9
Syd stuffs beach towels, sunscreen, and water bottles into a midsize backpack.
She’s excited to show Bianca and Damian around Cadaqués, to take them to her favorite beach and for lunch after.
The plan had been decided last night, over a full fish stuffed with lemon and herbs.
Work could wait, Curtis and Sydney insisted.
Their guests hadn’t even had a chance to check out the town, the restaurants, or the sea.
They’d enjoy a day of swimming, food, and getting to know one another.
“But there’s so much to do around here,” Bianca had objected, but Sydney had shut her down.
“People in Spain take enjoying themselves seriously. We didn’t move here to work all the time like we did back home.”
“So, what prompted the move?” Damian asked, chewing his fish.
“Look around,” Curtis said, waving a hand toward the view. “It’s heaven.”
“It is. But most people don’t pack up their lives, quit their jobs, and leave everything behind without some sort of catalyst.”
Syd felt her cheeks burning, and she couldn’t look at her husband.
She didn’t want this happy couple to know the truth of her marriage.
She wanted a clean slate, without judgment or pity.
“We honeymooned here and fell in love with it,” she said brightly.
“New York gets more expensive every day. After my mom passed, it felt like the right time.”
Bianca smiled. “It’s really brave to follow your passions while you’re so young.”
“Smart, too,” Damian said, scooping up some rice on his fork. “If this winery doesn’t work out, you can always go back and pick up where you left off.”
“It’ll work out,” Curtis said tightly. “We’re devoted to this plan.”
“We’re here to help,” Damian replied, but Curtis had jumped up to clear the dishes.
Her husband enters the bedroom now, wearing his sun hat, his face tinted white with sunscreen. “Ready?” There’s something tense, even apprehensive in his tone.
“Yep.” She smiles at him. She appreciates the effort he’s making. She knows she’s enjoying the company more than he is. “Let’s go.”
They take the Citroen, the Australians squeezed into the back seat, down the winding hill to a dusty parking lot outside the town center. “It’s usually half empty,” Curtis says as they roll over the silty surface, looking for a spot. The lot is packed with tiny European cars.
“All the Spaniards are out enjoying life,” Bianca says, and Syd tosses a smile over her shoulder.
Finally, Curtis parks and they walk through narrow, winding streets toward the sea.
Syd still gets lost in this little whitewashed town, but Curtis knows his way.
They walk under a canopy of bright purple and red bougainvillea, passing cafés, boutique hotels, and shoe stores with racks of espadrilles out front.
As they get closer to the bay, the shops sell beach towels, straw hats, and swimming shoes for the rocky coast. Restaurants with patios serve coffee or beer to locals and tourists, mostly from France or other parts of Spain.
Soon, they emerge into the main square, the statue of famous resident Salvador Dalí standing sentry.
“Oh my God,” Bianca marvels, taking in the fishing boats bobbing in the turquoise water, the pale buildings hugging the curve of the bay. “It’s stunning!”
“Incredible,” Damian adds, turning in circles to take it all in.
“It’s the most beautiful town,” Syd says proudly, as if she’d discovered it or built it.
“And there’s a great beach right in the center of it.
” But as they approach the main beach, they see that it’s teeming with people.
Families wrangle squealing toddlers. Teen boys splash and roughhouse while their girlfriends lounge and smoke hand-rolled cigarettes.
Beautiful topless women tan or pose for Instagram photos taken by their slight, enamored boyfriends.
Parasols and beach blankets stake their claim.
There’s no space for four people to put their towels down, barely room to move in the frothing sea.
“Shit,” Syd mutters. She peers down the bay to the next beach and sees it’s similarly packed.
“There’s a secluded little cove just past Portlligat,” Curtis suggests. “It’s a bit of a hike, but we’ll probably have it all to ourselves.”
“Good thinking,” Syd says. She knows the beach her husband is referring to. The walk is long but scenic, and the spot is a hidden gem.
“Let’s do it,” Bianca says, and Damian agrees.
They walk along the seaside path for a couple of miles until it takes them inland.
They pass a development of modern houses, many set behind thick walls and ornate iron gates offering glimpses of manicured, irrigated lawns.
