Chapter Four

When Remy opened her eyes again, she didn’t recognize where she was, but the headache was familiar—wine hangover. There was nothing else like it.

Shit. What was I thinking? Remy remembered being confused and upset while drunk, and somehow she’d had the bright idea to go jogging to sober up. “I guess it worked,” she groaned, and sat up. It had probably been the combination of her exercise and her impromptu nap. But how exactly did I end up sleeping in the dirt?

The outline of a man stepped into view. “Damn it, Jack, I told you to go away,” Remy said. Obviously, her ex-husband had gotten turned around on the singular path that led to town and ended up walking in circles around her property. The man could organize a stock portfolio in mere hours, but God forbid anyone give him a map or directions.

“I swear to God, Jack, I’m done having this conversation.”

“Buenas tardes, Señora,” the man said.

Okay, not Jack. Just a strange man on my property. Don’t panic. “Who the hell are you?” Remy said. She refused to be afraid, even though the sun was about to go down, this man had knocked her out, and there was nobody else around for miles. She struggled to her knees, hoping it would make her look and feel less vulnerable than being slumped on the ground.

The man bent down and extended a polite hand. “Lo siento,” he said. I’m sorry. The words translated themselves in Remy’s consciousness without a pause. Huh, maybe my complete Spanish immersion is starting to work. That thought gave her some comfort as she eyed his hand warily.

It was strong and tanned, though the remnants of old cuts had left a chaotic pattern of white scars. A laborer’s hand. Her gaze followed up his arm, where he was wearing a somewhat billowy white shirt, open in a V at the chest, and a plain vest. His hair was a riot of dark curls, surrounding a lean, sun-weathered face. When Remy’s eyes finally saw his, she relaxed just a bit. His warm brown eyes held nothing but concern as they looked at her.

“What are you doing on my property?” she asked, but took his proffered hand, and he hauled her to her feet. She swayed a bit, feeling the effects of her drunken afternoon more heavily than usual. When she felt steady enough, she let go.

“You must have hit your head hard,” he answered. “Are you lost? Is that why you were running?” Again, Remy understood him perfectly, even though she was pretty sure he wasn’t speaking English.

“I apologize for the collision,” he said, giving her a little bow of his head. “I was on my way up from my beach walk. It was my fault; my head was lost in the clouds.”

Did he just say beach walk? “Can you show me how to get down there?”

He tilted his head. “Simply follow the path. It is steep, but take care and you will be safe. I can escort you, if you wish.”

“I looked and looked last time I was here, but never found a way down.”

“Then I will show you myself,” he said. “Forgive my rudeness, I have yet to introduce myself. My name is Bieito.”

“Nice to meet you, Bieito. I’m Remy.” She held out her hand, and Bieito seemed surprised. He took it gently in his own, but Remy gave it two firm shakes. His eyebrows shot up.

“You are not Galician,” he said.

“No, I’m American. I just moved here. You haven’t heard about me in town? You must be the only person who hasn’t. Apparently, I’ve been the hot gossip around here, though I can’t understand why. I’m really not that interesting, and mostly keep to myself—”

“You speak very strangely.” Then, realizing what he had said out loud, Bieito blushed. “Pardon me. I have never met an American before. Your Spanish is very good, especially for a foreigner.”

Remy laughed. “Okay, buddy. You don’t have to suck up that much. I don’t care that you’re trespassing. I was just surprised to see you.”

He looked confused, and Remy got the distinct impression that they weren’t on the same page, much less the same book. Her unexpected guest was too polite to try to clarify their conversation, so he gestured to the end of the trail where the trees thinned. “Come, this way. I shall walk you down to the beach. A lady like yourself should not be unaccompanied so close to sundown anyway.”

Once the pair stood side by side on the cliff, Remy inhaled the salty smell of the bay and sighed with contentment. The breeze washed away the last of her nightmare from earlier, and the hangover loosened its grip.

Bieito had been watching Remy’s face transform into pure joy. “I spend all day on the water, yet I still come down here to think. It is a good place to be alone,” he said.

