Strangers in the Villa

by Robyn Harding

Genres: Women's Fiction; Psychological Thrillers; Suspense

Synopsis

From the international bestselling author of The Drowning Woman, a psychological thriller about a couple rocked by infidelity who moves to a villa in Spain’s Costa Brava to rebuild their relationship, only to welcome a pair of visitors who have no intention of leaving.
 
Sydney Lowe’s life in New York is shattered when her husband, Curtis, admits to a meaningless affair with a client. Begging for forgiveness and vowing to prove his devotion, Curtis suggests the couple retreat to a remote hilltop house in Spain to repair their marriage.
 
High above the Mediterranean, Sydney and Curtis are working on the isolated property and their relationship when a pair of Australian travelers turns up at their door in dire need of help. Lonely for companionship and desperate for free labor, Sydney and Curtis invite the attractive young couple to stay. But as the days pass, dark secrets come to light, the Lowes’ bond is tested, and not everyone will leave the villa alive.

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 336

Sample

It was a remarkably romantic description for a house, especially when one considered the author was a chain-smoking Realtor with a pot belly and an unconvincing dye job. But this is Spain, where the people are passionate and poetic… even the real estate agents, apparently. José Sainz could not have known he was crafting the perfect blurb to entice an American couple to leave their jobs, give up their apartment, and start over in this secluded hillside locale. He couldn’t have known he’d sell this house to a couple desperate to save their marriage.

Sydney Cleary takes a drag on her cigarette and exhales the smoke into the sluggish morning air. She’s sitting out back next to the kidney-shaped pool, facing away from the house and its lauded arched windows. Her eyes drift over the distant, whitewashed buildings of Cadaqués (pronounced Ca-da-kes, not Ca-dacks, as she and Curtis had called it when they first visited). The Mediterranean sparkles beyond it, small boats bobbing lazily in the bay. The view is stunning, just as José’s ad promised, but it’s wasted on her. The chirping birds and beautiful vistas were supposed to have her waking each day “full of joy.” But as she sits here in her bikini and cover-up, sunlight filtering through paintbrush clouds, Sydney just feels numb.

“You’ve been through an extremely painful experience,” the couples’ therapist had told her. “It’s not unusual to suffer symptoms of PTSD… Anxiety. Depression. Insomnia.” Sydney had felt so weak, so pathetic. She hadn’t been attacked or raped or bombed out of her house in a war. That was real trauma. But according to the sleek and stylish Dr. Ellen Dwyer, what Curtis had done to Syd had destroyed her sense of safety. Her sense of self. She didn’t know who she was anymore, who they were together. Her entire world had been knocked off its axis. It was going to take a while to get over it.

The timing of her husband’s betrayal had compounded the pain, amplified it to eleven. Syd’s mom had just passed, and the loss had knocked Syd out of her orbit. Never had she felt so singularly and spectacularly alone, a tiny planet adrift in a vast universe of nothingness. She’d consoled herself that she had a meaningful job, many friends, and her brother, Reid. Most importantly, she had Curtis.

They’d been together fifteen years, married for twelve. They’d tied the knot when Syd was a baby lawyer, when Curtis’s business was just getting off the ground. They both wanted kids but agreed they would wait until they were more established in their careers, until they’d done some traveling, until they had a bigger apartment… Suddenly, Syd was forty and the window was closing. They tried naturally for a while with no luck, and then they explored their options. The physical, financial, and emotional tolls of pursuing parenthood had felt overwhelming.

“I’ll go along with whatever you decide,” Curtis said. “But we don’t need kids to complete us, Syd. You and me together… We’re still a family.” His words had warmed her, made her realize that a strong, happy marriage to her best friend was enough for her.

Unfortunately, it hadn’t been enough for Curtis.

When it all fell apart, Syd’s family doctor (Ellen was a doctor of psychology, prohibited from prescribing medication in New York) had prescribed a low-dose antidepressant. Ativan, to be taken at night, as needed, helps her sleep. The drugs have taken the edge off the darkness, muted her anger, but Syd wakes late each morning feeling groggy and fuzzy. That’s why she’s out here in her bathing suit at 9:45 a.m. A bracing swim shakes out the cobwebs and makes her feel almost normal.

