Chapter One

Sonder (n.): the realization that each random passerby is living a life as vivid and complex as your own

“I bought a village. In Spain.”

“You bought a Spanish villa?” Anita’s voice shrieked through the phone, and Remy pulled it away from her ear.

“No,” Remy said, willing her best friend to focus. “I said I bought a—”

“You little bitch! I knew you were up to something with your impromptu Europe trip. Okay, tell me where it is, and I’ll meet you there. I’m literally packing right now. I can’t believe you kept this from me! You are so going to pay for this, in alcohol, of course—”

“Anita!” The babbling stopped, and Remy felt safe enough to continue. “I bought a village. Not a villa.”

“What are you talking about? You can’t just buy a village.”

“It’s an abandoned property in Ortigueira. It’s made up of seven buildings that are basically falling down, but now it’s all mine.” Remy couldn’t help the hint of pride that crept into her voice when she described her own little spot of paradise. Abandoned for over one hundred years, the village was the exact opposite of a sound real estate investment.

“I’m confused. You bought a pile of bricks for your mid-life crisis instead of a vacation home we can actually use?”

“You should see it, Anita. There’s a mill, and what used to be a bakery, and a barn, and these amazing houses that I can fix up…”

“Oh God. You’re like that stupid family who bought a zoo!”

Remy pinched the bridge of her nose and tried to stave off the coming headache. “The Spanish government put all of these old properties up for sale after their economy crashed a few years ago. The village I bought was only two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”

“But what are you going to do with it?”

“I’m going to live there.” Stunned silence met Remy’s declaration, and for the first time since hiring Anita almost a decade ago, her agent was speechless. “Are you still there?” Remy asked.

“You want to leave New York? Permanently?”

“There’s nothing left for me there, Anita. And I’m not talking about Jack. I’m talking about my career. You’ve been patient with me, but I know you’re anxious for my next exhibition. I’ll be honest, I’ve gotten nothing done. My process in New York isn’t working anymore. You saw the sales from the last auction. Even my fans can tell my paintings lack the essence they used to have.”

“Remy, I know it has been a hellish past year for you, but I really don’t think running away is the answer here.” Anita’s tone lost all sense of her earlier comedic outrage and had been replaced by genuine concern.

“Anita, I don’t need to be in New York to paint. Whenever I finish a piece, I can send it back to you to put up for auction.”

“I’m not talking about your career. I’m talking about you, Remy. What is going on with you?”

“Christ, everyone knows the tragic story—you best of all. Headline news in the art world—Fairy Tale Romance Dead, Auction House Owner and Painter Split.”

“Don’t talk to me like I’m an idiot, Remy. This isn’t just about that. You haven’t been completely honest with me, and it hurts. I can’t support you if I don’t understand you.”

Anita was absolutely right. Remy hadn’t been one hundred percent honest with her friend, but she could hardly acknowledge to herself what she had done. Putting the truth into words would have made it too real, so instead she let it fester inside of her, keeping it from burdening others.

Anita, lacking imagination, probably thought it was an affair that made Remy suddenly decide to divorce Jack, her husband of fifteen years. Her friend was waiting for a confession that would never pass her lips, though, because Remy still loved Jack. The real problem was that Remy didn’t love the person she had become.

Poor Jack had been blindsided by Remy’s decision, and begged her to work things out. “Why now?” he kept asking. “What did I do?”

“Nothing,” Remy repeated. “You did nothing wrong.”

She let him keep the penthouse and moved into a studio apartment uptown. Gossip about their split, the “Golden Couple” of the New York art world, spread like wildfire through their circle. Whispers based on speculation and hearsay revolved around them for weeks, and Remy’s last gallery show provided the theatre for the showdown.

Jack had put off signing the divorce papers until the last possible minute, determined he could convince Remy to change her mind. He had shown up to the trendy warehouse without orchids, his usual gesture of good luck before a show. The phantom scent of love gone by seemed to fill the air between Remy’s paintings. Jack stood before her empty-handed, as if saying, “This is me. Am I not enough?” A lone fragment of real life that didn’t fit in among the two-dimensional worlds that Remy created on canvas.

