Santorini Sunsets (18 page)

She nibbled capers and remembered the early days of their marriage, when Francis would lead her upstairs while the ice was still fresh in their martinis. Sydney would unzip her dress and they would fall onto the king-sized bed. It was only later, when they were both flushed and sweaty that she realized she'd forgotten to put the chicken in the oven.

They would run down to the Second Avenue Deli and buy pastrami sandwiches and egg salad. They carted shopping bags through the art deco lobby and hoped no one was in the elevator. Finally they tossed their purchases onto the kitchen counter and raced back up to the bedroom.

*   *   *

Maybe all that was disturbing Brigit last night was she hadn't found time alone with Blake. Sydney would remind Brigit on the cruise to Therasia that their friends could entertain themselves. The only people they should think about were each other.

She scooped up risotto and remembered when Brigit burst into her dressing room a few weeks after she'd started dating Blake. Her blond hair was cut in a new bob and she wore pink lipstick.

*   *   *

“Darling, there you are.” Sydney looked up from her dressing table. She was meeting Francis at Per Se and still needed to do her hair. “I called your phone all weekend. I wondered if you and Blake would like to join us for dinner tonight.”

“I left it at my apartment,” Brigit explained. “Blake surprised me with a trip to Palm Beach.”

“Palm Beach?” Sydney raised her eyebrow. “Isn't that a little soon? You've only been dating a few weeks.”

“We stayed at the Breakers and had Citroën lemonade and grilled Atlantic salmon at the Beach Club,” Brigit continued. “Blake insisted on buying me a Lilly Pulitzer dress and I got my hair done at Salon Margrit.”

“Your hair is gorgeous, you belong on the cover of
Vogue
.” Sydney nodded. “I just wonder if you're rushing things.”

“Blake is handsome and intelligent and we care about the same things.” Brigit fiddled with her gold earrings. “Why shouldn't I go away with him?”

“I'm glad you're enjoying each other's company.” Sydney brushed her hair. “But when you're nibbling Godiva chocolates in a suite at the Breakers, you might make the wrong decisions.”

“I'm hardly a virgin, I've been married,” Brigit said hotly. “I don't think I'm going to ruin my reputation by sharing a hotel key.”

“I'm not worried about your reputation.” Sydney put down the hairbrush. “The closest my mother and I came to discussing sex was the length of my gloves at my cotillion. But sex can change the way you look at things,” she continued. “Every couple is perfect when they only have to worry about whether to order room service or share a steak at the hotel bar.”

“Every evening I can't wait for Blake to appear at the office,” Brigit mused. “We can spend hours drinking a bottle of pinot noir and the maître d' at Gramercy Tavern had to kick us out before we finished our chocolate tiramisu.”

“That's the thing about sex. You can walk for hours without getting tired and the simplest tomato soup tastes delicious.” Sydney stopped and her eyes clouded over. “It makes you believe everything is wonderful. It's like sitting at an outdoor café in the glorious countryside, and not looking up at the clouds and realizing it's about to pour.”

*   *   *

Sydney nibbled pain au chocolat and turned the pages of her paperback book. She had only been in Gordes for four days, but she couldn't get over the beauty of the French landscape. Everywhere she looked there were fields of lavender and vineyards and thick forests.

The village of Gordes had cobblestone streets and a small square built in the shadow of a twelfth-century castle. There was a florist and grocery store that sold French cheeses and Belgian chocolates.

The whole way to the airport, Sydney thought of all the reasons she couldn't go. Brigit would forget to put sliced apple in the Fourth of July potato salad; Daisy would never remember to wear a hat. But she'd gazed at Brigit's glossy blond hair and Daisy's auburn curls and knew she couldn't spoil their summer.

By the time she arrived in Paris, she knew she had made a terrible mistake. Without Francis's shirts to pick up and Daisy's lunches to prepare, she had nothing to do to help her forget. She pictured sitting in the cold kitchen of a French farmhouse and feeling completely alone.

But the minute the yellow taxi pulled up in front of the château, the hard clamp on her chest loosened. She put the key in the lock and entered a stone foyer with yellow plaster walls and a circular wooden staircase. The living room had floral sofas and french doors opening onto a garden.

