by Taylor Hobbs
I’ve lost my mind. While hanging between the magical limbo of sleep and wake, the half-conscious state had played tricks on her. Reality told her that she was alone. She had spent the day dreaming about restoring the village to life again, so it was no wonder her mind had created a celebration in the town square.
Sleep took a long time to find Remy again, and when the dawn rays hit her face, the details of the night before were hazy. Then the urgent cry of her bladder superseded all other thoughts, and Remy hurried over to a nearby tree. Crouching low, she let out a sigh and a stream simultaneously. The sigh turned into a giggle when Remy realized another reason why Maggie was so concerned for her welfare last night—the complete lack of plumbing—but she had been too proper to say so!
I should make her super uncomfortable and talk up the view from my “bathroom” today. I should insist that she give it a go. Truth be told, Remy had never peed in a more glorious place before. The golden sunrise illuminated the surrounding wilderness, skimming off the roof of the barn tucked away farther down the hill. Remy straightened up and turned around to look at the crumbling buildings of the village. It felt like it was smiling at her. Everything was bathed in a safe and cheerful light, and her tense night became a faded memory. There was nothing for her to worry about here.
A glimmer to her right caught her eye as Remy walked back to the campsite. She reached down and grabbed the long, slim glass bottle resting on the dirt. “A wine bottle!” She shook it and heard a slight sloshing at the bottom. There was no label, and the cork in the neck looked strong. Could there still be wine in it, after a hundred years? Remy uncorked it with a pop, bracing herself for a sour stench to invade her nostrils, or at the very least, to be disappointed with rainwater and mud inside.
Instead, it smelled sweet; sweeter than any wine that Remy had ever tasted before. She put her eye to the opening and peered inside. Nothing suspicious, or gross looking. It just looked like regular red wine. So, like a baby with an oral fixation, Remy decided that her other senses weren’t enough. She had to put it in her mouth.
She would just swish and spit, the way Jack had taught her at wine tasting events. That way she wouldn’t get a nineteenth century rare disease. It would be her own little disgusting secret. Hell, she had already peed out in the open today. Well, Jack, if only you could see me now. Cheers! Remy lifted the bottle to her lips and poured a little of the alcohol onto her tongue.
Flavor exploded in her mouth, and Remy forgot to spit as she savored it. I need to save some for Jack!
Remy snapped back to herself and lowered the bottle. She no longer shared anything in her life with Jack, a fact that still took some getting used to. Remy corked it while keeping her eyes peeled on the surrounding area for more bottles. No such luck. Well, there goes a solid plan for getting drunk before eight a.m. She made a mental note to ask Sebastian if there were any cellars hidden on the property.
The wine had awakened her hunger, and Remy meandered past the mill, where the orchard trees grew untamed, to find breakfast. She plucked a swollen pear and bit into the sun-warmed fruit. Juice rolled down her hands, and in a few bites, it was gone. Remy reached for another as she continued down the overgrown path. Feeling like Hansel and Gretel, she dropped pear cores behind her to mark her way back.
Sebastian had told her that the village property stretched all the way to the Bay of Biscay. She couldn’t remember exactly how far that was. He had told her in kilometers, and Remy had always been bad with numbers.
The gently sloping trail seemed to have no end as it meandered exactly as it pleased. Trying to get her bearings, Remy turned around to look for the roof of the main house, set at the highest point in the village, but it had been swallowed up by the trees around it. The only way to go was forward, and the trail had to end eventually.
Remy was starting to sweat by the time she heard the faint roar of the water. Her mouth was sticky from the fruit, and the wine bottle remained clutched in her hand. Why did I bring this with me? Wading through the brush, she bent to scratch an itch burning on her leg.
The distant cry of a gull kept her from turning around. The end was close enough to smell now, and it gave her motivation to push through her discomfort. The trees thinned out, and then she was surrounded by blue.
Up on a cliff, Remy gazed out at an endless expanse. Out past the steep drop off in front of her, fishing boats dotted the horizon. The culture and history of Galicia swirled in the cold depths of the bay, colors so rich they could never be replicated on a palette.
