Strangers in the Villa

1

It was a remarkably romantic description for a house, especially when one considered the author was a chain-smoking Realtor with a pot belly and an unconvincing dye job.

But this is Spain, where the people are passionate and poetic…

even the real estate agents, apparently.

José Sainz could not have known he was crafting the perfect blurb to entice an American couple to leave their jobs, give up their apartment, and start over in this secluded hillside locale.

He couldn’t have known he’d sell this house to a couple desperate to save their marriage.

Sydney Cleary takes a drag on her cigarette and exhales the smoke into the sluggish morning air.

She’s sitting out back next to the kidney-shaped pool, facing away from the house and its lauded arched windows.

Her eyes drift over the distant, whitewashed buildings of Cadaqués (pronounced Ca-da-kes, not Ca-dacks, as she and Curtis had called it when they first visited).

The Mediterranean sparkles beyond it, small boats bobbing lazily in the bay.

The view is stunning, just as José’s ad promised, but it’s wasted on her.

The chirping birds and beautiful vistas were supposed to have her waking each day “full of joy.” But as she sits here in her bikini and cover-up, sunlight filtering through paintbrush clouds, Sydney just feels numb.

“You’ve been through an extremely painful experience,” the couples’ therapist had told her.

“It’s not unusual to suffer symptoms of PTSD…

Anxiety. Depression. Insomnia.” Sydney had felt so weak, so pathetic.

She hadn’t been attacked or raped or bombed out of her house in a war.

That was real trauma. But according to the sleek and stylish Dr. Ellen Dwyer, what Curtis had done to Syd had destroyed her sense of safety.

Her sense of self. She didn’t know who she was anymore, who they were together.

Her entire world had been knocked off its axis.

It was going to take a while to get over it.

The timing of her husband’s betrayal had compounded the pain, amplified it to eleven.

Syd’s mom had just passed, and the loss had knocked Syd out of her orbit.

Never had she felt so singularly and spectacularly alone, a tiny planet adrift in a vast universe of nothingness.

She’d consoled herself that she had a meaningful job, many friends, and her brother, Reid. Most importantly, she had Curtis.

They’d been together fifteen years, married for twelve.

They’d tied the knot when Syd was a baby lawyer, when Curtis’s business was just getting off the ground.

They both wanted kids but agreed they would wait until they were more established in their careers, until they’d done some traveling, until they had a bigger apartment…

Suddenly, Syd was forty and the window was closing.

They tried naturally for a while with no luck, and then they explored their options.

The physical, financial, and emotional tolls of pursuing parenthood had felt overwhelming.

“I’ll go along with whatever you decide,” Curtis said. “But we don’t need kids to complete us, Syd. You and me together… We’re still a family.” His words had warmed her, made her realize that a strong, happy marriage to her best friend was enough for her.

Unfortunately, it hadn’t been enough for Curtis.

When it all fell apart, Syd’s family doctor (Ellen was a doctor of psychology, prohibited from prescribing medication in New York) had prescribed a low-dose antidepressant.

Ativan, to be taken at night, as needed, helps her sleep.

The drugs have taken the edge off the darkness, muted her anger, but Syd wakes late each morning feeling groggy and fuzzy.

That’s why she’s out here in her bathing suit at 9:45 a.m. A bracing swim shakes out the cobwebs and makes her feel almost normal.

Taking a last pull on the cigarette, she stubs it out on the flagstone and drops the butt into the empty jam jar she keeps tucked under her lawn chair.

One cigarette a day, that’s all she allows herself.

Syd had smoked her way through college and then law school but had given it up after she got married.

When her mom died, the cravings returned, but she held strong.

Then Curtis ripped her heart out and she caved, smoking over a pack a day.

It had been a mindless salve, a habitual crutch.

She knows it’s deadly. When they moved to Spain she vowed to quit. Reducing to one a day is a start.

As Syd stands and stretches, there’s a crash in the kitchen—a dropped pot or a metal lid.

Curtis is making an elaborate breakfast. He does this now, juicing oranges, cutting up fruit, making French toast from thick crusty bread he buys at the bakery in town.

He’s always made sure she ate in the morning.

Back home, that meant handing her a bagel sandwich as she hurried off to work.

But in Spain, he’s upped his game. Part of her appreciates it.

Another part of her wants to throw his fancy breakfast across the room and scream: You think café con leche and some fucking eggs will compensate for blowing up my life?

But her anger, while understandable, is not productive.

She doesn’t need a therapist to tell her that she’s chosen to stay and salvage this marriage. She can’t keep punishing him.

In these quiet, reflective moments, Sydney wonders why she accepted the arduous task of forgiveness.

Does remaining in her marriage mean she’s weak?

Or does it mean she’s strong? Everyone back home had an opinion.

Staying meant she was a doormat; leaving was giving up on a lifelong commitment after one mistake.

She’d blocked them all out and made her own decision.

But did she stay because she truly loves her husband?

Because she knows their relationship is worth this monumental effort?

Or is she simply afraid of being alone so soon after losing her only parent?

The reasons don’t matter now. She’s here.

Moving to the pool, Syd wades into the cool water.

It needs to be skimmed—bugs and leaves litter the surface—but the temperature is brisk.

The pool is unheated, and given their elevation, it’s still too cold for Curtis until the afternoon.

But Syd’s grandparents had a cottage in Ontario.

She’s used to swimming in chilly lakes, frolicking in frigid streams. She knows the adrenaline rush of a cold plunge, the improved clarity and mood.

She takes a deep breath, is about to go under, when she feels something swish against her legs.

She startles, splashing at the surface in a panic, legs churning fruitlessly to move her toward the edge.

There are venomous snakes in Spain, and she’d been warned to be vigilant.

She should have checked the pool for vipers looking for a place to escape the impending heat.

But when she looks down, she realizes she’s still wearing her cover-up, the light fabric swirling around her body like seaweed.

Without removing it, she dives under and swims to the end of the pool.