“You won’t mind sharing your beach with a stranger?”

Bieito gave her a shy smile. “If it has been calling to you this much, then you belong down there as much as I do.”

“That’s exactly how I felt when I arrived at my village! It called to me, and I couldn’t say no. It was the oddest feeling.”

“Galicia is the place for miracles. Ask and you shall receive.”

“That’s what I am most afraid of,” Remy muttered. “Now, where is this secret way down?”

Much to Remy’s shock, Bieito pointed to a path carved into the cliff. It was hidden behind a boulder and began a few feet down from the edge. How did I miss that before? she wondered, peering at the treacherous descent. Driftwood poles poked up every few feet, strung with thick rope to serve as a flimsy guardrail.

Bieito jumped down, light as a cat, and turned to look up at Remy. “I will catch you,” he said.

“Here it goes,” she said, and stepped off the ledge. Just as he had promised, Bieito caught her waist securely and set her down, releasing her immediately when both her feet were planted. “That wasn’t so bad,” she said, smoothing her hair down and trying to appear nonchalant. Getting back up would be another story, and Remy suspected that it would include a lot of awkward scrambling.

“Your American style—it is much easier to move around in men’s clothing, no?” Bieito observed.

“I’m a jeans and t-shirt kind of girl,” Remy said, thinking it a bit odd that he would comment on her clothing. She knew she wasn’t as dressed up or fancy as a lot of the Spanish women she had seen out in Ortigueira. Still, her outfits didn’t stand out that much in town. There were plenty of other women who wore shorts and tennis shoes. Remy looked down at her stained work shirt and ripped jeans. Her original plan for the day had involved a lot more work with a wheelbarrow and a lot less work with her ex-husband, a wine bottle, and an unexpected 5k run. No wonder Bieito thought she was lost and most likely deranged.

“Follow me, and watch your step,” he instructed, and started down the slope. Remy trailed after him, grateful that he kept looking back over his shoulder to check on her. He gave her a reassuring smile.

Bieito looked like someone who spent the majority of his time outdoors, but it was difficult to discern his age. Remy suspected he had to be around her own, though. He didn’t seem like a cocky twenty-something, nor a middle-aged man who fought aches and pains as a normal part of life. There was a timeless quality about Bieito, a grace in the way he held himself. He was confident without the swagger, and seemingly polite to a fault. He didn’t seem to mind that Remy had overthrown his plans for the rest of the day. He was, in fact, eager to help her out.

To fill the silence on their way down, Remy asked, “Do you live nearby?”

“Yes, in the village up the hill, but I work out of the port.”

“Porto de Espasante?” The place that Maggie had warned Remy about—rough fisherman in an industrial community. She couldn’t picture Bieito there.

“Yes, my father, brother, and I.” He seemed strangely reluctant to talk about his work, so Remy decided to change the subject.

“I’m an artist,” she volunteered. “Or, was. Kind of. It’s up in the air right now.”

“An artist! Why are you not in Barcelona? Or even Madrid? Ortigueira is a strange place for one such as yourself.”

“But it’s the place for miracles, right? And I need a miracle.”

They finally stepped into the narrow strip of sand, their feet disappearing as they sank into the softness. Bieito offered her his arm. “I got it,” she assured him. Laughing, she kicked off her shoes and ran toward the water.

Icy, clear waves ran over her tired feet, soothing them up to her ankles. New energy flowed through her, and Remy wanted to immerse herself completely in the water. She longed to let it float her away on its whims and be controlled only by the tides. But she would have to be satisfied with a foot baptism instead, as her toes soon grew too numb to stand it any longer. She regretfully exited the water, but as a slightly new and improved version of herself. Bieito still stood on the shore, watching Remy splash back to him. He was clutching something around his neck.

When Remy reached him, she asked, “What’s that?”

“Pardon?”

“Around your neck. A cross?”

Bieito unclenched is fingers and held a necklace out for Remy to see. It was a pure white scallop shell on a leather thong. “This is the token of the travelers on the Way of Saint James. Surely you must have seen it before?”