With baby steps, Remy inched closer to the edge. The ground looked sturdy enough, but it was herself she didn’t trust. It had happened more than once, that urge to jump. She wasn’t suicidal, she never really had been. Depressed, yes, but never suicidal. But the feeling that accompanied standing on the edge of a tall building or bridge, of letting go just to see what would happen, had always called to her. The call of the void.
For safety’s sake, she put her butt in the dirt and scooted forward as far as she dared. There was a long, thin stretch of sand directly below the cliff that curved its way north along the coastline. The gentle waves lapped up against the shore, and she longingly wondered if there was any way to get down there.
How long had it been since she’d walked in the sand? Sat motionless and listened to the waves? She ached for the ocean to cleanse her, to be the baptism into her new life. Maybe if she washed herself free of her past, she would be able to paint again.
Remy crossed her legs and closed her eyes. She tried to clear her mind. The trick was to empty all her thoughts until a flash of inspiration struck for her next project. It usually happened all at once—the colors, the movement, and the message behind the canvas. It came to life in her mind, and her hands would simply copy it down. Having never been formally trained, Remy never jumped to technique or strategy when painting. She just did it, purely on instinct.
Until she couldn’t anymore. Her mind’s eye remained empty, just as it had been for months. Remy’s concentration switched focus onto her heart pounding in frustration. The rhythmic beat drowned out the soothing sound of the waves, and blood rushed in her ears.
“Arrghhh!” Remy’s eyes snapped open, and she grabbed the first thing she saw, a sun-bleached scallop shell, and threw it off the cliff.
This is my punishment. The universe had to keep the balance, and even though Remy had tried to punish herself by divorcing Jack, she knew deep down that it wasn’t enough. She didn’t get to pick her own penance. It never worked that way.
Maybe it was time for her to let this aspect of herself go, anyway. It had been time for her to move on from her marriage and her dreams of a family, so why not her art? There is more than one way to live and be happy.
Holding onto a more positive attitude, Remy adjusted her butt and attempted to meditate again. This time, though, she didn’t even try to summon an image for her art. She just simply sat and felt the breeze on her face. Her chest rose up and down as she inhaled, each breath feeling like its own eternity until it transitioned into the next. Seconds felt like hours, and her anger eased.
She would have sat there on the edge of the world indefinitely, but the feeling of someone staring at her pulled her back. Remy wrenched her eyes open and looked around. She was still alone on her ledge, but a figure down on the beach had appeared.
The person was too far away to get a good look, but Remy felt sure that it was a man. He walked barefoot, leaving tracks in the sand. He put up a hand to acknowledge her, and then clasped his hands behind his back to continue walking. He bowed his head, as though searching for something. He stopped, bent down, and pocketed an item he’d scooped up.
Remy took her eyes off him for a moment to rise to her feet, and once she stood up all the way, she couldn’t find him again. Squinting, she peered down to where he’d last been. There was nothing there, and the waves washed the footprints away.
Damn. She wanted to ask the stranger how he had accessed the beach. If he was a lo
cal, then maybe he would know how to get down the cliff. While shaking her legs to get the blood flowing, Remy gave the water a last, wistful glance.
Oh, can’t forget the wine bottle, she reminded herself, before she started back up the path. The cool shade of the overgrown trail embraced her. Remy felt her cheeks with the back of her hand and pulled away at their heat. She wondered how long she had been sitting in the sun. Without her phone, she had no idea what time it was.
She was almost back to the village when she heard voices calling her name. “Remy! Remy! Where are you?”
Thoughts of her midnight visitors flashed through her mind before Remy realized it was Sebastian and Maggie yelling for her. “Here! I’m here!” she called back, emerging from the orchard.
“Oh, thank God. Sebastian! I see her,” Maggie sounded weak with relief, and Remy felt a stab of guilt for making her friend worry.
