2
Curtis glances out the window to see his wife swimming lengths in her nightgown.
This would have been alarming before everything happened—Sydney was a buttoned-up attorney, so capable and put together—but now she’s cloudy and distracted.
Some of it’s the medication she takes, some of it’s the depression, and some, according to their couples’ therapist, is her body’s response to the emotional pain Curtis inflicted on her.
Sydney’s gone numb to protect herself from future suffering.
If she feels nothing at all, she can’t be hurt again.
Guilt squeezes his heart as he watches his wife climb out of the pool.
She’s still so elegant, a cool patrician beauty, but now she looks fragile, brittle, a husk of the vibrant woman she used to be.
He did this to her, and he hates himself for it.
But she’s given him another chance, and he’s going to fix everything.
As Syd reaches for a towel, he realizes she’s wearing not her nightgown but the white gauzy shirt she wears over her bathing suit.
Still, he wonders why she didn’t take it off. He knows enough not to comment.
The toast pops, and he hurries to butter it while it’s still warm.
They’re having scrambled eggs today, with blistered tomatoes and fresh-squeezed orange juice.
The eggs are fresh, the bread made at a quaint little bakery.
He wonders if Sydney tastes the quality like he does, or if his thoughtfully prepared meals are sawdust in her mouth.
Some days, she’s fine and everything feels almost normal.
Other days, she’s sad, or sullen, or outright angry.
But she’s here. And he’s going to make her love him again.
He hurries outside, where Sydney is wringing out her cover-up, a towel wrapped around her torso. “Brunch is served, m’lady. Do you want to eat inside or outside?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Come in. You’ll get a chill out here.”
While Syd changes, Curtis sets the table.
The dining room is his favorite space, maybe because it needed the least amount of work.
Morning sun slips in through the sheer white curtains, warming the terra-cotta tiles.
The massive farmhouse table, left here because it’s practically immovable, is a soft timber, etched with the memories of family meals.
He sets down cloth place mats, forks, knives, and the pitcher of freshly squeezed orange juice.
The scene is idyllic… with only the faintest thrum of discontent under the facade.
Moving to Spain had been Curtis’s idea. Even with couples’ therapy, Syd was struggling to heal in New York.
There were too many reminders, they were too close to the scene of the crime, and Sydney had told too many people what Curtis had done.
He knew some of Syd’s friends thought she should leave him.
Her brother, Reid, did. Reid had told Sydney to get her own place or move in with him and his husband upstate.
Reid was protective, Curtis got that, but he couldn’t force his sister to abandon her marriage.
Ellen, the therapist, with her blunt bob and fashionable outfits, had insisted they ignore the advice of outsiders, not let shame or judgment drive them apart.
Sydney had struggled to shut out the well-meaning chirping, the constant feedback loop.
Syd still loved Curtis. He knew she didn’t want to give up on the life they’d built together.
And Curtis loved her more than ever. And so, Curtis had made the grand suggestion, an extravagant gesture to show just how committed he was to a fresh start.
“Spain?” Syd had laughed, incredulous. It had seemed so random. But they’d spent their honeymoon there twelve years ago and had fallen in love with the country.
“I found a house,” he said, bringing up the listing on his phone. “It’s not far from Girona, above Cadaqués. It needs some TLC, but we can afford it if we sell the apartment.”
“What will we do for work? How can we just move there?”
“This place has some property,” he said, passing Syd the phone. “We could plant some grapes. Start a little vineyard. Spain offers a golden visa if you invest in real estate or start a business. And the cost of living is way cheaper than in New York.”
“I’m a lawyer,” Syd countered. “A public defender. I can’t just retire when I’m in my forties.”
“But they work you to death at the PD’s office. You’re stressed and exhausted. And you’ve always been interested in wine. It’ll take a while to get started, but this could be a new career for you.” His voice had sounded almost childlike with hope. “For us.”
Syd’s brow had been furrowed with skepticism, but it softened as she scrolled through the photos, saw the potential of the place. He knew she could envision a new kind of life, just the two of them. They could rebuild their relationship in this hilltop home. Syd could see it, too.
“And I don’t want you to touch your inheritance,” Curtis had added. “Your mom left that money to you, and I think we can manage without it.”
But they couldn’t, of course. (Has a reno ever come in under budget?) It soon became clear that they’d need more funds.
Curtis had wanted to do most of the renovations himself, but there were limits to his skills.
They’d had to hire an electrician to upgrade the panel to support the air-conditioning, and a plumber to replace cracked underground pipes from the well to the house.
They could live with the chipped countertops and dated cupboards in the kitchen, but the fridge was leaking, and the stove was a fire hazard.
And Syd didn’t think she could bear the Spanish heat without fixing the pool, so repairing the crack in the concrete had been a top priority.
Starting over, building a new life, was expensive. But it was worth it.
Syd approaches the table then, her wet hair slicked back, her face free of makeup.
Her expression is placid after her bracing swim, and she looks beautiful.
Healthy. The May sunshine has kissed her cheeks, and thanks to Curtis’s cooking, she’s gained back some of the weight she’d lost when everything happened.
She’d arrived so thin and fragile, and now she’s more robust. More like the strong, self-assured woman she was.
Curtis fills two crockery plates with scrambled eggs, halved tomatoes, and thick slabs of toast. He sets one in front of his wife and another across from her.
“Thanks,” she says, digging in heartily. He sits and watches her enjoyment for a second, absorbing the wonderful normalcy of it.
Scooping up a forkful of buttery eggs, he says, “I think we should start clearing out the north quadrant of the property, where the fence is coming down. It would be a good spot to plant our vines.”
“Depends which grapes we want to grow,” she says, biting into her toast with a crunch. “Airén vines can handle full sun and dryer soil. But if we want to grow Tempranillo, they prefer more shade.”
Syd’s been researching. It means she’s investing in their plan.
The therapist said that it could take years for Sydney to fully heal, but this move, this new venture, will expedite the process.
One day in the not-so-distant future, Curtis will be able to wake up without worrying that she’ll be gone.
That he’ll look for her by the pool, on the steep path that leads down the mountain, in the shops of Cadaqués, and discover that she’s left him.
That she’s returned to the States. That she’s given up on them.
“We should grow whatever you like to drink,” he says. “There’s going to be a lot of tastings in our future.”
“Airén, then,” she says. “I get less hungover from white.” Her smile is small, even begrudging, but it bathes him in warmth, safety, and optimism. Until he hears it: a light but insistent knock at the door.
“Who’s that?” Syd asks, setting down her toast.
“I don’t know.” They are so alone here, so isolated, which is just how they wanted it.
They’ve made no friends, are only on wave-and-smile terms with their distant neighbors.
So, who the hell is at their door? It must be a wrong turn, a lost tourist or maybe a local selling fish or jamón. It’s nothing to worry about.
So why, as he scrapes his chair back across the tiles, does Curtis feel this sense of dread?