catamaran with salt air stinging her face. She’d once spent a month sailing the Mediterranean as part of a flotilla. She’d spent most of the time barefoot, her skin burnt from the hot sun, and her hair stiff from seawater. Most of all she remembered feeling alive and free.

She wanted to feel that way again. It wasn’t age dependent, surely?

Was Liza right? Was she being stubborn? Unrealistic? What did she expect at eighty years old? Did she really think she was going to dance barefoot across the sand and haul in a sail? Drink tequila in Mexico?

Those days were behind her, although she still had the memories and the evidence of the life she’d once lived.

The house was silent and she walked into the room that had been her study for all the years she’d lived here. The walls were lined with maps. Africa. Australia. The Middle East. America. The whole world was right there in front of her, tempting her.

How she missed exploring. She missed the bustle of the airport, the scents and sounds of a new country, the excitement of discovery. She missed sharing it with people. Go here, see this, do this. The Summer Seekers had been her baby. Her show.

What use was her experience to anyone now? She’d thought she might write a book about her travels, but it turned out that writing about it had been nowhere near as exciting as doing it. She’d scribbled a couple of chapters and then abandoned them, bored with sitting and drowning in a sea of nostalgia. She didn’t want to write, she wanted to do.

It had been eight years since she’d last traveled out of the country, a sedate trip to Vienna to celebrate their wedding anniversary. They’d eaten Sachertorte, richly chocolatey and unquestionably indulgent. Flavors had been one of the pleasures of exploring new countries. Flavors were memories for Kathleen. When she smelled spices, she was transported to the palm-fringed beaches of Goa. The soft sizzle of garlic in olive oil made her think of long, slow summers in Tuscany.

She’d always had a passion for adventure. For travel. She hadn’t paused long enough to let life settle on her.

She stood in front of the map of North America, marked with the historic Route 66.

That particular road trip had long been on her wish list. She would have taken the trip many years back were it not for the fact that it ended in California. California was a big place, of course, but still it was too uncomfortable.