“Where have you been? We’ve been searching for you for an hour! I was sure something happened to you last night!” Maggie, sweaty and red-faced, collapsed onto a rock, fanning herself.
“Maggie, you shouldn’t be out here in this heat! Come on, I have water bottles back at the tent.”
“You didn’t answer my question,” Maggie said, giving Remy a stern glare.
“I was up early this morning and decided to explore a bit more. I found the trail that leads to the bay and followed it down. I stayed longer than I meant to.”
“You shouldn’t do that to an old woman. I was up half the night fretting about you, and then I dragged Sebastian up here early only to find what? An empty tent? And no sign of you!”
More than ever, Remy felt like a ten-year-old girl being scolded by her nana. It had been a long time since anyone had outright scolded her. Most people had tiptoed around her the past few years, worried that anything they said or criticized might upset her. It was so refreshing that Remy had to hide a smile.
“What can I do to make it up to you, Maggie?” Remy asked, appearing appropriately contrite.
Maggie sniffed. “I wouldn’t say no to a spot of breakfast before I hit the road. There is a superb restaurant in town I keep hearing about.”
The old woman seemed determined to make sure that Remy left the village at least once before the real estate paperwork was finalized. Remy half-expected Maggie to have made arrangements at the B&B for her and forbid the “camping nonsense” once they got to town. Laughing, Remy said, “All right, you win. Let’s go into town. I suppose I should get the lay of the land sooner or later.”
Sebastian was waiting for them at the car, looking thoroughly disgruntled and less like the Christmas elf hopped up on sugar that Remy remembered from yesterday.
“I told you, Maggie, no reason to worry. She is fine. Now, I need some coffee.”
“But Sebastian,” Remy said, “I have something that’s way better.” She taunted him by dangling the bottle of wine in his face. “I found it on the property, and it is amazing. I want to know where I can get more, and I figured you would be the person to tell me where it’s from.”
His sleepy eyes lit up as he grabbed the bottle from Remy. “No label?”
“Nope. But it is the sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted. Pure magic.”
Regaining some of his trademark excitement, he yanked the cork off and sniffed the contents inside. Frowning, he tipped the bottle and poured the contents on the ground. The liquid that ran out was not the deep red Remy expected. Brown sludge splattered onto the dirt.
Seeing Remy’s stunned expression, he started to laugh. “Oh! That was, how you say, a practical joke? A prank?” Sebastian clapped her on the shoulder. “All right. You tricked me. I truly believed you! You have the acting gift.”
“But it wasn’t supposed to be…” Remy took the bottle back and eyed it with confusion. The wine had been just fine a few hours ago. There was no way she would mistake red wine for dirty sludge water, and it couldn’t have gotten contaminated during her short excursion to the bay. She hadn’t dreamed that, too, right? Maybe this was why she couldn’t paint anything anymore—her basic senses were starting to go haywire.
“You must have known I was coming here with bad news and wanted to punish me,” Sebastian said, still chuckling. The outright panic on Remy’s face made him rush to reassure her. “Nothing that bad. Just that we have much to do to sort your paperwork. You will have to apply for a residence visa in Spain for investors or self-employed, and a work permit, eventually…” Sebastian continued his technical chatter during their drive into town.
It seemed that Remy was in for a rather large headache dealing with all the legalities that being an expatriate entailed. Their arrival at the restaurant finally interrupted him just as Remy’s migraine was starting to set in. With a sigh of relief, Remy exited the car out onto a flagstone path that fronted the marina docks.
Wooden sailboats bobbed alongside sleek, expensive yachts. Old and new merged to create a view that enchanted every passerby, especially their trio. “Makes you wonder what this place looked like way back when, doesn’t it?” Maggie said, shading her eyes with her hand.
“It was probably a lot more rustic,” Remy guessed.
“When you go up to el Porto de Espasante, it is like stepping back in time, right, Sebastian?”
“Why is that?” Remy asked.
“It is still a fishing port, mostly commercial. Less than five hundred people live there year-round. Plenty of trading through there, though. Be careful up there alone,” Sebastian said, with uncharacteristic seriousness.