Taking a last pull on the cigarette, she stubs it out on the flagstone and drops the butt into the empty jam jar she keeps tucked under her lawn chair. One cigarette a day, that’s all she allows herself. Syd had smoked her way through college and then law school but had given it up after she got married. When her mom died, the cravings returned, but she held strong. Then Curtis ripped her heart out and she caved, smoking over a pack a day. It had been a mindless salve, a habitual crutch. She knows it’s deadly. When they moved to Spain she vowed to quit. Reducing to one a day is a start.

As Syd stands and stretches, there’s a crash in the kitchen—a dropped pot or a metal lid. Curtis is making an elaborate breakfast. He does this now, juicing oranges, cutting up fruit, making French toast from thick crusty bread he buys at the bakery in town. He’s always made sure she ate in the morning. Back home, that meant handing her a bagel sandwich as she hurried off to work. But in Spain, he’s upped his game. Part of her appreciates it. Another part of her wants to throw his fancy breakfast across the room and scream: You think café con leche and some fucking eggs will compensate for blowing up my life? But her anger, while understandable, is not productive. She doesn’t need a therapist to tell her that she’s chosen to stay and salvage this marriage. She can’t keep punishing him.

In these quiet, reflective moments, Sydney wonders why she accepted the arduous task of forgiveness. Does remaining in her marriage mean she’s weak? Or does it mean she’s strong? Everyone back home had an opinion. Staying meant she was a doormat; leaving was giving up on a lifelong commitment after one mistake. She’d blocked them all out and made her own decision. But did she stay because she truly loves her husband? Because she knows their relationship is worth this monumental effort? Or is she simply afraid of being alone so soon after losing her only parent? The reasons don’t matter now. She’s here.

Moving to the pool, Syd wades into the cool water. It needs to be skimmed—bugs and leaves litter the surface—but the temperature is brisk. The pool is unheated, and given their elevation, it’s still too cold for Curtis until the afternoon. But Syd’s grandparents had a cottage in Ontario. She’s used to swimming in chilly lakes, frolicking in frigid streams. She knows the adrenaline rush of a cold plunge, the improved clarity and mood. She takes a deep breath, is about to go under, when she feels something swish against her legs.

She startles, splashing at the surface in a panic, legs churning fruitlessly to move her toward the edge. There are venomous snakes in Spain, and she’d been warned to be vigilant. She should have checked the pool for vipers looking for a place to escape the impending heat. But when she looks down, she realizes she’s still wearing her cover-up, the light fabric swirling around her body like seaweed.

Without removing it, she dives under and swims to the end of the pool.

Curtis glances out the window to see his wife swimming lengths in her nightgown. This would have been alarming before everything happened—Sydney was a buttoned-up attorney, so capable and put together—but now she’s cloudy and distracted. Some of it’s the medication she takes, some of it’s the depression, and some, according to their couples’ therapist, is her body’s response to the emotional pain Curtis inflicted on her. Sydney’s gone numb to protect herself from future suffering. If she feels nothing at all, she can’t be hurt again.

Guilt squeezes his heart as he watches his wife climb out of the pool. She’s still so elegant, a cool patrician beauty, but now she looks fragile, brittle, a husk of the vibrant woman she used to be. He did this to her, and he hates himself for it. But she’s given him another chance, and he’s going to fix everything. As Syd reaches for a towel, he realizes she’s wearing not her nightgown but the white gauzy shirt she wears over her bathing suit. Still, he wonders why she didn’t take it off. He knows enough not to comment.

The toast pops, and he hurries to butter it while it’s still warm. They’re having scrambled eggs today, with blistered tomatoes and fresh-squeezed orange juice. The eggs are fresh, the bread made at a quaint little bakery. He wonders if Sydney tastes the quality like he does, or if his thoughtfully prepared meals are sawdust in her mouth. Some days, she’s fine and everything feels almost normal. Other days, she’s sad, or sullen, or outright angry. But she’s here. And he’s going to make her love him again.

He hurries outside, where Sydney is wringing out her cover-up, a towel wrapped around her torso. “Brunch is served, m’lady. Do you want to eat inside or outside?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Come in. You’ll get a chill out here.”

While Syd changes, Curtis sets the table. The dining room is his favorite space, maybe because it needed the least amount of work. Morning sun slips in through the sheer white curtains, warming the terra-cotta tiles. The massive farmhouse table, left here because it’s practically immovable, is a soft timber, etched with the memories of family meals. He sets down cloth place mats, forks, knives, and the pitcher of freshly squeezed orange juice. The scene is idyllic… with only the faintest thrum of discontent under the facade.