That shell did look familiar, but Remy hadn’t seen it on a necklace. “All Camino travelers wear it?”

“Most do. It shows that all roads lead to Saint James, no matter where you start. It represents the paths we choose to walk because we all have many ways of getting to the same destination. The important thing is to pick a path and see it through to the end.”

“Where did you get yours? On the trail?”

He smiled at her. “I picked mine up on this very beach. It called out to me.”

Leaving Remy to contemplate his words, Bieito walked up to where the waves crashed onto the sand and picked up a floating stick. Absentmindedly, he began to sketch something on the ground. Before Remy could see what it was, saltwater erased it.

“Do you draw, too?” Remy asked.

Bieito shrugged. “For my own amusement, sometimes,” he confessed. He shoved the stick in Remy’s direction. “You are the artist,” he said. “Draw a picture for the sea.”

Remy stared down at the tool in her hand, so similar to the thousands of sketch pencils she had held over the years, but it felt more foreign than it had any right to be. It was like she had suddenly lost the ability to walk.

She tried to empty her mind to conjure up her picture, to let her hands move freely as they brought an image to life, but she still saw nothing. There was a deep emptiness inside of her, a void that she could neither bridge nor fill. “I can’t,” she said, and dropped the stick onto the ground. Turning away from Bieito so he wouldn’t see the tears in her eyes, Remy took a few deep breaths.

I’m acting like a child. Worse, she realized, because a child can poke a stick into the sand. It shouldn’t be such a big deal! But it was a big deal, and only getting worse as the paralysis took hold of Remy more frequently. Pretty soon I will be afraid to write my name.

“I did not mean to upset you.” Bieito’s hand came to rest on her shoulder. “It was for fun. I apologize if I put pressure—”

Remy let out a harsh laugh. “No more than I put on myself, Bieito.” She turned to look at him, not caring that her face was now red and blotchy.

“I will draw something to cheer you up,” he declared. “I will make you smile again!” He bowed to her gallantly and picked up the stick. “Behold, the masterpiece,” he said, and got to work. With a few quick strokes, it soon became apparent that Bieito was drawing some kind of animal. A little snout and a curly tail—

“A pig!” It was cute, almost cartoonish.

“I must not be as terrible as I feared if you can recognize it.” As soon as Bieito said that, his drawing was washed away. “The sea gives me many chances to practice.”

Remy thought about what it would be like to have her paintings just disappear. To work for days or weeks, perfecting the color and brushstroke, only to be left with nothing at the end. What would she create if she knew it wouldn’t hang upon a wall forever? An exercise in skill without reward. Each painting would stand alone and only exist for a brief amount of time. Wouldn’t that make each piece all the more precious?

Where would my canvases go when they disappeared? Pictures in the sand returned to the sea. Maybe her creations on canvas would dissipate back into the universe, their energy dispersed into the cosmos, like her babies had been. She liked to imagine that her paintings would join her babies somewhere.

“I’ll try your way,” Remy finally said, hand outstretched for the stick. She stood on the waterline, ensuring that her picture would be short-lived. Closing her eyes, she searched for a good memory. She settled on her first morning after deciding to buy the village.

With hesitant strokes, Remy sketched a small figure, what a person might look like from far away. Then with ever-increasing confidence, her strokes created a cliff-side, adding depth and dimension with broader movements. Before Remy could decide whether or not the figure in her picture was about to jump, the cold salt water hit the back of her legs, and the picture was gone.

Remy felt a flash of irritation, and then immense joy. She looked up at Bieito with a big grin on her face. For a few successful minutes, she had lost herself in her picture. “You’re right—this is fun.”

“Did you draw what was in your heart?”

“I think I did.” Triumphant with her tiny breakthrough, Remy threw the stick back into the bay. That was enough for now. She also realized that this was the first time in years she had allowed anyone to see her draw. Usually she was only able to create behind closed doors. Bieito had allowed her to work in peace but was still an encouraging presence all the same.

“I am envious that you found your purpose in life,” Bieito said. “You do what makes you happy.”

