Santorini Sunsets (2 page)

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She opened the french doors and walked into the garden. She stood at the fence and gazed at the green cliffs and clusters of white houses. Stone churches had blue domed roofs and stained-glass windows. She leaned over the fence and gazed at the black sand beach and chipped fishing boats and clear blue water. She inhaled the scent of hibiscus and anemone and thought she was the luckiest girl in the world.

The wedding was in four days and tonight her parents were hosting a small dinner for their closest friends. Her mother insisted Brigit relax but she wanted to be sure the champagne was chilled and the waiters served the strawberries and fresh whipped cream she'd bought at the market. She turned to go inside and heard footsteps coming up the path. Two men were dressed in shorts and T-shirts and she wondered if the caterers had arrived early.

She looked more closely and saw one man wore a hat and carried a nylon backpack. He wore leather thongs and a black leather watch. The man took off his hat and Brigit's eyes flew open. She put her hand to her chest and ducked behind a rosebush.

She watched them walk toward the villa and thought she must be seeing things. It couldn't possibly be Nathaniel; she hadn't seen him since he'd walked out of their Upper East Side apartment two years ago. She pictured his curly blond hair and blue eyes and her heart turned over. What was her first husband doing in Santorini?

She held her breath as they opened the gate and approached the wooden blue front door. She crouched behind the bushes and suddenly heard footsteps on the gravel. She looked up and saw Nathaniel fold his arms across his chest. His hair was cut short and the stubble on his chin was gone but he had the same long eyelashes and wide white smile.

“You never were good at hide-and-go-seek,” he announced, parting the rosebush. “Even when we were children, you would stand in the middle of the tennis court and count to ten and invite everyone to find you.” His face broke into a smile. “Hello Brigit, how are you?”

“How dare you come here.” Brigit stood up and smoothed her hair. She adjusted her floral dress and tightened her white leather belt. “I'm getting married in four days, and if you ruin it I'll never forgive you. If you're on vacation, you can pack your bags and go to Avignon or Tuscany.”

“That's a fine greeting for someone who four years ago vowed to stay with me in sickness or in health, for richer or poorer, 'til death do us part.” Nathaniel slipped his hands into his pockets.

“You were the one who walked out.” Brigit walked to the stone fence. “Now what on earth are you doing here?”

“That's a long story and I'm very hot and thirsty.” Nathaniel hesitated. “You are the one who filed the divorce papers.”

“I waited three months,” Brigit replied. “You didn't call or write or send a postcard.”

“I was busy.” Nathaniel leaned on the fence beside her.

“Lying on the sofa watching the Yankees game and drinking cans of lemonade?” Brigit's cheeks turned pink. “Wearing the same T-shirt four days in a row and eating the marshmallows out of the cereal box. Being too drunk at night to find the bedroom.”

“Being indolent is very time consuming.” Nathaniel furrowed his brow. His shoulders sagged and his eyes flickered. “I only drank at the end, when it was hopeless.”

“You made it hopeless.” Brigit twisted her watch. “You threw away a book contract and a whole career, and wasted your time doing the
New York Times
crossword puzzle.”

“Doing the
New York Times
crossword puzzle is never a waste of time,” Nathaniel protested. “I was looking for inspiration, after you sucked every original word and thought from my body.”

“I was trying to help you, I couldn't watch you avoid your computer as if it caused cholera,” Brigit replied. “If you had just sat at your desk, the words would have come to you.”

“Writing a novel isn't like proofing a legal brief,” Nathaniel corrected. “And I wrote a damn fine book of short stories which is more than eighty percent of writers in America ever accomplish. I can't help it if the critic at
New York Times Book Review
said: ‘If Nathaniel Cabot thinks he is equipped to write about social reform in America, then I'm going to publish a book of Southern recipes. Cabot should write what he knows: growing up with a silver spoon in his mouth and deciding whether to attend Harvard or Princeton,'” Nathaniel rubbed his brow. “If he had done his research he would have discovered I got rejected at Harvard and wait listed at Princeton. Anyway, I never would have gone anywhere besides Dartmouth because I couldn't breathe without you.”