Moving to Spain had been Curtis’s idea. Even with couples’ therapy, Syd was struggling to heal in New York. There were too many reminders, they were too close to the scene of the crime, and Sydney had told too many people what Curtis had done. He knew some of Syd’s friends thought she should leave him. Her brother, Reid, did. Reid had told Sydney to get her own place or move in with him and his husband upstate. Reid was protective, Curtis got that, but he couldn’t force his sister to abandon her marriage.

Ellen, the therapist, with her blunt bob and fashionable outfits, had insisted they ignore the advice of outsiders, not let shame or judgment drive them apart. Sydney had struggled to shut out the well-meaning chirping, the constant feedback loop. Syd still loved Curtis. He knew she didn’t want to give up on the life they’d built together. And Curtis loved her more than ever. And so, Curtis had made the grand suggestion, an extravagant gesture to show just how committed he was to a fresh start.

“Spain?” Syd had laughed, incredulous. It had seemed so random. But they’d spent their honeymoon there twelve years ago and had fallen in love with the country.

“I found a house,” he said, bringing up the listing on his phone. “It’s not far from Girona, above Cadaqués. It needs some TLC, but we can afford it if we sell the apartment.”

“What will we do for work? How can we just move there?”

“This place has some property,” he said, passing Syd the phone. “We could plant some grapes. Start a little vineyard. Spain offers a golden visa if you invest in real estate or start a business. And the cost of living is way cheaper than in New York.”

“I’m a lawyer,” Syd countered. “A public defender. I can’t just retire when I’m in my forties.”

“But they work you to death at the PD’s office. You’re stressed and exhausted. And you’ve always been interested in wine. It’ll take a while to get started, but this could be a new career for you.” His voice had sounded almost childlike with hope. “For us.”

Syd’s brow had been furrowed with skepticism, but it softened as she scrolled through the photos, saw the potential of the place. He knew she could envision a new kind of life, just the two of them. They could rebuild their relationship in this hilltop home. Syd could see it, too.

“And I don’t want you to touch your inheritance,” Curtis had added. “Your mom left that money to you, and I think we can manage without it.”

But they couldn’t, of course. (Has a reno ever come in under budget?) It soon became clear that they’d need more funds. Curtis had wanted to do most of the renovations himself, but there were limits to his skills. They’d had to hire an electrician to upgrade the panel to support the air-conditioning, and a plumber to replace cracked underground pipes from the well to the house. They could live with the chipped countertops and dated cupboards in the kitchen, but the fridge was leaking, and the stove was a fire hazard. And Syd didn’t think she could bear the Spanish heat without fixing the pool, so repairing the crack in the concrete had been a top priority. Starting over, building a new life, was expensive. But it was worth it.

Syd approaches the table then, her wet hair slicked back, her face free of makeup. Her expression is placid after her bracing swim, and she looks beautiful. Healthy. The May sunshine has kissed her cheeks, and thanks to Curtis’s cooking, she’s gained back some of the weight she’d lost when everything happened. She’d arrived so thin and fragile, and now she’s more robust. More like the strong, self-assured woman she was.

Curtis fills two crockery plates with scrambled eggs, halved tomatoes, and thick slabs of toast. He sets one in front of his wife and another across from her.

“Thanks,” she says, digging in heartily. He sits and watches her enjoyment for a second, absorbing the wonderful normalcy of it.

Scooping up a forkful of buttery eggs, he says, “I think we should start clearing out the north quadrant of the property, where the fence is coming down. It would be a good spot to plant our vines.”

“Depends which grapes we want to grow,” she says, biting into her toast with a crunch. “Airén vines can handle full sun and dryer soil. But if we want to grow Tempranillo, they prefer more shade.”

Syd’s been researching. It means she’s investing in their plan. The therapist said that it could take years for Sydney to fully heal, but this move, this new venture, will expedite the process. One day in the not-so-distant future, Curtis will be able to wake up without worrying that she’ll be gone. That he’ll look for her by the pool, on the steep path that leads down the mountain, in the shops of Cadaqués, and discover that she’s left him. That she’s returned to the States. That she’s given up on them.

