The page is loading slowly, the Wi-Fi in the hillside house less than speedy. Perhaps Bianca is using it out in her camper van? She hadn’t asked Syd for the password, but maybe Curtis had shared it. It’s fine. Syd can wait to scratch this ugly itch, to see the images and information already etched on her brain. She sips her coffee as the tiny wheel on-screen spins.

  A list of Collette Jaspers appears, but none of them are her husband’s lover. Sydney sits forward, peers at the screen. Has the Collette Jasper deleted her Facebook account? More likely, she’s blocked Sydney. But why now? The affair ended over a year ago. Syd and Curtis have moved across the ocean. Why would Collette suddenly be worried about her privacy? It makes no sense.

  Curtis would not have been in touch with Collette: It was discussed at length in therapy as the ultimate dealbreaker. Curtis had assured his wife that he’d felt no emotional connection to Collette, that he had no reason or desire for contact with his former lover. He’d quit his job and moved continents to prove the point! Plus, Sydney and Curtis are together practically 24/7. He’d given her the passwords for all his devices. She hasn’t checked recently, but she could. Why would he risk it?

  She tosses the laptop aside and drags herself out of bed. Despite the strong cup of coffee, her head feels fuzzy and muddled, likely from yesterday’s drinks. She knows now isn’t the time to spiral into doubts and trust issues. Slipping into a one-piece swimsuit, she searches for her cover-up, then remembers she left it on a pool chair to dry. Instead, she wraps Curtis’s terry cloth robe around her and searches for her cigarettes.

  As she sits smoking by the pool, Syd looks at the Westfalia broken down in the driveway. She wonders if Bianca is still asleep, or if she’s meditating or journaling or doing some other healthy, spiritual activity that van-dwellers practice. Stubbing out the cigarette, she walks to the vehicle and knocks on the side door. Vinyl curtains cover the windows, but she hears rustling in response. Within moments, the door opens, and Bianca emerges, bright-eyed and perky.

  “Good morning.” She climbs out of the van, wearing a black bikini top, sweatpants hanging low on her hips. Bianca slides the van door closed behind her, but not before Syd’s eyes flit to the interior. She doesn’t mean to be nosy, but she’s curious how this couple has been living so harmoniously in such close quarters. But all she can make out is a small countertop, the cupboards beneath it, and a rumpled, built-in bed.

  “I was waiting for you to finish your cigarette,” the Australian girl explains. She taps her chest. “Asthma.”

  “I just have one a day,” Syd replies sheepishly. “I’m tapering off.”

  “Good.” Bianca smiles at her. “I’m a nurse. I’ve seen too many people suffer and die from lung cancer and emphysema.”

  Syd changes the subject. “Have you heard from the guys?”

  “No, nothing.” Bianca’s pretty face contorts. “I’m so sorry about all this.”

  “Let’s make the best of it,” Syd suggests. “There’s coffee inside, and we can have a swim.”

  As Bianca stands at the pool’s edge preparing for a shallow dive, Sydney treads water and tries not to feel bad about herself. Bianca is so young, so toned, so tanned. Sydney has always been tall, slim, and flat-chested: a model-esque figure. She looks good in clothes; Bianca looks good in this tiny swimsuit. It’s juvenile, anti-feminist, and hard on the ego to be thinking this way, especially after she spent the morning comparing herself to Collette. Sydney dives under the water, kicks her way to the opposite end of the pool.

  “Nothing better than a brisk morning swim,” Bianca says when Syd surfaces. She’s treading water in the middle of the pool now, her hair slicked back from her face. The girl is almost breathtakingly beautiful, but the bright sunlight illuminates faint acne scars on her cheeks, the slightest wrinkles around her eyes and mouth. She’s human after all.

  “Better than coffee.” Syd swims to the edge, rests her arms on the concrete behind her.

  Bianca swirls in place. “What kind of law did you practice back in New York?”

  Sydney had mentioned her former job in passing yesterday, but she’d been intentionally vague. She knows the reaction her title can elicit. “I was a public defender.”

  “Seriously?” Bianca coughs. “You defended murderers and rapists?”

