The driver got out quickly and opened Ana’s door before retrieving their bags from the trunk. Ben climbed out the other side and waited with Ana. He tried to tip the driver, but when he refused it was clear that he didn’t chauffeur for a living. They each thanked him, took their bags and went through the entrance for departures. The check-in line was short and soon they were crossing the tarmac to board the plane.
When they had settled into their seats Ana couldn’t help but comment that she was amazed nothing had gone wrong so far. Ben urged her to change the cynical perspective so it would be easier for him to do the same. She knew he was being facetious, yet there was a degree of truth in what he said. Making the shift from a mindset of danger and crisis to one of relaxation and romance didn’t come easily. The ‘buckle seat belts’ light came on and the flight attendant went through her protocol. The plane began to move toward the runway, where the pilot waited for clearance to take off. Soon they felt the plane increase speed, and moments later they were airborne.
The landscape below was familiar, the same golden expanses and gently undulating hills they had seen on the flight to Pamplona. Both were having moments where comprehension of recent events seemed beyond them. Ben settled back in the seat, his expression pensive, a distant look in his eyes. Any residual pain was now emotional. It would be a long time before he came to terms with his part in the death of Gareth Logan. He bore no moral responsibility, yet that was cold comfort. Time passed without conversation, and Ana sensed that quiet was best while he struggled with leaving the whole experience behind him. She wondered if he would ever return to Pamplona of his own accord.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The flight from Madrid landed on schedule and they easily made the connecting flight. A short while later the plane made a smooth landing at Málaga Costa del Sol airport. While Ben waited at the luggage carousel, Ana made a quick dash to the cash-point for Euros. He was surprised when his phone rang, and his first reaction was fear that something was wrong. It was his father calling to say he had decided to re-check the train schedule for Ronda and found that the trip took two and half hours. Previously he hadn’t considered all the stops and decided to take it upon himself to make other arrangements. A private car company would provide their transportation to Ronda. The driver would be waiting outside the airport exit with a sign reading ‘McKinnon.’ Ben expressed his appreciation and confirmed the fact that the last thing he wanted was to spend over two hours on a train.
Their luggage came down the chute just as he ended the call. He explained the change in plans to Ana and minutes later they exited the airport. A well-dressed young man with a closely trimmed beard and chauffeur’s cap was standing curbside with the aforementioned sign. Ben waved, and the man quickly came over to help with the bags. They settled into the comfortable back seat and put themselves in the driver’s hands. Soon they were leaving Málaga behind and traveling into more rural surroundings. The altitude was changing gradually, as was the terrain. Grasslands with grazing cattle soon gave way to almond orchards, and then rows of grape vines, heavy with ripening fruit. The miles passed with little conversation and a lot of looking out windows until the startling appearance of an extensive outcropping of rocks that seemed to reach for the sky.
They finally came to the mountain road leading to Ronda, where a ridge of low-hanging clouds had obscured the sheer cliffs of the spectacular El Tajo gorge. Perched on a plateau above, cathedral spires glistened in the sunlight, and a sea of tile roofed buildings stood silhouetted against a backdrop of vivid blue. Visibility was low as the car made its way, the driver carefully navigating the steep curvy road. As they ascended into the cloud it began to break apart, tufts of white scudding across the sky on the wind. Then the town appeared, bright and beckoning.
The private car made its way through the streets of Ronda’s old town then slowed and stopped in front of the entrance to Hotel Montelirio. A young valet hurried to open the car door for Ana, while the driver retrieved their bags from the trunk and placed them on the sidewalk. Ben dug out his wallet and prepared to tip the valet, who gestured ‘no’ and asked politely in Spanish for them to follow him inside. He also intended to tip the driver, but he declined, saying that it had been taken care of. They thanked him and he drove away. They stood there for a moment, taking in the town’s skyline, then went inside.
The first thing Ana noticed was an arched portal leading to another part of the hotel. It was framed in shades of blue leaded glass. An eclectic assortment of paintings graced the walls, and she could see comfortable seating areas tucked in corners and bouquets of fresh flowers placed just right. Once they had handed over their passports and signed the register, the concierge gave Ben two key cards and a pamphlet about the seventeenth century palace that now housed the hotel. The valet motioned them to follow him and they proceeded up a curved staircase to the second floor. Ana found the surroundings authentic and charming. The young man led them down a corridor made bright by walls painted a soft yellow ochre. At intervals