“We should grow whatever you like to drink,” he says. “There’s going to be a lot of tastings in our future.”

“Airén, then,” she says. “I get less hungover from white.” Her smile is small, even begrudging, but it bathes him in warmth, safety, and optimism. Until he hears it: a light but insistent knock at the door.

“Who’s that?” Syd asks, setting down her toast.

“I don’t know.” They are so alone here, so isolated, which is just how they wanted it. They’ve made no friends, are only on wave-and-smile terms with their distant neighbors. So, who the hell is at their door? It must be a wrong turn, a lost tourist or maybe a local selling fish or jamón. It’s nothing to worry about.

So why, as he scrapes his chair back across the tiles, does Curtis feel this sense of dread?

Sydney Cleary and Curtis Lowe, Couples’ Counseling Session Ellen Dwyer, Psychologist, PsyD June 24

TRANSCRIPT 1.

Ellen:

What brings you two in today?

Sydney:

Tell her, Curtis.

Curtis:

I… was unfaithful. I love Sydney more than anything, and I made a huge mistake. The biggest mistake of my life.

Ellen:

I can hear that you’re hurting. How are you doing, Sydney?

Sydney:

I’m broken. And I’m devastated.

Ellen:

That’s completely understandable. Infidelity is incredibly painful and can even be traumatic… Curtis, does it feel okay to tell me how it happened?

Curtis:

Syd and I were going through a dark time. We weren’t connecting. Sydney’s mom had been sick for months, and she’d been caring for her. She was exhausted and overwhelmed. I wanted to be there for her, but I felt like I couldn’t reach her.

Sydney:

So, it’s my fault you had an affair? Or is it my mom’s fault, for getting cancer and dying?

Ellen:

Sydney, your anger is so valid. Could you tell me more about what you’re going through?

Sydney:

I’m hurt. And I’m disappointed. And I’m so fucking angry. I was grieving. My mom had just died, and he slept with one of his clients. When I was at my lowest point, when I needed him the most, he betrayed me.

Ellen:

Grief can have a huge impact on a relationship. Your emotional suffering was likely all-consuming.

Sydney:

It was. My mom and I were really close. Losing her destroyed me.

Ellen:

Curtis, did you feel shut out of Sydney’s experience? Like there was no role for you in her suffering?

Curtis:

Yeah, I did. Sydney’s a strong person. She didn’t need or even want my comfort or support.

Sydney:

If you’re going to keep blaming me for this affair, I’m going to leave.

Curtis:

I’m not blaming you. I did this. I know I did. I’m just trying to explain my headspace.

Sydney:

You weren’t the center of my attention for once in our marriage, and you couldn’t handle it.

Ellen:

There’s no excuse for infidelity. But it’s usually a symptom of something more going on. If we can understand it, we can make sure it never happens again.

Curtis:

It won’t happen again. Ever. I hate myself for what I did to us, Syd. That’s why I came clean. I couldn’t live with what I’d done.

Sydney:

I knew you were hiding something. Even through my grief, I could tell.

Curtis:

The guilt was eating me up inside. It was torture. I’ll never hurt you like that again, Syd. I swear on my life.

Sydney:

I want to believe you, Curtis, I do. I just don’t know if I can.

Sydney takes in the couple standing on their doorstep: late twenties, good-looking, drenched in sweat as if they’ve been hiking in the late-morning heat. They appear to be tourists in their shorts and sandals, well-worn T-shirts. The woman steps forward, smiles beseechingly. She has dark-blond hair; tanned skin; an open, approachable face. There’s a small jewel in her nose, a Japanese symbol tattooed on her forearm. Three gold necklaces of varying lengths adorn her throat. “¿Habla inglés?” she asks hopefully.

“We speak English,” Curtis responds tightly. His fists are clenched in some macho display of protectiveness, and Syd can feel the tension emanating off him. Does he think this attractive pair is here to scam them? Or rob them? Or worse? Syd is surprised by the intrusion too, but she’s not worried about it. Maybe she just sees the good in people. Or maybe the antidepressants are muting her fear response.

“Thank God.” The young woman smiles, presses a hand to her chest. “My name’s Bianca. This is my partner, Damian.” She has an accent, Australian or maybe Kiwi. It suits her girl-next-door energy.