  “I did,” Sydney says, voice measured in the face of the woman’s judgment. “The Sixth Amendment guarantees people accused of a crime the right to a lawyer, even if they can’t afford one. That’s how our legal system works. That’s how we ensure everyone is treated fairly.”

  “But why choose that kind of law?” Bianca joins her at the side of the pool, her face scrunched with confusion. Or is it disdain? “Why not help good people instead of bad people?”

  “Some of the people who use a public defender are good.” Sydney climbs out of the pool, grabs a towel off a lawn chair, and dries herself as she talks. “Do you know how many low-income, marginalized people go to jail for crimes they didn’t commit? Because they got railroaded by police or falsely accused by victims or witnesses? Or they just didn’t have a decent lawyer?”

  “No…” Bianca says, ascending the pool steps to join Syd. “I never really thought of it that way.”

  “There are nearly four thousand people on the National Registry of Exonerations. Most of them lived in poverty or with addiction or suffered racism. Many of them didn’t have decent legal representation. I provided that.”

  “So, some of the people you represented were innocent,” Bianca says thoughtfully as they lay their towels on lawn chairs and stretch out to dry off.

  “Some,” Syd says, though that isn’t really the point.

  “I think a lot of lawyers just care about money,” Bianca says, “but you were making a difference.”

  “I tried to.” Syd smiles.

  Bianca turns to her, her eyes hidden by large dark sunglasses. “Aren’t there acts that are unforgivable, though? Things so awful that they’re indefensible?”

  Bianca is talking about murder, abduction, rape, and torture. Why does Syd’s mind go to Curtis’s one-night stand?

  “Everyone deserves due process,” she says. “Everyone deserves to be heard.”

  “Even monsters?”

  Just then, the rumble of a car, the crunch of tires on the rutted drive, saves Syd from diving into the moral and ethical complexities.

  “Sounds like the guys are back.” She gets up and heads inside.

  Sydney Cleary and Curtis Lowe, Couples’ Counseling Session

  Ellen Dwyer, Psychologist, PsyD

  July 1

  TRANSCRIPT 2.

  Ellen:

  Curtis, do you feel comfortable telling me how the infidelity happened?

  Curtis:

  I work in property management. Commercial leasing. I don’t normally handle clients, but we were short-staffed. And this was a big deal. It was a lot of money. So, I was spending a lot of time with this woman—

  Sydney:

  Her name is Collette. You can say it.

  Curtis:

  We’d finally closed on a location, and we cracked a bottle of bubbly to celebrate. Collette had some party drugs. MDMA, I think. I don’t normally partake, but I’d been under so much stress. It just sort of… happened after that.

  Ellen:

  Was it an emotional affair?

  Curtis:

  God, no. I felt nothing for her.

  Sydney:

  He seems to think that makes it better, but I think it makes it worse. If he had real feelings for Collette, maybe I could understand why he’d betray me. But this was just careless. And cruel.

  Ellen:

  It’s not uncommon for men and women to view the emotional component of an affair differently. Men tend to feel that infidelity is more forgivable if there are no feelings involved. Women are more likely to feel it’s justified if there are. Was the relationship ongoing, Curtis?

  Curtis:

  No. It was just one time. Just one huge mistake. I was drunk and high—I know that’s not an excuse, but it feels like it wasn’t even me in a way. I know what I did, and I take responsibility for it, but if I was normal, if I wasn’t so fucked-up, I would never have risked my marriage. I love Sydney so much, and I could lose her.

  Ellen:

  You seem very committed to this relationship. How do you feel, Sydney?

  Sydney:

  I don’t know… I don’t know if I can ever forgive him.

  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.”

  Sydney Cleary and Curtis Lowe, Couples’ Counseling Session

  Ellen Dwyer, Psychologist, PsyD

  July 1

  THERAPY PROGRESS NOTES—SESSION 2.

  Curtis tends to diminish his culpability for cheating (he was on drugs, stressed, drinking heavily). He’s dismissive of the other woman and her emotions. This seems to be an attempt to reassure Sydney. Or he may be trying to minimize his transgression.

  Sydney feels Curtis’s betrayal of their commitment is cavalier. His lack of feeling toward the other woman is not reassuring to her.

  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 Citroën, 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.