Remy hadn’t trusted her voice, so she wordlessly handed him the manila envelope and a pen. She watched the last bit of hope die out of his eyes. They held such acute pain that the artist in Remy wished she could capture it, if only to share the tragic beauty with the world. If she could paint it, then maybe it would help her heal, too.

But she held no brush, and before she could mentally capture his expression, it was replaced with a fiery rage. Remy instinctively stepped back, and the sound of heels on hard wood echoed through the room. It broke the moment of silence that paid tribute to the end of their marriage.

It shook Jack back to his senses, and he looked down at the paperwork in his hands. Remy risked a quick glance at the clock. Her guests would be arriving soon. She held her breath and prayed that they wouldn’t be interrupted. Jack had to go through with it this time. He couldn’t keep putting it off forever. This was as good a time as any to say goodbye—their last public appearance as husband and wife.

He signed them, a hastily scribbled signature that nearly missed the line entirely. Remy exhaled, part relief and part sob. He shoved the envelope back into Remy’s hands and walked away. Before she could process what was happening, or even go after him for one last hug, the gallery doors opened, and impeccably dressed men and women of all ages poured inside. She didn’t have time to mourn and plastered on her public face. She greeted everyone with a fake smile that fooled nobody.

Remy assumed Jack had left, so she had to do a double-take two hours later when a rumpled figure wove his way through the displays toward her. She had been explaining her inspiration for a particularly dark piece to an interested reporter, who wasn’t buying into her vague, generic answers and kept pressing her for more details. The interruption was almost welcome.

A glass of whiskey sloshed in Jack’s hand as he glared at her with red-rimmed eyes. “You,” he slurred, and an entire room full of people in tuxedos and ball gowns fell silent. This was the showdown they had all been waiting for, the real reason attendance was more than double what it had been the previous year. Everyone wanted a front-row seat to watch the drama unfold.

Remy stood tall amid the unwanted attention. Jack stopped in front of her, took a deep breath, and looked ready to let her have it. She regarded him for just a moment, less than a foot of space between them, and calmly turned and walked out of her own art show.

“Hey! I’m not done,” Jack shouted behind her.

But I am, Remy thought. She kept on going. The sea of people parted in front of her, their faces all a blur. If I stay, it will destroy him. For her sake and his, she needed to leave. Divorce was not enough to put distance between them. Jack would always try to come back. She feared that, eventually, she would let him.

Once outside, she hailed a taxi and ordered the driver back to her apartment so she could pick up her passport and credit cards. There was nothing else she wanted to pack. It all reminded her of a life she wanted to leave behind. Remy turned off the lights and left the door unlocked, the burden of material possessions lifting as she mentally let them go.

She hadn’t bothered to change, and still wore her floor-length red dress when she arrived at the airport.

The attendant jumped when Remy slammed her card down on the counter. He looked up, an annoyed expression on his face until he saw the desperation etched in the woman’s features.

“Get me as far away from here as you can,” Remy said.

Tens of thousands of travelers had come through his line over the years, but he could remember the faces of the few who were truly running away. All were the tragic heroes of their own stories, ones with endings he would never know. He held up a finger while he typed on his computer. “We have a plane leaving for Madrid in an hour.”

“Perfect.”

****

Escaping. That was what Remy had always done. Escaping from Louisiana, and then New York. First from her family, then her marriage, and now her career. Remy always pushed forward, on to the next without looking back.

That screaming feeling of “get out now” finally stopped the minute she stepped foot onto that Madrid plaza. She was quiet inside, and she wondered how long it would last before the compulsion to run pulled her onward again.

The Spanish sun beat down on her head where she stood, wobbling a little in her high heels. An unexpected feeling of familiarity surprised her as she looked around. Why would a Louisiana girl feel at home in Spain? She didn’t even speak Spanish, for Christ’s sake. Nope, fate had not played a hand in deciding her trip. She knew that with absolute certainty. The first available flight had been the first available flight, nothing more. She hadn’t made a wish, she was certain of that.