“I doubt I’ll spend much time outside of the village. I’ll have so much to do over the next few months.”
Maggie turned her gaze to Remy. “Don’t spend too much time alone. Being too isolated can do strange things to people.”
“It will give you all the more reason to come visit me!”
Maggie pretended to give a little shudder. “Not until you have a working toilet, that I can promise!”
****
Proper plumbing ended up being the least of Remy’s problems over the next few weeks.
Word spread about Remy’s purchase, and soon Ortigueira knew all about the crazy American who bought the village. A grudging respect also emerged at her insistence to do much of the work herself. If a foreigner was to own such a special piece of their country, at least she seemed to be of the right character and mindset to do so.
As Remy grew to be recognized around town, the citizens would gossip and nod in approval to each other as she passed. “Look at her,” they whispered. “She must be Galician.”
“You know, she looks like my aunt’s cousin’s paternal grandmother’s side. It is all in the chin.”
“Oh yes. And her eyes. Purely Galician.”
“The village called one of its own back home.”
“It was right that she bought it.”
And thus, Remy was accepted into a small and tight-knit community, though she didn’t realize it at the time. She spent most of her time in a fog, caught up in her vision for the village.
The village was to be Remy’s greatest work of art. She saw the final product in her mind’s eye just as she used to see her finished painting on a blank canvas. It was a way to flex her creative muscles again, even though her brushes were still blocked. Losing herself in a project again felt amazing, and the blood, sweat, and tears that accompanied her art were more than metaphorical this time. Well, maybe not the tears. The tears were always the same. She forgot all about New York, Anita, her career, the divorce, Jack…and when her body fell into her sleeping bag each night, she slept a dreamless sleep until morning.
The village hummed with a happy energy now that it was being restored. Remy didn’t hear any more weird noises and didn’t stumble across any mysterious wine bottles on the property. Even the orchard and the bay stayed off her radar while she focused on her rehabilitation plans for the houses.
One morning while picking up supplies, she finally slowed down enough to charge her phone while at a café in to
wn. Real life hit her like a slap in the face.
Fifty missed calls? Afraid to even check her email, Remy just decided to trash them all directly from her inbox. If it’s really important, someone will send it again. Sighing, she steeled herself to listen to her voicemails.
Most were from Jack. He sounded drunk in all of them. Remy deleted those as soon as she heard his slur.
A couple were from her lawyer. Those she needed to listen to like a responsible adult, but not while she was in public.
There were about ten from Anita, ranging from concerned to pissed off to “over it,” as her best friend described. All of them ended with a graphic threat of what would happen if Remy didn’t call her back. Most notably, Anita threatened to track her down and punch her in the boob.
Recognizing that she couldn’t put it off any longer, Remy stepped outside to call Anita. Her agent answered on the first ring.
“You’re alive!”
The sheer pitch of her voice was enough to make Remy want to hang up the phone. But if she did, Anita would probably think Remy had a Taken situation going on and would report it to INTERPOL. So, Remy took a deep breath and told her. “I bought a village.”
Chapter Three
“Señora, there is someone looking for you.” The cashier who rang up Remy’s groceries every week gave the store entrance a meaningful look. “A man was in here earlier, asking if anyone knew you.”
Remy swallowed. “Who was he? What did he want?”
“He was very rude. Demanding to know about the artist who moved here; where he could find the American painter. I told him I knew no painter.”
She tried to breathe. “Was he very tall? With silver hair? Probably wearing a suit?”
Her friend nodded.
“Jack.” Damn, Anita. Why couldn’t she just keep her big mouth shut? Odds were that Anita had let something slip to the public in order to garner mystery around Remy in anticipation of her next collection. What could be more exotic than a runaway artist? Anita’s job was to put Remy’s work at the forefront of everyone’s minds and maintain the buzz. The line between best friend and agent was blurred sometimes, and Remy often wanted to strangle Anita for always assuming she knew best.