Each morning she ate muesli on the porch and swam laps in the pool. She spent the afternoon bicycling or exploring Sénanque Abbey. She bought posies at the outdoor market and felt almost happy.

*   *   *

A raindrop fell on her book and she glanced at the sky. Gray clouds hung over the castle and rain splattered the sidewalk. She grabbed her purse and ran to her bicycle.

She cycled along the lane, hoping to reach the château before it began to pour. She heard a clap of thunder and the sky opened up and sheets of rain drenched the fields.

Sydney leaned her bicycle against the gate and hurried to the front door. She fumbled in her purse and shuddered. She had gone out the back door and left her key on the kitchen counter.

“You're very wet,” a male voice said.

Sydney looked up and saw a man in his early twenties. His blond hair was stuck to his head and he wore a checkered shirt and denim shorts.

“I've done something very silly.” Sydney bit her lip. “I locked myself out.”

The man fiddled with the lock and frowned. He walked around the house and Sydney suddenly heard the sound of glass breaking.

“I had to break a window,” he explained. “I'll climb inside and let you in.”

“You shouldn't have done that,” she said when he opened the door. “My landlord will be furious.”

“You couldn't stay outside, you'd catch cold,” he insisted. “Though it would be wise to carry an extra key.”

“I'm sure the landlord left one somewhere.” Sydney entered the kitchen. She glanced at the oak counters and large silver stove and mosaic backsplash. “I arrived a few days ago and haven't explored the whole house.”

The man walked to the pantry and grabbed a set of keys from a gold ring. He handed them to Sydney and smiled.

“How did you know where they are?” Sydney gasped.

“I'm Oliver Ford, your landlord.” He held out his hand and his green eyes sparkled. “I'm sopping wet and I'd give anything for a cup of tea.”

*   *   *

“It doesn't usually rain in June, but sometimes the mistral noir blows in.” Oliver sat on a chintz sofa in the living room. “Tourists think the mistrals are just strong winds with clear skies but the mistral noir can blanket the whole valley in rain.”

“I hope they don't blow in this week.” Sydney stirred honey into hot tea. “I love visiting the outdoor markets and strolling through the vineyards.”

She had found a box of English breakfast tea and a packet of madeleines. She added a pitcher of cream and a jar of honey and placed them on a silver tray.

“I rather enjoy them.” Oliver dunked a madeleine into his tea. “All the perfect weather and breathtaking views can get boring.”

“You're very young to be a landlord,” Sydney mused. She had run upstairs and slipped on a cashmere sweater and pleated skirt. Her hair fell smoothly to her shoulders and she wore beige pumps.

“My father actually owns the château. I stay at a hostel in Gordes and he pays me to look after it,” he explained. “I'm sorry I wasn't here when you arrived. I usually bring a basket of fruit and cheeses.”

“You shouldn't apologize, you saved me from catching pneumonia,” Sydney replied. “Though I must pay for the window.”

“Don't even think about it.” He stopped and a smile lit up his face. “I spent five hours on a train from Paris with an apple and a bag of chips. Do you think I could get a sandwich?”

*   *   *

They moved to the kitchen and Sydney took out a loaf of bread and a wedge of goat cheese. She added sliced ham and green olives. She poured a glass of milk and placed it in front of Oliver.

“I marvel at how much young people eat.” She perched on a stool. “I have two daughters, and when their friends come over I'm always running out of roast beef and tuna salad.”

“My mother used to say I ate poached eggs faster than the chickens could lay them.” Oliver wiped his mouth with a napkin. “My father is a food writer. He met my mother at a restaurant opening in Avignon and thought it would be romantic to live in a château in a vineyard.” Oliver's eyes dimmed. “My mother died a few years ago and he hasn't written another book. He rents the house out during the summer and stays with friends in Paris.”

“You must have had a wonderful childhood.” Sydney nibbled a baguette.

“I collected truffles in the forest and helped my mother make quiche and bouillabaisse.” Oliver nodded. “I thought I might be a chef but every kid who read James Beard thinks he's going to open a one-star Michelin restaurant.