“We’ve had some car trouble,” Damian says, his accent unmistakably Aussie. He has dark hair under a ball cap, broad shoulders, and well-developed traps. If he’s here to harm them, Curtis, with his slim, urban physique, will be no match for him.

“We pulled over to take some photos,” Bianca explains. “And now the van won’t start.”

“I’m pretty sure the fuel pump’s shot,” Damian says, adjusting his cap. “We’ve been trying to call mechanics for over an hour. None of them speak English, and our Spanish is terrible.”

“We were using Google Translate, and now our phones are dead.” Bianca holds up a useless device as evidence.

“So, what do you want?” Curtis asks, and Syd feels embarrassed by his hostility. Why is he being so rude? And so paranoid? She steps forward.

“Do you want to charge your phones?” Sydney offers. “Or borrow ours?”

“We hate to impose on you,” Bianca says, twisting open a metal canteen. “Maybe you could charge one of our phones, and we can wait somewhere in the shade.” She takes a drink of water, clearly the last in the vessel.

“Come inside,” Syd offers. “We have air-conditioning.” She feels Curtis’s eyes on her, but she ignores him. Syd gets a good vibe off this girl. And Damian seems fine, too. Until this moment, Sydney hadn’t realized how starved for company she’s been. She and Curtis have been on their own for four months, “rebuilding” and “connecting” and “finding their way back to each other.” It’s tedious, frankly. Sydney craves outside stimulation, laughter, and interesting conversation. She’s been lonely.

Bianca’s pretty face lights up. “Really? You wouldn’t mind?”

“We really appreciate it,” Damian adds.

“Of course,” Syd says brightly, looking over at Curtis. He’s not comfortable with this. It’s evident in the set of his jaw, the prominent vein pulsing in his temple. But he won’t go against her.

“Come on in,” he says tightly.

One of the benefits (or hazards) of never having visitors is a certain laxity in housekeeping. Syd’s eyes rove over the jumble of blankets on the sofa, the pair of shoes abandoned in the middle of the living room, and of course their half-eaten breakfast cooling on the dining table. She hadn’t noticed the layer of dust coating the TV and coffee table, the book splayed open on an ottoman. But Bianca seems immune to the mess.

“Oh my God…” she says, voice tinged with wonder. “It’s so beautiful. The arched windows are incredible.”

“They were a major selling feature,” Sydney says, watching Curtis as he leads Damian down the hall to plug in the dead phones. The two men appear to be chatting amiably. Curtis must be warming up, dropping his guard, realizing this attractive young couple isn’t here to murder them.

“I love all the built-in details.” The Aussie woman pauses to admire a small curlicued nook where Sydney has placed her mother’s favorite porcelain vase. The piece isn’t expensive, or particularly stylish, but it is precious.

“The Spanish architecture is so charming,” Sydney agrees.

“How long have you lived here?”

“Just over four months. We still have a lot of work to do.”

“The place looks great.” Bianca smiles at her. “You’re living the dream.”

A muscle twitches in Syd’s jaw, but her grin stays in place. “First time in Spain?” she asks.

“First time anywhere. Australia is so bloody far away.” Bianca strolls into the dining room. “I love this old table.”

“It was here when we moved in,” Syd replies, whisking the neglected plates to the kitchen counter. “It weighs a ton. They probably had to build the house around it.”

“You’ve done an amazing job with the decor. It’s modern without sacrificing the old-world Spanish charm.”

“Thanks.” Syd glances around at the pale overstuffed sofas, the low coffee table, the battered credenza that she plans to refinish. She’s not sure the aesthetic is working yet, but she appreciates the compliment.

“I really admire you guys,” Bianca says, taking in the postcard view from the dining room windows. “Starting a new life in a new country is such an adventure.” She turns to face Syd. “Damian would never leave Australia permanently, but I would. I’ve got nothing there anymore.”

“Oh?” Syd doesn’t mean to pry, but Bianca opened the door.

“My dad’s been out of the picture since I was little. And my mom died a couple of years ago. Skin cancer.”

“I’m sorry,” Syd says. “I recently lost my mom to cancer, too.”

“It’s so hard, isn’t it?” Bianca’s eyes are shiny. “I mean, my mom and I didn’t always see eye to eye on everything, but your mom is the moon in the sky. She’s like your gravitational force. And when she’s gone, you just feel… adrift. . .