“I still don't know why you're here. I haven't seen you in two years and now you show up at my wedding!” Brigit exclaimed, glancing at his tan arms and legs. “You look like you've been doing a pretty good job of breathing. Let me guess, you've been running around Europe as a tour guide or a gigolo.”

“I'm glad you think my performance in the bedroom was worth money but I don't think I'd be suited to romance wealthy women. I'm sure I'd say something to offend them.” Nathaniel smiled. “My parents cut me off because they thought I was wasting my life, so I've been freelancing for newspapers and magazines. I moved to London and it suits me. It's easier to be depressed when the sky is gray and you have to eat sausage rolls and meat pies.”

“I don't have time to discuss your emotional well-being, I have to get ready for a party.” Brigit blinked back sudden tears. “Please leave or I'll tell Blake to remove you and your friend.”

“That would be tricky.” Nathaniel's face broke into a smile. “It's your fiancé who invited us.”

“What are you talking about?” Brigit demanded. “Blake would never invite my ex-husband to our wedding.”

“You're getting that peaked look you used to get when you skipped breakfast.” Nathaniel frowned. “Let's go inside and feed you some scrambled eggs and bacon, then I'll tell you how Robbie and I arrived in Santorini.” Nathaniel stopped and looked at the man with dark hair and large brown eyes. “The terrible thing about living alone is I've completely forgotten my manners. Robbie, this is the soon-to-be head of one of New York's most prominent charity foundations, Brigit Palmer.”

“How did you know about my new position?” Brigit asked.

“I keep track.” Nathaniel entered the villa and put his hat on a mahogany end table. He glanced at the mosaic ceilings and plaster walls and thick burgundy curtains. He saw the crystal chandeliers and oak floors and worn Oriental carpets. He walked to the bar and filled a shot glass with vodka. He handed it to Brigit and whistled.

“You couldn't have picked a more authentic setting for a Greek wedding.” He examined a painting in a gilt frame. “Any minute I expect a singing waiter to appear from the kitchen with a platter of grilled eggplant and hummus and a bottle of ouzo. Then the director will yell ‘cut' and the bride and groom will leave on a bicycle with cans rattling behind them.”

“That was a scene from
Mamma Mia!,
we saw it at the Roxy in the East Village,” Brigit murmured. “Blake had nothing to do with picking the villa. My mother and I found it in the back of
Town & Country
.”

“I'm glad to hear Sydney is still reading
Town & Country
.” Nathaniel admired a marble bust. “She might want to add
HELLO!
to her subscription list.”

“My mother would never read
HELLO!
” Brigit replied. “It's as bad as
People
.”

“She might,” Nathaniel mused. “If her daughter was on the cover.”

“What are you talking about?” Brigit gasped, fiddling with her gold necklace.

“I got a call from Winston Powell, the editor-in-chief last week,” Nathaniel continued. “He read my piece on Carla Bruni's marriage to Nicholas Sazorky in
Paris Match
.”

“How can you write for those magazines?” Brigit interrupted. “They have no respect for people's privacy, they'll print anything that sells copies.”

“You've never bought a sweater for warmth rather than if it matched your Burberry jacket.” Nathaniel raised his eyebrow. “Your standards drop quickly when your flat doesn't have central heating and the space heater sounds like it has a death rattle.”

“You could have stayed in the apartment,” Brigit said quietly. “Your parents bought it for us.”

“As a wedding present,” Nathaniel replied. “I thought you had to get something out of the marriage, since you sent back the engagement ring.”

Brigit pictured the pear-shaped sapphire surrounded by diamonds and flinched. “It was your grandmother's, I could hardly keep it.”

“Then we're even.” Nathaniel sighed. “You got a one bedroom at Eighty-Second and Lexington and I escaped a drillmaster who made sure our toothbrushes were lined up and the books on the bookshelf were alphabetized and we never ran out of toilet paper.”

“I still can't imagine you writing for
HELLO!
” Brigit shuddered. “They'd ask you to write an exposé of your own mother.”

“Winston asked if I wanted to write about the wedding of the year: Hollywood movie star and perpetual bachelor, Blake Crawford weds New York society ice queen Brigit Palmer.”