Trial and error had taught her a harsh lesson growing up. She learned never to make a selfish wish for herself, and how to clamp down hard on any personal desires that snuck their way into her brain. There were always unintended consequences and factors that Remy couldn’t control whenever she uttered those forbidden words—I wish…

Her nana had understood. The only person who believed the barefoot, dirty, tear-stained girl who came running up the road spinning a wild tale of the family dog’s recovered health while her brother was taken to the hospital. Nana saw the truth only a life spent on the Bayou could rationalize, and helped explain it to a frightened six-year-old.

“Remington, this is a curse. Inside your blood. Meddlin’ with life and affectin’ the give and take. You’re messin’ with the balance of things. It’s unnatural, it’s what it is. Promise me, girl, you won’t tell nobody ’bout this, what you think you did. Nana will protect ya. Folks ’round here migh’ think you got the devil inside of ya. Best keep yer mouth shut about it, but you can’t do it again.”

Who was Remy to question it? Any explanation was better than no explanation at all, and her nana’s reasoning at least gave her some small measure of control. And she didn’t do it again. Or at least, she tried, but sometimes the words just slipped out.

Remy tried to fit into her small town, and even though the rest of the populace didn’t know about her curse, they still found her to be “other.” Too strange, too proper, too curious for her own good. Wanting to know about music instead of fishing, reading instead of watching football.

Life was spent staying out of the way while her father drank and her mother took care of Jameson in between shifts at the diner. Remy’s brother never fully recovered from his time at the hospital, and doctors said that the fever had addled his brain. He walked slow and talked slow, even by the town’s standard. Remy tried to help her mother and her brother, but it was like Jameson knew that his sister was to blame for his condition. He screamed and swung at Remy when she got too close, and so there was nothing for her to do but find a creative way to escape. She spent hours locked away in her room, scribbling away with whatever nub of crayon she had pocketed from school or splintered pencil she had found on the ground. While she sketched, she dreamed of all the places she could run away to, but oddly enough, Spain had never captured her imagination. Until now.

****

Remy spotted a cafe that looked open, despite it being the siesta hour. With a purposeful stride, she crossed the square and sat down at an outdoor table. As she waited for a waitress to come by so she could order a much-needed glass of wine, another shop front caught her eye.

BIENES RAÍCES, the sign read. I wonder what that means, she thought.

“¿Puedo ayudarle?” A voice next to Remy startled her back to her location.

“Um, English? Do you speak English?”

“Sí. You are American?”

“Yes, I just arrived an hour ago.” The waitress eyed Remy’s clothing and lack of luggage but said nothing. “Can I have a glass of wine? Red, please. Whatever you have is fine.”

“Of course. Anything else?”

“Actually, yes. Can you tell me what ‘beenes races’ means?”

The waitress looked like she was trying not to laugh. “¿Perdón? What?” Red-faced, Remy pointed at the sign across from where she was sitting. “Oh. I think it is, how you say, estate? Real estate? Houses, no?”

“Okay, thank you. Sorry for the confusion.”

As Remy sipped her wine and stared at what had to be the closed sign on the door of a real estate office, she thought about how excited she and Jack had been when they rented their first apartment together. They had budgeted and planned, deciding which room to dedicate as her paint studio and which room would be a nursery.

It had been everything Remy thought she wanted, until she started to feel like a stranger in her own home. That’s when she insisted that they move. Forward, always running forward. Jack put up with her insane desire to uproot many more times over the years, and they moved five more times until they ended up in the penthouse. He put his foot down after that. Remy still left.

To shake herself free from delving too far into difficult memories, Remy left her almost-empty glass on the table along with a few bills and started toward the office.

The inside of the window was plastered with single-page flyers. They each tried to crowd to the front, saying “Pick me! Buy me! Rent me!” The desperation of a collapsed housing market stood out clearly amid the chaos. Remy’s eyes flitted from photo to photo in the enormous collage. She wondered where the families that used to occupy these homes had gone. From apartments to farmhouses, family legacies had been abandoned all over the country as people left their small towns in search of work and opportunity.

Most listings were average-sized, though a little smaller than the typical middle-class American home. The photos had a richness, though, a sense of history and culture that the high rises back in New York would never possess. They were cheap, too, if Remy interpreted the numbers at the bottoms of the flyers correctly. They were either prices or phone numbers. Either way, almost everything would be less expensive than her studio back in the city.