“My roommate works at a restaurant near Gordes. He spends ten hours a day in a sweaty kitchen and the closest he comes to creating interesting dishes is making sure the china isn't smudged.” He scooped up aioli. “I took my father's advice and went to architecture school. People will always need a place to live and you can't throw up a building because you read a cookbook.”

“My oldest daughter is at Dartmouth and she's terribly ambitious,” Sydney mused. “I wouldn't be surprised if she became chief justice or ran for president.”

“And what about you?” Oliver asked.

“Me?” Sydney started.

“What did you want to be?”

“I studied art history at Barnard and wanted to open a gallery in Manhattan.” She sipped her tea. “But then I met my husband and we got married right after graduation.”

“So you never did anything for yourself?” Oliver asked curiously.

Sydney pictured Summerhill with its wide lawn and view of the Long Island Sound. She remembered dinner parties filled with delicious foods and French wines and music filtering through the sound system. She pictured Francis in a black dinner jacket and white bow tie leading her onto the dance floor.

“I have a wonderful husband and two gorgeous daughters.” She placed her cup on the porcelain saucer. “That's all I ever wanted.”

*   *   *

Sydney loaded dishes into the sink and stood at the window. Oliver had left and she'd made herself another cup of tea.

What was she doing in Provence when Francis and Brigit and Daisy were at Summerhill? She remembered the long winter in the Park Avenue town house and the constant ache deep inside her.

She folded the dish towel and thought about the last few days of swimming and bicycling and eating crepes. She hadn't really been happy; it was just an illusion. She watched the rain blanket the vineyards and let the tears run down her cheek.

*   *   *

Sydney sat in the château's living room and turned the pages of her paperback book. It was almost noon and rain pounded on the gabled roof.

She heard a knock at the door and stood up to answer it.

“I thought I may have eaten all your bread and cheese yesterday.” Oliver stood outside. He wore a bright yellow raincoat and juggled two paper sacks. “You can't go to the market in this weather and my father would be furious if his tenant went hungry.”

“You didn't have to come in the rain.” Sydney glanced at the crusty baguette and wedge of Camembert and realized she hadn't eaten anything except a pear at breakfast.

“It was either that or sit in my room and study structural engineering.” Oliver took off his raincoat and hung it in the foyer.

Sydney gazed at his blond hair and smooth cheeks and suddenly thought he looked like a young Robert Redford.

She grabbed the bag and blushed. “That's very kind, I can put them away.”

“The kitchen at the hostel is crowded with Australians eating Marmite sandwiches and Tim Tams. I'd give anything to cook an omelet with avocado and sliced tomatoes.” He gestured to the floral sofa. “Why don't you sit here and I'll make lunch.”

“Why not?” She shrugged. “But please don't use red onions, they always make me cry.”

*   *   *

They sat at the mahogany table in the dining room and ate mushroom omelets and berries with brown sugar. Sydney spread tapenade on toast and thought she'd never tasted anything so delicious.

“When my mother was alive, she was always in the kitchen crushing garlic and whipping cream.” Oliver ate a roasted potato. “My father grumbled he gained five pounds when he walked in the door. But he ate everything she prepared and always asked for more.”

“We have a cottage in East Hampton and the family spends the summer there.” Sydney sipped creamy coffee. “My favorite moment of the day is before everyone comes down to breakfast. The kitchen is completely quiet and smells of butter and syrup.

“Then my husband wants to know who took the business section of the
New York Times
and the girls start arguing over who gets the first waffle and I complain I'll never get any peace.” She smiled. “But I wouldn't want it any other way.”

“Why did you come alone?”

“Excuse me?” Sydney asked.

“My mother wasn't happy unless the porch overflowed with friends nibbling canapés and my father kept the door of his study open so he wouldn't miss a funny story,” Oliver said.

“Since my mother died, he has a steady flow of visitors. I have to wear earplugs because they stay up all night playing chess and drinking Pastis.” He ate the last bite of eggs. “Why didn't your family join you?”