“He said I was an ice queen?” Brigit's lips trembled.

“I might have thrown that in but it makes a great pull quote.” Nathaniel shrugged. “The cover and a four-page spread including photos. And full access to the bride's family and the wedding party.”

Brigit put her drink on the sideboard and walked to the Regency desk. She sifted through the boxes wrapped in silver tissue paper and found her phone.

“I'm going to call Blake, he'll call Winston and threaten to sue unless this is stopped.” She punched in the numbers.

Nathaniel crossed the room and took the phone from her hand. He walked to his backpack and took out a sheet of paper.

“You might want to look this over first.” He handed her the paper. “Blake is the one who gave Winston the exclusive.”

Brigit's heart raced and she felt slightly dizzy. She sat on the yellow silk sofa and scanned the contract. She looked up at Nathaniel and her blue eyes were huge.

“Why would Blake do that? We both agreed to keep the wedding private, that's why we chose Santorini—so it would just be our families and closest friends.”

“He is donating the two-million-dollar fee to charity,” Nathaniel said grudgingly. “It's on the last line.”

Brigit glanced at the bottom of the contract and the air left her lungs. She thought about Blake's passion for helping the underprivileged and felt her shoulders relax.

“Well, that's wonderful! I knew there had to be a reason.” She smoothed her hair. “I wonder why he didn't ask me first.”

“It's not a good idea to keep secrets this early in the relationship.” Nathaniel nodded. “Who knows what he'll agree to next.”

“We don't have any secrets.” Brigit put the contract on the mahogany end table. “I've been so busy this week seeing to the caterers and florists, he probably told me and I forgot.”

“The girl with the photographic memory who got a perfect score on her SAT?” Nathaniel asked. “Maybe you haven't been eating correctly and it's affected your thinking. You do look thinner.” He studied her shoulder-length blond hair and high cheekbones and slender neck. “You're missing that wonderful cleavage. Let's go into the kitchen and fix a sandwich. I'm starving, our expense account doesn't stretch past a wedge of feta cheese and a bowl of bean soup.”

“How dare you!” Brigit crossed her arms. “My breasts are my own business.”

They entered the kitchen and saw a young woman standing next to the fridge. Her auburn hair was pulled into a ponytail and she wore a knee-length turquoise dress. She wore lace-up espadrilles and a silver charm bracelet.

“Nathaniel, what on earth are you doing here?” Daisy turned around. “You are the last person I expected to see in Santorini.” She turned to Brigit. “Surely, his name wasn't on the guest list.”

“Of course, he's not invited,” Brigit snapped. “I found him in the garden.”

“Well, you better leave,” Daisy said to Nathaniel. “This is a family affair, and you gave up membership when you walked out on Brigit two years ago.”

“I'm supposed to be here, Brigit will explain.” Nathaniel paused. “Daisy, you're all grown up. And you're so glamorous, don't tell me you've gone Hollywood like your sister.”

“I'm twenty-six.” Daisy put a loaf of bread on the tile counter next to an heirloom tomato. She searched in the cupboard and found a jar of mustard and a bottle of olive oil. “I was grown up the last time you saw me, it's only been a couple of years.”

“I can't help it if I still remember the little girl who always got stuck in trees.” Nathaniel turned to Robbie. “Robbie, this is Daisy Palmer, the other most beautiful girl in New York and a terrific pastry chef. I stood in line at Cafe Lalo on many Sundays to get her delicious coconut custard cream pie.”

“I quit.” Daisy spread mayonnaise on whole wheat bread. “I'm not a pastry chef anymore.”

“The Upper West Side must be in mourning.” Nathaniel took a green apple from a ceramic fruit bowl and rubbed it on his shirt. “What are you doing these days?”

“I'm designing clothing.” Daisy layered the bread with prosciutto and lettuce and red onions. “I have my own line of dresses called Daisies, I hope to get them into Bergdorf's.”

“Nathaniel is writing a story on the wedding for
HELLO!
” Brigit opened the fridge and took out a bottle of milk. “Don't tell him anything you don't want to appear in the pages of a gossip magazine.”

“Is there anything to tell?” Nathaniel picked up half the sandwich and took a large bite.