“And you don’t? You don’t like fishing?”

He gave Remy a wry smile. “I try to find happiness. Sometimes little glimpses are enough. I am drawn to the sea, but for reasons other than fishing. Still, a man must support his family any way he can.”

His unexpected statement jolted Remy. “You’re married?” she asked, internally chastising herself for being so surprised. He was handsome and kind and sweet—of course he would be married.

“No, I’m not. But I help my family in any way that I can.”

“And you help me.” Remy meant for her statement to be a lighthearted joke, but it sounded more like a whispered confession. The romantic sunset splashed their faces with soft pink light, illuminating their serious expressions. Bieito stared at her, but neither one of them moved any closer. Remy broke first, looking away and clearing her throat. That snapped Bieito out of his trance and he shielded his eyes with his hand.

“The sun will be down soon. I should escort you back to your home.”

“Oh, that isn’t necessary. It is a long walk from the cliff, and you should get back before dark too.”

“What kind of a man would I be if I let you walk home alone?”

Remy could see that there was no dissuading him, so after one last, longing glance at the stunning backdrop, she started her hike. Bieito followed behind her this time. Remy was sweating by the time she finally reached the top and prepared herself to scramble over the last few vertical feet. She felt Bieito’s hands grip her waist and give her a boost.

Stepping back to allow Bieito space to climb up, she watched as he basically leaped hands-free onto solid ground.

“Which way to your lodging?” he asked. “Or, you can always accompany me to supper at my village,” he offered shyly.

Remy shook her head. “I’d better be getting back. Raincheck? Maybe next time.” She hesitated, wondering if she should ask her next question. “When can I see you again?” Time with Bieito would keep her mind off Jack.

“Sunday. Where can I find you?”

“Why don’t you just give me your number?” Remy said, reaching down to pull out her phone. Looking down, she quickly typed in her passcode. When she looked up, Bieito was no longer in front of her.

What the hell? “Bieito? Bieito! This isn’t funny.” Remy searched her surroundings to see where he could have disappeared to. The only footprints up on the bluff were her own. Maybe he went back down to the beach before saying goodbye. She ran to the edge and skidded to a stop. There was nothing underneath her. The path was no longer there.

Pulse racing from her near miss, Remy rubbed her eyes to clear her vision. The sun had almost set, casting odd shadows that tricked her mind. It would be dark soon, and Remy had no desire to stumble back to the village without a flashlight.

Not in the mood to humiliate herself even further, Remy decided to preserve what was left of her dignity and walk away. He probably didn’t really want to meet up with me later. He was just being polite until he could slip away. She wasn’t about to go running after some man who couldn’t be bothered to say a proper goodbye.

Did I give off a needy vibe? Remy wondered. It had been so nice to talk about art and life with someone her own age, who knew nothing about her past. And what had she done? Started crying because she couldn’t draw in the dirt with a stick.

Squaring her shoulders, Remy turned her back and marched home. The rooftops of the village were the first to greet her, and she was relieved to find that they were back to the same almost-collapsed state she had grown to love. Passing the barn, she was thankful to see that there were no wagon ruts though the dirt. The bakery no longer smelled like fresh bread and had her wheelbarrow parked out front. There were no sheets hanging from the windows of the main house, but the next sight made her stop in her tracks. The confidence that Remy felt at regaining her sanity vanished.

The door to the main house was painted bright red.

****

Remy thought she was still hallucinating the next morning when she saw a familiar face come up the road. She had been sitting at her campsite drinking coffee and looking at the surrounding houses, pondering which structure would be least-likely to collapse on her if she decided to move into one of them. The main house had a lot of questionable beams holding up the second floor, so that was out. It needed additional help from a professional contractor. The smallest house, a cottage, really, near the bakery seemed like the most likely bet.

It was just big enough for one person, maybe two, to live comfortably. She pictured a front porch to incorporate some indoor-outdoor living space for the simple home. Put a comfortable chair and a little side table for my coffee…Who am I kidding—the table will be for my wine. All that and a good book. It will be nice to have a roof over my head again.

