Chapter 4 - Arrival in Lagos
The Algarve coast welcomed us with a blaze of golden sunlight and the salty, crisp scent of the Atlantic Ocean. After a grueling fourteen hours of travel—including a smooth connection in Lisbon—Owen and I stepped out of a rented compact car and looked up at the whitewashed walls and traditional blue tiles of our rented cliffside villa in Lagos.
The villa was everything we had dreamed of when we originally booked it months ago. Perched dramatically on a rugged limestone cliff overlooking the turquoise waters of the Atlantic, it featured a sprawling rooftop terrace, bougainvillea spilling gracefully over wrought-iron balconies, and an interior decorated in soothing shades of seafoam and cream.
"Well," Owen said, dropping our heavy bags onto the cool terracotta tiles of the entryway and stretching his arms wide. "I think your mother’s taste in stolen honeymoons is actually quite good."
I laughed, kicking off my traveling shoes and walking over to the wide glass sliding doors that opened onto the sun-drenched terrace. The breeze was warm, carrying the distant sound of crashing waves against the rocky shore below. "She has expensive tastes when she's spending someone else's money. But she's not here to enjoy the tile work."
"Thank goodness for small miracles," Owen murmured, coming up behind me and wrapping his arms around my waist. He rested his chin on my shoulder, looking out at the endless horizon where the blue sky melted seamlessly into the sea. "How does it feel?"
I closed my eyes, breathing in the scent of salt and sun. For the first time in thirty-four years, my mind wasn't racing ahead to anticipate someone else's emergency. There was no wedding to plan, no seating chart to rearrange, no frantic family member demanding immediate rescue from a self-inflicted catastrophe.
"It feels quiet," I whispered. "I keep waiting for my phone to ring."
"It can't ring. It's sitting at the bottom of your backpack, turned off and powerless," Owen reminded me gently, pressing a kiss to my cheek. "We have nine days here, Clara. No schedules. No expectations. Just us."
We spent the rest of that first afternoon unpacking our bags, walking down the steep, winding stone steps to a secluded sandy cove tucked between the limestone cliffs, and eating fresh grilled sea bass at a small, family-run taverna down by the marina. The owner, an elderly Portuguese man with a weathered face and a warm smile, welcomed us with a complimentary carafe of local vinho verde, chatting in broken English about the unseasonably warm October weather.
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By evening, sitting on the rooftop terrace under a canopy of brilliant stars, the silence of the foreign night felt like a protective blanket. Far across the ocean, across time zones and transatlantic cables, my family was undoubtedly plotting their next move. But for the first time in my life, their distance wasn't a source of anxiety. It was an absolute luxury.
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