Back in the city. Not “back home.” It wasn’t home. But here, in the country where she felt at peace for the first time since she could remember, maybe this could be home. What would it smell like? Could she hear her neighbors? Walk to the market? Would she have enough space for her canvases? But none of them felt like the right fit as her imagination wandered through the listings.

Still lost in the flyers, the jingle of keys to her left alerted Remy to the arrival of the shopkeeper.

“Please, come in. I can help you find what you are looking for,” the owner said in a crisp English accent. With ash gray hair and ruddy pink cheeks, she moved with precision that made her look years younger than she must be. Remy felt like she already knew the woman’s story—a second chance at a life far away from her rainy homeland. A woman who refused to surrender to arthritis and the sedentary stability of retirement.

“You looked lost staring at the window. I knew you must be a foreigner. Not sure where to begin? Have a seat, and we’ll get you sorted.”

Remy passed into air-conditioned comfort and sank into the guest chair across from a cluttered desk. She could already feel the blisters forming on her feet after almost twenty-four hours in her eight-hundred-dollar shoes. Why had she paid eight hundred dollars for shoes that she always regretted the next day? Why did she continue to wear them if they hurt her so badly?

“American looking for a holiday home here?”

A lump formed in Remy’s throat, and she didn’t trust herself to speak. She shook her head and tried to swallow.

Understanding dawned on the owner’s face, and she reached across the desk to grip Remy’s left hand, encompassing the ring tan line that refused to fade. “You can tell a lot about a person by their hands, you know,” the older woman said. “You have strong hands; you will be okay.”

Remy looked down at her nails, bitten off to the quick to avoid getting paint stuck underneath them. That was the excuse she always gave Jack. The real reason was that she used to stuff her fingers in her mouth as a child to stop herself from accidentally saying the words Nana told her never to say. I wish…Old habits were hard to break.

“I’m Maggie, by the way.”

“Remy,” she whispered. Then she cleared her throat and pulled her hands into her lap. Sitting up tall, she said, “I’m looking for something a bit more permanent than a vacation home, I think.”

“Did you see anything in the window that struck your fancy?”

“I’m not really sure…”

Maggie peered at her for a long time, and Remy shifted in her seat.

“None of these are for you,” Maggie declared, gesturing to the window. “You want something more, am I right? You are an old soul. I can see that.” Maggie rummaged through her stacks of loose papers and stuffed folders. The digital age was about two decades late in here. Remy thought she even saw a Macintosh computer in the corner.

Maggie spun around, holding a manila envelope. “How about something unexpected?”

“What do you mean?” Remy asked, confused by the question.

“Would you like to buy a village?”

****

The next day, Maggie and Remy drove six hours northwest to Galicia. Fortified with new, sensible clothes and a good night’s sleep, Remy felt ready to tackle her next journey. Forward. Always forward. Don’t look back. She had left her red dress in a silken heap on the hotel floor. The shoes she had thrown off the balcony.

“I have yet to see this property myself,” Maggie told her as they started their road trip. If it was considered weird to road trip with your real estate agent, Remy didn’t care. Being with Maggie felt a little like having her nana back. She was brutally honest, intuitive, and knew when not to talk.

“How did you find out about it, then?” Remy asked.

“A friend of mine is a real estate agent in the province of Coruña. He’s had this listing for months and been unable to find anyone interested. He thought I might have better luck in Madrid. There are not a lot of people in these smaller provinces anymore. It is hard to find buyers outside of a big city.” Maggie let another car whiz by them on the highway, content to take her time. “Everyone is in such a bloody rush these days,” she muttered, then continued. “You’re the first person I’ve shown it to, matter of fact. I just knew that the right person would come along for it.”

Maggie’s words gave Remy pause, and she wondered if she was just another dumb tourist about to be suckered into a bad deal. Maggie seemed so genuine, though, that Remy felt guilty for doubting her.

“Any Spanish ancestors, Remy?” Maggie asked, distracting Remy from her negative thoughts.

“I don’t know,” she confessed. “My heritage is kind of messed up. My momma’s side is Irish, and my daddy’s is German, or so he claims. But I don’t think it applies to me anyway.”

“You can’t find out?”