It wasn’t that she didn’t enjoy camping. She really had loved sleeping outside for the last few weeks, but she was living in canvas walls while surrounded by buildings that she already owned. The mid-day heat was beginning to drive her crazy, and stone walls would be cooler. And an indoor shower—God what a luxury that would be!

This morning it was finally decided—Remy would tackle the little cottage as her next big project instead of trying to spread her efforts around the village. She ignored the voice in her head that pointed out that she was just too chicken to go near the main house or the bakery after her “break from reality,” to put it tactfully. It wasn’t necessarily what she saw that scared her, but the fact that she had hallucinated something so real. The power of her mind frightened her in the way that it had completely taken over her senses, and she felt like she couldn’t trust herself anymore. It was a completely different feeling than getting lost in a painting. Her hallucinations felt like a hostile takeover of her own being.

And speaking of hostile takeovers, one was coming up the road right then. “That’s far enough, Jack,” Remy called out to him. “I told you not to come back.”

“I came to help.” Jack’s deep timbre reverberated through the empty streets and reached Remy as loudly as if he had been standing right next to her.

Remy felt her blood begin to boil. What was it with Jack that he refused to take no for an answer? While it had been charming when they had been dating, albeit less so when they were married, his stubbornness had apparently reached new heights while divorced. He pretended to listen, nodded along, said all the right things, but when it came down to it, Jack did what Jack wanted to do.

And now he was here again, stomping all over her sanctuary. The last thing she wanted was memories of him imbedded in the construction of her fresh start. Yes, she had had a moment of weakness the day before in bringing him here, and yes, part of her still wanted him. But he had officially gone too far.

When Jack got close enough for Remy to see what he was wearing, she burst out laughing. He’d had the audacity to go out and buy brand-new work clothes and shown up looking like an overgrown Bob the Builder. His construction worker’s costume even consisted of a mostly-empty tool belt with a sole hammer sitting jauntily on his hip. His jeans were pressed, and his boots didn’t have a speck of dirt on them. He carried a hard hat in the crook of his arm, preventing any chance of hat hair.

When Remy finally regained control of her giggles, Jack stood right in front of her, with a frown on his face and hands on his hips.

“Jack. I just have one question—Can you fix it? No. You. Can’t.”

“Remy…” Of course, he didn’t get the joke.

She sighed. “Leave.”

“Now just listen.” Jack held up his hands as if to touch her, but wisely ran them through his hair instead. “I thought a lot about what you said yesterday.”

I’ll bet you did, Remy thought. That’s exactly why you’re here this morning after I told you not to come back. You thought about it and did exactly what you wanted. What Jack wanted was to swoop in and be the hero, the way he had dazzled a small-town girl so many years ago. But Remy was the villain in his story, not the damsel in distress; he just didn’t know it. She sure as hell didn’t need any saving from him.

“This village is important to you.” No shit. “I should be more supportive. So here’s the plan—we fix it up together.”

“‘No’ is a complete sentence, Jack.”

“Hey, I’m not trying to get you to move back to New York anymore, am I?”

“What do you want, a cookie?”

“I want you to take the help of a friend.” His emphasis on the word was the last straw for Remy. She didn’t know whether to be furious or insulted that he thought so little of her intelligence. She was a master manipulator, something she wasn’t proud of most days, but this effort was just pathetic.

If Jack wouldn’t have an adult conversation with her, then maybe her actions would be enough to get the point across. Remy fixed him with an icy stare and turned her back on him.

“Where are you going?”

“By the time I get back, I want you off my property.” Remy straddled her moped, parked in the same place she’d almost crashed it yesterday. She jammed the helmet onto her head and started the engine, wishing it was a motorcycle or something that sounded the least bit intimidating. The whine of three horsepower would have to do the trick.

