Santorini Sunsets (5 page)

“We're in Greece and it's two o'clock in the afternoon.” He kissed her. “We have to follow local customs and take a siesta.”

The mattress creaked and they dissolved into a fit of giggles. There was a sudden hush when she pulled him on top of her and he plunged deep inside her. Her body tipped and Francis clutched her shoulders and fell onto her breasts.

“Now I know why the ancient Greeks created such great art and literature,” he murmured, inhaling her jasmine scent.

“Why?” Sydney felt her heart slow down.

“Because they took the time to appreciate beauty,” he murmured.

*   *   *

Now she gazed at the white porcelain bathtub and wished she could spend the afternoon surrounded by bubbles. She imagined eating plump grapes and reading one of the paperbacks she'd brought onto the plane. Francis would return and they would have a romantic dinner on the terrace. She saw Francis dipping calamari into cocktail sauce and drizzling olive oil on Salade niçoise. They would leave their plates half full and climb back into the four-poster bed.

She glanced at her Chopard watch and knew she should be thinking about the caterers and the florists and the harpist. In two hours the villa would be filled with guests from New York and London and Los Angeles. A case of French champagne chilled in the fridge and platters of fresh fruit and soft cheeses waited in the pantry. She took a deep breath and saw Francis's wallet on the bedside table.

After they made love, Francis said he was going into Fira to buy cigarettes and the
Wall Street Journal
. He had zipped up his slacks and buttoned his shirt and slid his phone into his pocket. Then he blew her a kiss and hurried out the door.

She reclined against the silk pillows and thought of all the things she wanted to say: he really had to stop smoking, he could exist one day without reading the
Wall Street Journal,
he must relax, it was their daughter's wedding.

But for the last ten months he had been so preoccupied, coming home from the office late and eating a tuna salad sandwich in his study. Working on Saturdays and only coming out to Summerhill late in the evening. Missing weekends altogether so she had to host their dinner parties alone and make jokes about her husband being a summer bachelor.

She turned the wallet over and thought Francis couldn't buy cigarettes without any euros. He never used to be absentminded; even in the early years when he worked fourteen-hour days he never forgot the girls' school performances or her birthday. She pictured waking up every year to two dozen yellow roses and a blue Tiffany's box. She remembered untying the bow and thinking she was the luckiest woman in the world.

She put the wallet back and smoothed her hair. She was too old to be making love in the afternoon, she would never have time to set her hair and reapply her makeup. She thought about Brigit with her glossy blond bob and Daisy with her long auburn curls and sighed. They didn't realize how precious it all was: being young with everything before them.

She thought about the week that changed everything ten years ago and shuddered. Then she slipped off her robe and turned on the shower. She wasn't going to think about anything except the wedding favors and making sure the caterer knew who was vegetarian. The hot water touched her shoulders and she remembered Francis's mouth on her breasts and shivered.

*   *   *

Brigit entered the dining room and studied the long oak table and bright Oriental rug and mosaic ceiling. She gazed at the deep wine goblets and gold candlesticks and felt a chill run down her spine. It was her and Blake's first proper dinner party and she wanted everything to be perfect.

She folded napkins and polished silverware and remembered Nathaniel eating prosciutto on rye in the kitchen. She hoped he was part of some bad dream caused by jet lag and too much Greek coffee. But then she remembered him handing her the
HELLO!
contract.

Could Blake possibly have forgotten to tell her? Maybe he'd mentioned it in one of their long-distance phone calls and his voice had been drowned out by taxis honking or the loudspeakers at the airport. The last week had been a blur of security checks and duty-free stores and first-class lounges.

She pictured Nathaniel's cropped blond hair and clear blue eyes and straightened her shoulders. She didn't care what the contract said; she wasn't going to let Nathaniel and Robbie join the bridesmaids in the church's anteroom and photograph her putting her dress on. They could sit in the back of the chapel and toss rice at the bride and groom with the other guests. If she had to invite them to the reception, she'd seat them in a corner with Blake's eight-year-old twin nephews.