Remy sighed. “I don’t think my dad is really my dad. Though my momma will swear that he is until the day she dies.”

“I just thought with your coloring”—she gestured to Remy’s dark hair and dark eyes—“that there might be some in your blood.”

“Maybe,” Remy answered. It all came back to the blood. Curses and wishes in stifling nights when the air hung so thick that each breath felt like drowning…Remy unrolled the window and inhaled. The fresh scents calmed her, and her heartbeat slowed. I’m not in Louisiana. I’m in Spain. Desperate to change the subject from her past, Remy asked, “Where are we meeting your friend?”

“We will pick him up in Ortigueira. It’s the nearest town to your village. It’s small, less than ten thousand people live there. He will show us the way to the property. It is up near the Port of Espasante.”

Remy was pretty sure there were more than ten thousand people crammed into her block in New York. If I buy the place, I’ll be the outsider again. Then she laughed to herself. If she became the crazy old American who lived in the hills and painted on everything, then so be it. It didn’t matter what people thought of her anymore.

“We’re almost there,” Maggie said, and she exited the main highway. They both remained silent until they reached the town and picked up Sebastian. From then on, there was not a moment of quiet in the car.

Maggie’s friend turned out to be the most enthusiastic person Remy had ever met, and she’d spent fifteen years reining in Anita. His boundless energy was only held in check by Maggie’s serene confidence, and Remy was more than happy to move to the back seat while the two of them caught up.

Maggie navigated the narrow, winding streets while carrying on a conversation in rapid Spanish. Tuning them out, Remy focused on the scenery whizzing by her window.

Ortigueira was adorable, there was no other way to put it. Restaurants and bars lined cobbled streets, and most everyone was on foot. It had a small-town charm to it, but it was a mix of old and new. Repurposed historical buildings were now banks, offices, and courthouses. Among the whitewashed buildings and sparse palm trees, Remy also saw evidence of gastropubs and trendy cafes among the traditional architecture. As soon as she blinked, though, they were through the town. Already? Remy thought, disappointed. Maggie wasn’t kidding when she said it was small.

Her disappointment soon turned to excitement when Maggie turned up a dirt road. They bounced up a drive that was almost three miles long. Just when Remy started to get carsick, Sebastian turned around to look at her with a huge smile.

“Close your eyes, close your eyes!” Sebastian demanded. To humor him, Remy pretended to do so, but squinted through the windshield anyway.

“Okay, okay! Get ready, Señorita.” Sebastian slammed his door shut and opened Remy’s with a flourish. “This—” He paused dramatically. “—is your new home!”

Remy opened her eyes fully, slid out of her seat, and nearly fell back into it again. Maggie, misunderstanding Remy’s astounded reaction, was quick to jump in.

“Many of the buildings will need to be fixed up to become structurally sound. But the grounds are extensive, and you have your own well—”

The last time Remy had cried was three years ago in the doctor’s office. She hadn’t even shed a tear when she told Jack she wanted a divorce. But seeing the village for the first time unlocked a flood gate.

Tears streamed down her face as she took in the entirety of what would become hers. In that moment, she saw it all, restored to a new glory. Be mine, the village whispered. I can give you everything you’ve ever wanted. The desire Remy felt was intoxicating. It dug into the deepest recesses of her heart and turned her inside out. She couldn’t have walked away from it even if she wanted to.

It showed her a dozen children scattered among the buildings, laughing as they bantered in front of their easels. The smell of turpentine paint was on the wind. Remy watched herself weave through the students, gently coaxing the masterpieces flowing from their brushes.

An art school. For all the talented kids who needed to escape their small towns and see the world. She would foster a new generation of creativity. The image was so clear she rubbed her eyes to make sure it wasn’t real yet. This village held the answers that she had been desperately searching for, a way to find her purpose. It seemed to know just what to show her to hit all the right chords.

And underneath the pull she felt, Remy sensed a terrible loneliness coming from the property. It wanted to be loved and would promise anything it could not to be alone any more. “We are two of a kind, aren’t we?” Remy whispered.

“Mi amor, why do you cry?” Sebastian wrung his hands together and shared a glance with Maggie.

Remy smiled through her ruined makeup. “I want to see the rest.”