Leaving a dumbfounded ex-husband in her cloud of dust, Remy yelled over her shoulder, “Don’t touch anything!” She was halfway to town when she looked down at the full basket of groceries perched on her handlebars. Damn it. She’d forgotten to unload everything last night after her encounter with Bieito. Due to the fact that she also still wore the sweats she slept in, hadn’t brushed her teeth, and wasn’t wearing a bra, Remy decided to avoid the most populated parts of Ortigueira.

Skirting down side streets with no real destination in mind, Remy tried her best to forget about Jack. How long should I stay out? she wondered. It depended on how long it would take Jack to give up his efforts at the village. So, probably not long.

As she whizzed past the northern part of town, a light purple building caught her eye. The parking lot was empty, as it was still very early. Remy pulled into a space and killed her engine. A sign read ‘Biblioteca’. That’s book store, right? Or library? Either way, it would be a good place for her to kill some time. She could disappear among the stacks and read all day, and no one would bother her.

Remy started to get excited at such an unexpected but relaxing way to spend the day and bounded up the few steps to the entrance. She pulled hard on the handle. Locked. The hours of operation weren’t listed, probably because everyone in the small town had them memorized. Remy would just have to be patient.

Stomach growling, Remy returned to her moped and dug through the basket. Moving aside wilted lettuce and an avocado that had become overly ripe in the sun yesterday, Remy found a couple of gorgeously plump oranges. Reclining on the steps, she dug into the peel, and the fresh scent of citrus erupted around her. For a moment, the fruity spray on her face felt like the spray of saltwater.

In all her confusion about Bieito’s disappearing act, followed by Jack’s unwelcome presence, Remy forgot to marvel at the fact that she had sketched. Somehow, talking with Bieito had loosened something inside of her that no one else had been able to. Even though he had left so rudely, Remy knew that they weren’t finished with each other. She still needed him. He could be the key to pushing past her artistic block altogether.

Should I go to the port and try to find him? No, too stalkery. Maybe she could ask around town instead. She didn’t know his last name, but Bieito didn’t sound like a common name. Plus, she knew where he worked. That would narrow it down a bit.

As her strategizing kicked in, Remy felt ashamed at her selfish motives. Be my friend because I need your help. Yeah, that was a sure way to convince Bieito that she was a good person. Remy knew that ultimately he would become another casualty in her path of destruction. Perhaps he could sense that she was a ticking time bomb, and ran away yesterday before he was drawn in so deep he couldn’t escape.

A little old man on a bicycle broke Remy out of her negative thoughts. He gave her a small nod as he dismounted and chained up his bike. He started speaking to her in rapid Spanish, and Remy didn’t understand a word of it. So much for thinking I’ve immersed myself. It turned out that her communication with Bieito must have been a fluke, or the result of hitting her head. Whatever the cause, she reverted to a wide-eyed freshman in Spanish 101 with this gentleman.

“Hola!” she said, stopping the man mid-sentence. His eyes grew wide as he realized she had missed the entire conversation. He gestured to the door of the building, pointing at her, and then back at the door.

“Yes, please!” Remy said, nodding and smiling.

The man’s wrinkled face didn’t crack a smile as he shuffled up the worn stone steps. He pulled a key out of a deep vest pocket, unlocking the door before gesturing to Remy rather impatiently. Well, come on then! he seemed to say. It must be an emergency if you’ve been waiting for me all morning.

The cool, dark interior smelled of musty paper. The man disappeared to turn on the lights, and in the flood of illumination Remy easily determined that she was inside the town library. He returned to see what she needed so urgently.

Remy cleared her throat. “Ah, sorry,” she said. “Just want to look around.” She pointed around all the stacks and threw her hands up in the air like, “I don’t know!” If old men were in the habit of rolling their eyes, Remy was certain that’s what he would have done. Instead, he shrugged and left her alone.

She meandered through the shelves until she found a very small section with English titles. Most were travel guides, though the entire collection of Harry Potter also took up some room among other world-famous titles. There was nothing that Remy hadn’t read before, and she felt a little disappointed. She was hoping to pick up some DIY books on construction or gardening, and this little library didn’t carry anything like that. At least, nothing in English. Maybe I can find some in Spanish and follow the pictures. Like Ikea furniture.