She heard the front door open and smoothed her hair. If it was Nathaniel she would tell him that he was not swimming at Kamari Beach or hiking the panoramic footpath between Fira and the scenic town of Oia. She rubbed her lips and saw Blake stride into the foyer. He wore a white linen shirt and crisp navy slacks. His dark hair was brushed over his forehead and his cheeks glistened with aftershave.

“You are so beautiful tonight, I can't imagine how you're going to look on our wedding day.” Blake's lips brushed her cheek. He smelled of Ralph Lauren cologne and citrus shampoo.

“The dress is Valentino.” Brigit flushed as if Blake could tell she had been thinking about Nathaniel. “He sent it with a note saying I was going to be the most beautiful bride since Grace Kelly married Prince Rainier.”

“Valentino thinks Grace Kelly was the greatest fashion icon of the twentieth century.” Blake raised his eyebrow. “If I didn't know he'd been with his partner, Bruce, for thirty years and owns six pugs he loves more than his mother I'd be jealous.”

“The caterers still haven't arrived.” Brigit frowned. “If they don't get here soon I'll have to put on an apron and grill the calamari.”

“This is Greece, everyone knows we won't eat until midnight.” Blake shrugged. “We'll keep their champagne glasses filled and feed them crab cakes and bread rolls. Anyway, they're not here for the ouzo or lamb chops, they came to meet the woman I'm going to marry.”

Blake leaned forward and kissed her softly on the mouth. Brigit felt his hand press the small of her back and shivered. She kissed him back and suddenly saw the
HELLO!
contract on the mahogany end table.

“You didn't tell me you talked to Winston.” She pulled away.

“Winston?” Blake frowned.

“Winston Powell, the editor of
HELLO!
” Brigit bit her lip. “You signed a contract giving him exclusive rights to our wedding without telling me.”

“I must have told you, I remember leaving Winston's office and pulling out my phone. It was pouring rain and I was afraid it would get wet.” He rubbed his forehead. “Then I realized it was the middle of night in New York. Christ, did I really not call you back?”

“You didn't.” Brigit perched on a high-backed velvet armchair.

“I was so busy, I had to pick up the groomsmen's bow ties and the ring bearer's tuxedo.” He sat beside her. “It was a complete surprise, Winston invited me to lunch and I thought he wanted to gossip about Scarlett Johansson's meltdown on the set of
Always Sunday.
But I couldn't turn down two million dollars; I thought you'd be pleased. Think about the libraries the Palmer Foundation can build with that money.”

“The money is wonderful.” Brigit nodded. “But we wanted to keep our wedding private.”

“Winston promised the reporter and photographer wouldn't disturb the guests.” Blake took her hand. “Isn't it worth a little discomfort to help achieve our goals?”

Brigit looked at Blake's green eyes and firm jaw and her shoulders relaxed. She knew he must have tried to tell her; they would never keep secrets from each other. Then she pictured Nathaniel's short blond hair and straight nose and jumped up.

“Did Winston tell you the name of the reporter?” She walked to the table and straightened the place cards. She fiddled with the ivory silk tablecloth and rearranged the salt and pepper shakers.

“I don't think he mentioned it but I trust him.” Blake wrapped his arms around Brigit's waist. “Let's take advantage of the empty kitchen and have a siesta in the pantry. I've always wanted to make love surrounded by grape leaves and jars of green olives.”

“That's tempting.” Brigit turned around and kissed Blake hard on the mouth. She fumbled with his zipper and rubbed the crease in his slacks. Suddenly she heard male voices speaking in rapid Greek. She looked up and saw three young men carrying silver salad bowls. They juggled bags filled with red onions and heads of lettuce and cherry tomatoes.

“We're going to have to wait until dinner is over and my buddies polish off two bottles of Grand Marnier and a box of Cuban cigars.” Blake groaned, arranging his slacks. “I just hope they don't insist we play Scrabble. Bradley Cooper is a terrible loser and he hides the
j
's and
q
's under his cocktail napkin.”

*   *   *

Brigit watched Blake walk down the driveway and wished she'd had a chance to tell him about Nathaniel. They had never met but he had seen their wedding photo buried in a box of Christmas ornaments. Brigit remembered Blake studying it carefully and covering it with silver snowflakes. She remembered him kissing her on the mouth and murmuring he was lucky to have found her.

