8
They can’t stay here for ten days,” Curtis tells Sydney, who’s sitting cross-legged on their bed, wrapped in his terry cloth robe.
They’d absconded to their bedroom, saying they needed to change clothes, but they’re really here to discuss their stranded houseguests.
“We can let them spend one more night, and then I’ll drive them to Girona in the morning. ”
“They might prefer to stay in Cadaqués,” Syd offers. “Then they’re near the beach. And we could still meet them for lunch or dinner.”
Curtis hadn’t realized his wife was so starved for companionship.
Back home, she’d been so introverted—at least for a New Yorker—preferring to spend evenings on the sofa instead of in restaurants or at the theater.
But after a few months alone with him, she’s suddenly a social butterfly, excited to eat meals with a couple of Australian kids. He can’t help but take it personally.
“They’ll have to tow the van to Girona,” Curtis says. “They might want to stay close to it.”
“That’ll cost a fortune,” Syd says. “And why do they need to stay close to their van? That makes no sense.”
“Girona’s a great city,” Curtis counters, watching his wife pull on a pair of shorts under the robe. “There’s so much history there. And maybe they’re Game of Thrones fans?”
“Maybe.”
“Look,” Curtis says with finality, “they’re a nice couple. It’s been fun to hang out with them. But we’ve got work to do around the place. We don’t have time to entertain guests.”
Syd drops the robe from her shoulders and reaches for a bra.
Curtis feels a stirring at the sight of her skin, her breasts—it’s been so long—but she quickly pulls on a T-shirt.
“What if they pitched in?” Syd suggests.
“Damian could help you fix up that old shed. He seems to know a lot about building. And Bianca could help me paint downstairs.”
“Do you really want houseguests for that long?” Curtis says. “You know the old saying about fish and guests. After three days they start to stink.”
Sydney shrugs. “We’ve been alone together for months. And we’ll be alone again when they move on.”
Curtis feels his face getting warm. It’s frustration. Loss of control. He keeps his delivery level. “In therapy, Ellen said we need to build a new relationship, like a second marriage. How can we do that with another couple hanging around?”
“Ellen also said we need to socialize and have fun.” Sydney hangs the robe on a hook on the back of the door. “To do the things we used to enjoy before your affair.”
The words slice him like a sword, likely what Syd intended, and he backs down. He has no choice. He’ll do anything to keep her happy.
She moves toward him, her demeanor softening. “Hiding out here alone isn’t going to fix us, Curtis,” she says gently. “And you know we need help around the place.”
“Fine.” He nods. “We can run it by them, if that’s what you want.”
The travelers seem unsure at first. “When we turned up here, we didn’t even expect you to let us in,” Bianca says. “We certainly didn’t expect to end up staying here.”
“You can see we need help around the place,” Syd says. “And we’ll pay you in pool time and wine.”
“We don’t want to intrude…”
“You wouldn’t be,” Curtis insists, forcing enthusiasm. “We’d love the company. And the free labor.”
Damian and Bianca consult each other with a look. “I think we could get that shed fixed up in no time,” Damian says, turning to Curtis. “I’d be happy to help.”
“It’s settled, then,” Curtis says, voice upbeat with only the slightest hint of a waver.
“Show us all the jobs you need done,” Bianca offers.
“The lower floor is still a disaster,” Syd says. “I’ll take you down.”
Curtis watches the three of them move to the stairs, but he doesn’t follow. No one will find his absence odd. They’ll assume he’s gone to the bathroom or maybe to start lunch. And soon he will begin cooking. But he has something important to take care of first.
Slipping outside, he hustles to his car and fishes under the driver’s seat.
He’d deposited the burner phone there when they returned from Girona.
He never brings it into the house; he can’t risk Sydney finding it and asking questions.
Withdrawing the device, he stuffs it in his pocket and walks briskly toward the old shed.
The derelict building has been the perfect hiding place, but that’ll have to change once they start renovating.
Glancing over his shoulder, he pushes open the door and moves into the musty space.
For a second, Curtis feels blind and disoriented, then his eyes adjust to the dim interior.
He makes out the familiar mess: scrap lumber, rusted cans, thick cobwebs.
Dust motes float in the strips of sunshine filtering through the rotted boards, scattering as Curtis barges through them.
He retrieves a rumpled rag tucked away in a back corner.
Ensuring the phone is powered off, he wraps it in the cloth, places it behind a stack of warped shingles.
“Whatcha doing, mate?”
Curtis spins around, his heart hammering in his chest. Damian stands in the doorway, a look of dark amusement on his features. Why did the Aussie man follow him out here? Why was he so damn quiet? And what did he see?
“Just assessing how much junk I need to clear out,” Curtis says chipperly. His voice is high-pitched, too cheerful, but Damian won’t notice. The guy barely knows him.
“We can start now.” Damian rubs his palms together, like he can’t wait to get to work.
“I need to strategize where to put things,” Curtis says quickly. “Besides, we’ve got lunch. And then siesta.”
“How do the Spanish get anything done?” Damian chuckles as the pair head back toward the house.
“Slowly,” Curtis replies. “But we’re living the good life now.”