After walking over to what looked like the non-fiction section, she began pulling out hardback books at random and flipping through them. “Yes!” she exclaimed, then remembered she was in a library. The book she held in her hand looked like a cross between a history book and an architecture guide, a perfect reference for restoring old buildings. Tucking it under her arm, she continued her search.

Getting deeper into the history section, Remy knew she wasn’t going to find any modern guides, but the hauntingly beautiful pictures drew her in. That same feeling of elegant melancholy compelled her to purchase the village. As she worked her way further back, there were even photos of the 1800s, gritty black and white snapshots of hard faces with laborious day-to-day lives.

These might be people who lived in my village! Remy thought, excited. The next book she picked up seemed more like a scrapbook. It was filled with yellowed papers covered in elegant script and long-faded newspaper clippings. This book was older than the rest. She carefully turned each page until two were stuck together in the middle.

Remy set the book down on a table, and inch by inch peeled the pages apart. Between them lay a small sketch of a woman in profile. Why, we could be sisters, Remy thought, shocked. The artist had not signed their name. The picture was simply titled La Americana.

Sparked by a sudden desire to know more, Remy started pulling books off the shelves and looking for more clues. Anything that looked at all relevant to her, whether it was in reference to the village or the Galician people, she stacked on a table.

Remy was so absorbed in her task that she didn’t notice the librarian standing in front of her until the old man cleared his throat. He held up four fingers. That appeared to be the maximum amount that Remy could check out at any given time.

Overwhelmed, Remy considered her teetering stack of over fifteen books. Okay, the architecture one, the scrapbook, this one that looks like a history textbook, and one about the Camino. That would be enough to get her started. In an epic version of Jenga, Remy extracted her choices. When the librarian glared from her to the leftover books, Remy got the hint and put them back to the best of her ability.

The old man’s judgmental stare made her uncomfortable, so Remy decided to change her plan to be inside the library all day. Internet translations were only going to get her so far with these books anyway, and a Spanish friend was likely a better option. Seeing as the librarian was not going to be that friend, Remy wondered if she could get Sebastian to help her. Or maybe Maggie!

It would be the perfect excuse to get out of town while Jack insisted on staying in Ortigueira. She could also really use the older woman’s advice about the situation, as well as what to do about Bieito. A longing for female bonding hit her, and Remy realized, startled, that she hadn’t talked to Anita in weeks. Due to her best friend’s blabbermouthing, Remy couldn’t trust their conversations anymore.

Deep down, the person that Remy most wanted to talk to was her nana. With Nana, Remy could have told her everything, even the more confusing details of the past few weeks, and wouldn’t have to worry if she sounded crazy. Her grandmother would have come up with a pretty good explanation for what was happening. And this explanation, though in no way scientific, would seem like the most obvious thing in the world.

Nana’s advice had worked to protect Remy and others all those years ago, except for the occasional slip up when Remy let her mouth speak while disconnected from her brain. There was no cure for Remy’s curse, but without Nana to guide her through it, Remy shuddered to think of the damage she could have unwittingly caused.

Nana would say that the village was cursed, too. Me and the village, quite the pair. It might be cursed, but it didn’t feel evil, much like how Remy felt about herself. But now that Remy was supposedly older and wiser, she would have to come up with an explanation for the strange occurrences herself.

But on the subject of men, particularly handsome disappearing fishermen and ex-husbands, Remy felt that Maggie would be a good substitute for grandmotherly advice. She could go to Madrid by bus and spend much-needed time getting men out of her head with copious amounts of wine and sightseeing. Maggie would also have great ideas on how to restore some of the buildings, particularly advice on how to design her cottage.

Excitement bubbled within Remy as she darted outside to her moped. I’ll run home, pack a few things, not tell Jack where I’m going, and by the time I get back, I’ll have a plan for my cottage, my books translated, and my head put on straight again.

“Bye, Ortigueira!” she shouted as she whizzed up the road back to the village. However, as if by speaking the words aloud, she jinxed it.