She saw Blake pick up a basket of bread loaves and a warmth spread though her chest. He was a famous movie star but he didn't mind rolling up his sleeves and helping the caterers carry their shopping bags. She turned around and gazed at the ceramic water pitcher and crystal vases filled with yellow and white daisies. She couldn't wait for their guests to arrive; everything was going to be perfect.

*   *   *

Brigit stepped into the garden and wrapped her arms around her chest. The night sky was filled with stars and far below she could see sleek white yachts bobbing in the harbor. A bus climbed up the narrow path and bright lights twinkled in the square.

She heard laughter through the french doors and thought the dinner party had been wonderful. She pictured wide plates of pork wrapped in pastry and tomato sauce. There were platters of artichoke and eggplant and sausage. She remembered the rich chocolate cake and vanilla custard.

She pictured Blake sitting at the head of the table in a dark suit and white silk shirt. Daisy looked lovely in a bright orange dress and gold hoop earrings. Her mother wore a cream Jil Sander sheath and matching pumps and her father was elegant in a pin-striped blazer and tan slacks.

She remembered Blake giving a toast that winning an Academy Award was nothing compared to having Brigit agree to marry him. The best man said she was out of his league and he must have slipped something in her drink to convince her. She remembered everyone laughing and agreeing they were the most beautiful couple since Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie.

Finally guests started to disperse and Blake and his groomsmen retired to the library to play backgammon and drink Rémy Martin. Brigit's cheeks were flushed from the warm air and Metaxa and she slipped outside and ran down to the garden.

Suddenly she heard footsteps and saw a figure leaning on the stone fence. He wore jeans and a leather jacket and suede loafers. She looker closer and recognized Nathaniel's short blond hair and blue backpack.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded. “I told you it was a private dinner party.”

“I had dinner at a tavern in Fira, the chicken souvlaki was delicious and the orzo pasta was better than at the Ithaka restaurant on East Eighty-Sixth Street,” Nathaniel replied. “Do you remember we used to sit in a booth and hold hands in the candlelight? The portions were so large we always took home a doggy bag.”

“Then why are you here?” Brigit asked. “It's almost midnight.”

“I didn't want to go back to the inn.” Nathaniel slipped his hands into his pockets. “The mattress on my bed is so thin I may as well sleep on the floor. The monks in the abbey have better accommodations.”

“You can't come inside.” Brigit glanced at the french doors. “The rest of the guests are leaving and everyone's going to bed.”

“What are you doing out here alone?” Nathaniel raised his eyebrow. “Shouldn't you'd be sipping Metaxa brandy in front of a fire while your fiancé whispers in your ear?”

“Blake and his friends are playing backgammon in the library.” Brigit flushed.

“And they didn't invite the president of the Dartmouth backgammon society?” Nathaniel asked. “I suppose it takes a real man to be beaten by a woman.”

“I haven't played backgammon in years,” Brigit replied. “Plus, the smell of cigars makes me dizzy.”

“Smoking cigars is a ridiculous habit,” Nathaniel agreed. “You may as well park yourself in the cancer ward.”

“You smoked a pack of cigarettes a day and drank half a bottle of vodka,” Brigit retorted.

“I gave all that up, now I do a cleanse once a month. You should try it, it helps you think clearly.” He waved his hand. “Of course then you realize how miserable your life is because you can't afford a decent winter coat or a holiday in Biarritz and you take your last paycheck and spend it on a bottle of Absolut. But at least you know why you're drinking, so it must be healthy.”

He stopped and gazed at Brigit's smooth blond hair and diamond teardrop earrings. He admired her pearl necklace and pale pink gown and beige sling backs.

“You do look lovely. I like the way you've let your hair grow, Brigit,” Nathaniel mused. “I actually came for a reason, I want to call a truce.”

“What do you mean?” Brigit frowned.

“I took this job because I need the money. You don't know what it's like to see your bank account sink into triple digits.” Nathaniel dug his heels in the ground. “Sometimes I think if only I worked harder and produced a novel, I'd be holding court in Bushwick surrounded by first-year Columbia grad students.”