Sonder Village Read online

  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 t
he 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.”

  Chapter Two

  “You know,” Sebastian said as they hiked over to the barn, “I think that you must be a miracle of el Camino de Santiago.”

  “The hiking trail?” Remy asked, confused.

  Sebastian let out a gasp and put his hand over his heart. “Mi amor, it is so much more than that! You know nothing of the history of northern España?”

  Fearing she might have gravely offended him, Remy tried to backtrack. “I think I’ve heard of the Camino. It started out as a pilgrimage, right?”

  He sighed. “El Camino de Santiago begins in many places throughout Europe. A pilgrim may start in France, Portugal, even Germany or Italy. But all routes lead to the Santiago de Compostela, within Galicia. It is the church where Saint James is buried, for it was he who brought Christianity to the Iberian Peninsula.”

  “And have you walked the Camino?” Remy asked.

  “When I was a young man, searching for life’s answers, I walked one summer.”

  “Did you find what you were looking for?”

  Sebastian stopped, and got a faraway look in his eye. Then he spoke words that were not his own, reciting melodious words from memory. “The pilgrim route is for those who are good—it is the lack of vices, the thwarting of the body, the increase of virtues, pardon for sins, sorrow for the penitent, the road of the righteous, love of the saints, faith in the resurrection, and the reward of the blessed, a separation from hell, the protection of the heavens.”

  Remy squirmed, suddenly realizing that she had asked Sebastian a very personal question, and he had been right not to respond to her directly. “I’m sorry, Sebastian. That was rude of me. That passage was beautiful. Where is it from?”

  He gave a little bow of his head. “The Codex Calixtinus. A guide for those embarking on the Way of Saint James. You are not walking the Camino, but are on a pilgrimage just the same.

  “The Kingdom of Galicia has had a long history of miracles, and not just on the Camino de Santiago. There are a few that took place in this very village. We have no proof now, though, other than the stories handed down. The Catholic Church refused to document them. But I can still feel it here, and that is all the proof I need. Can you feel this is a place for miracles?”

  “If it was so great, then why was it left to rot?”

  Sebastian must not have heard her as he flung the barn doors open. The smell of ancient hay and dust lingered, and Remy sneezed uncontrollably until Sebastian handed her a handkerchief and dragged her back outside.

  “Have you ever thought about keeping horses?” he asked, bouncing on his toes.

  ****

  Maggie begged Remy not to spend the night out at the village. “The paperwork will take a while to go through,” the Englishwoman said. “Why not stay in town until the sale is finalized?”

  “Maggie, I’ll be fine. Sebastian said he would loan me his son’s camping gear for as long as I need it.”

  “You will be out here all alone! What if something happens?”

  Remy tried not to laugh. Just because she had eschewed much of her bayou upbringing didn’t mean she hadn’t picked up a few skills in her youth. Sleeping under the stars was one of the few fond memories she had from back then, on the nights when being inside her house was unbearable. Nothing but a velvet sky and her thoughts, listening to the crickets chirp.

  She needed to find that clarity now, after such a whirlwind of a day. Part of her reluctance was because she was afraid to leave the village. If she went to a bed and breakfast in Ortigueira, she could talk some sense into herself and walk away from the deal.

  No, if she was going to jump right into such a crazy decision, then she needed to jump in with both feet. That included showing the village that she belonged to it as much as it belonged to her. Building that trust would have to start tonight.

  Sebastian had left the women at the village to go pick up Remy’s supplies and returned to find them having the same conversation as an hour before.

  “At least sleep in the main house,” Maggie pleaded. “There is no need for this tent nonsense.”

  “No, it has to be here,” Remy said, and shook out the tent canvas. The trio stood in the middle of the village, where Remy imagined that the town square would have been. A crossroads through the village, just as she was at a crossroads in her life. Though it was a bit superstitious and maybe a little bit silly, the artist in Remy appreciated the symbolism.

  “Well, I’ll be here first thing in the morning to check on you,” Maggie said. “I won’t drive back to Madrid until I know you are okay.”

  Remy leaned in to give her a hug. “Thank you, Maggie. For bringing me here. For everything.”

  Maggie snorted. “Don’t make me regret it! I would never forgive myself if something happened to you. I’m beginning to think this wasn’t a good idea—”

  “It was the best idea! You were right all along. The village and I are a match.”

  Maggie shivered in the evening breeze. “I’m glad you feel that way. I can say, after being here all day, I am not sure that I feel the same way about this place as you do. It has potential, but the longer I stay, the more I get this feeling…Oh, never mind. I’m just a doddering old lady. You have more courage than I, sweet girl.”

  “She will be safe,” Sebastian insisted. “The village will look after her.” He leaned in and kissed both of Remy’s cheeks. “Buenas noches, brave American!”

  As Remy watched Maggie and Sebastian drive away, Remy hoped her new friends wouldn’t lose sleep over her tonight. Her stomach growled, reminding her that the supper Sebastian had dropped off along with the camping gear remained untouched. Too tired to build a fire, Remy dug into the cold fish stew. Sitting on her sleeping bag, she ate slowly, savoring each bite and trying to remember the last time she had enjoyed food so much.

  In their early days of dating, Jack liked to take Remy to Michelin-starred restaurants and exclusive wineries. Starry-eyed in her first real relationship, Remy was too touched by his efforts to tell him that she felt more comfortable staying in and ordering Chinese food in sweatpants. But gradually, as she was accepted into his world—the art world—her tastes had changed. Or, at least, she thought they had.

  In their past few years together, food and dates had merely become a distraction. Look how lucky we are, Jack seemed to say, whenever he wh
isked her away to try and break her out of a depressive spiral. We can go wherever we want, whenever we want. Nothing holds us back. Expensive food, drinks, wine, booze—it all blurred together. For the life of her, Remy couldn’t taste a single flavor.

  But this, a supper of cold fish stew with only herself for company, tasted like life. Or maybe her taste buds were coming alive again with the rest of her. With an empty bowl and a full stomach, Remy settled in for the night.

  Voices woke her around midnight; the sound of a boisterous celebration echoed through the village streets. Remy rubbed her eyes and tried to figure out where the noise was coming from. A wedding, maybe? Drunken party-goers who got lost and ended up in my village?

  Remy had brushed off Maggie’s concerns earlier, but in the middle of the night, they seemed less foolish. She tensed, waiting for more clues before she made her presence known. She listened harder, and suddenly realized she could understand what they were saying. Are they speaking English? she wondered. No, I don’t think so. It was more like a switch had flipped in her brain, and the essence of their words untangled themselves in Remy’s mind. It was as frustrating as trying to read in a dream, because the second she thought too hard about it, the voices stopped making sense.

  Remy forced herself to relax. They, whoever they were, sounded like a mix of men and women joking and teasing each other. They were making fun of one of them for being in love with someone named María. Then one of them, a boy, suggested that they go back to the party. The voices suddenly stopped, leaving an eerie quiet.

  Grabbing her flashlight, Remy braved a few steps past her campsite. “Hello?” she whispered. There is no way they disappeared so quickly. “Hello?” she said, louder this time. The wind picked up and whistled through the empty buildings.