Holiday homes for rich Europeans, Syd assumes, far more luxurious and expensive than their remote abode.
A gentle hill slopes toward Portlligat where they stop to buy ice-cold lemon sodas, sipping them in the shade of a stone building.
Damian indicates a queue of people with his chin. “What’s that about?”
“That’s Salvador Dalí’s house,” Curtis says. “You can tour the house and garden, but you have to book in advance.”
“It’s worth doing,” Sydney adds. “We loved it. He was so eccentric.”
“I read a biography on him,” Bianca adds. “About him and his wife, Gala. She was his muse.”
“She died here,” Curtis says. “Dalí couldn’t bear to live here without her, so he moved to his castle in Púbol. He died a few years later.” He glances over at Syd, his eyes soft. “Such a love story.”
“Except Gala was married when they met.” Bianca sips her cold drink.
“In fact, she came here with her poet husband and their daughter and abandoned them both when she fell for Dalí. They had an open marriage, and some people think Dalí was a virgin his entire life. He was a voyeur and encouraged Gala to have a lot of affairs. Even with her ex-husband.”
“That’s weird,” Syd says.
“I think they were ahead of their time,” Bianca replies. “A lot of people are realizing that the Disney version of romance and monogamy isn’t sustainable these days. It’s not realistic.”
Curtis lobs his empty bottle into a bin. It bangs loudly against the metal sides, and Syd winces. “Ready to hit the trail?” he asks.
They move on, traversing a narrow dirt path that runs along the hilltop and offers incredible sea views.
It’s getting hot, though, and the sugary drink has left Sydney’s mouth parched and sticky.
Her lungs feel heavy, and she vows, again, to quit smoking.
She doesn’t remember the beach being this far away, and she worries aloud that they’ve missed the turnoff.
“It’s here,” Curtis says, stopping at the top of a steep trailhead. He points down a winding goat track to a small cove, a patch of white sand, the sea varying shades of blue from azure to navy. As they’d hoped, it’s deserted.
“Wow,” Bianca says, heading down first. Curtis takes after her, then Sydney, with Damian bringing up the rear.
The incline is intense, and as Syd hurries to keep up with her husband, her sneaker skids on some loose gravel.
As she’s about to fall on her butt, she feels Damian’s strong hands catching her, lifting her.
“Careful,” he says gently. “You okay?”
“I’m good. Thanks.”
“Let them go ahead.” He smiles down at her, his dark eyes warm. “We can take it slow.”
She flushes, nods her thanks. God, it’s hot out.
They continue down the path, Damian’s hand brushing her lower back.
He’s being gallant, ready if she slips again, but his fingertips touching her waistband feel intimate.
She’s heard that Australian men can be chivalrous, a quality sometimes construed as chauvinism.
Syd’s always been fiercely independent, but she likes this.
Damian’s attentiveness makes her feel distinctly feminine.
When they reach the bottom, Curtis and Bianca are staring into the water. The cove is teeming with small purplish jellyfish that had been invisible from above.
“I’ve never seen these here before,” Curtis says.
“Crap,” Syd groans. “We came all this way.” She’d planned a day of fun and frivolity, but everything seems to be going wrong.
“We have these little buggers back home,” Bianca says quickly. “They’re totally harmless.”
“Are you sure?” Curtis asks as they watch the tiny mauve blobs floating on the gentle waves.
“They come in with certain tides,” Damian explains. “They’re slimy, but they don’t sting.”
“Okay,” Curtis says, kicking off his shoes and pulling his T-shirt over his head. “I’m going in.”
“Right behind you, mate!” Damian perches on a rock, begins to remove his shoes.
Curtis wades into the warm sea, the gelatinous creatures bobbing away on the current he creates. He plunges under the water, swims a few strokes below the surface. He pops up, turns back toward the shore, easily treading water in the buoyancy.
Syd’s T-shirt is sticking to her back, and she peels it off. She’s feeling a little lightheaded, and she needs to cool off.
“Are you going to swim?” Damian asks. “Those jellies are pretty disgusting.”
“I’m so sweaty,” Syd says, dropping her shorts to her ankles. She moves toward the respite of the sea.
And then Curtis screams.