Santorini Sunsets (23 page)

“Then why are you crying?” Nathaniel asked.

“We've only been engaged for six months, it's happening so fast.” She bit her lip. “Tomorrow I'll be Mrs. Blake Crawford. I won't be able to walk down the street without cameras flashing in my face and everything will be different.”

“You could wait a few months and get adjusted to living in a fishbowl,” Nathaniel suggested. “Then have one of those secret weddings where you invite your closest friends to a backyard barbeque and surprise them by exchanging vows.”

Brigit glanced at the Regency desk littered with Cartier boxes. She saw a Louis Vuitton travel bag and thought of their honeymoon in Paris and the South of France. She was madly in love with Blake; they just needed some time alone.

“Why on earth would we postpone the wedding? I can't wait to marry Blake.” She jumped up and walked to the staircase. “I have a million things to do. What are you doing here anyway?”

“A friend is in love with a girl,” Nathaniel began. “He thought she was developing feelings for him too. But he must have done something wrong because now she won't speak to him.” He sipped his coffee. “He's smart and compassionate and I want to ask her to give him another chance.”

Brigit froze and turned around. She walked back into the living room and perched on a brocade armchair.

“What did you say?” she stammered.

“Robbie is in love with Daisy,” Nathaniel continued. “He asked her to go to Mykonos and Crete and she said no. But yesterday I convinced her to change her mind. Something must have happened; she disappeared after the cruise to Therasia and won't talk to him.”

“Robbie and Daisy!” Brigit felt the air leave her lungs. “She never said a word.”

“She doesn't want to burden you before the wedding,” Nathaniel explained. “I've known Robbie for a while and he loves traveling and music and books. Not to mention he's going to inherit a country estate that makes cottages in East Hampton look like oversized tree houses.”

“I'll talk to her.” Brigit nodded. “It would be wonderful if Daisy fell in love.”

“Good. I have to go.” Nathaniel stood up. “I promised Winston a background piece on how the Crawford/Palmer wedding is affecting the local economy.”

“You hate matchmaking, why are you getting involved?” Bridget frowned. “Whenever I set up our friends you said anyone who graduated from Dartmouth or Yale and runs a hedge fund or stockbrokerage is capable of deciding who to marry.”

Nathaniel shrugged and walked to the entry. “This is different, Daisy is family.”

*   *   *

Brigit poured another cup of tea and added lemon and honey. She suddenly remembered Nathaniel saying Daisy was family and a pit formed in her stomach. That's what was bothering her. Her father had said that Blake wanted to write him a check at the summit in Jackson Hole. But when she'd asked why he would accept donations from an outsider, he'd protested Blake was practically family.

Did Blake write Francis a check before or after they were engaged? Suddenly it seemed like the most important question in the world and she knew just how to find the answer.

*   *   *

Sydney smoothed the floral sheets and fluffed turquoise pillows. She felt silly making the bed when the villa's maid would arrive soon, but somehow she didn't want her to see the lipstick on the pillowcase or find her panties under the lace bedspread.

She arranged the paperback books on the bedside table and thought she and Francis were in their fifties, it wasn't unusual that they still made love. Then she remembered his mouth on her breasts and his fingers deep inside her and her cheeks flushed.

*   *   *

She had been determined to tell Francis about Oliver last night, but he'd spent an hour with Brigit in the living room. When he finally appeared at the bedroom door, his eyes gleamed and he clutched a cognac snifter.

He loosened his tie and told her he and Brigit had sipped Rémy Martin and talked about everything. It was wonderful to spend time alone with his daughter and he was the luckiest father in the world.

Then he leaned forward and kissed Sydney softly on the lips. He ran his fingers over her nipples and nuzzled her neck. He unzipped his slacks and led her to the bed.

Sydney opened her thighs and pulled him inside her. She wrapped her arms around his back and urged him to go faster. He uttered a low moan and whispered he loved her more than anything in the world. She inhaled his cologne and promised herself she'd tell him in the morning.

*   *   *

Now she thought of the cruise from Therasia and was certain Robbie had looked at her a little too long. She would tell Francis as soon as he returned from buying cigarettes. The last thing she needed was for Robbie to announce at the rehearsal dinner that they'd met ten years ago in Provence.

“You're still here.” Francis entered the bedroom. “I thought you'd be downstairs with Brigit organizing the rehearsal dinner as if you were planning the Battle of the Bulge.”

“I was straightening up.” Sydney smoothed her hair. “And I wanted to talk to you about something.”

“You'll never guess who I ran into at the newsagent.” He placed a folded-up
New York Times
on the desk. “Harley Adams. I play squash with him at the club. Do you remember you stayed in the villa in Provence they were renting ten years ago?”

Sydney's cheeks were pale and she clutched the upholstered chair. “You saw Harley Adams in Santorini?”

“You'd be surprised how many members of the Colony Club I run into in London or Hong Kong,” Francis mused. “He and Margot are on a cruise of the Greek islands. I told him Brigit is getting married and he made the most tremendous offer.

“The owner of the villa in Gordes died last year and Harley bought it from his son. He suggested we stay there for a couple of weeks after the wedding. Brigit and Blake and Daisy could join us. We could have a proper vacation without worrying if we had enough bottles of Moët & Chandon for the rehearsal dinner.”

“But Brigit and Blake are leaving on their honeymoon,” Sydney stammered.

“I'm sure they could fit in a few days between Paris and the South of France. And Daisy doesn't have a job, she's in no hurry to go back to New York.” He put his arm around her waist. “We can fly into Nice and spend a few days at Hôtel Hermitage in Monte Carlo. We haven't been there since our honeymoon and you loved the elegant boutiques and views of the harbor.”

Sydney pictured Hôtel Hermitage with its crystal chandeliers and creamy stone exterior. She remembered the sweeping lobby filled with white orchids and pastel-colored sofas. She'd worn a floral Givenchy dress and carried her new Dior purse and thought she was the luckiest bride in the world.

“You're on the phone all day and you spent the whole cruise in the communications room sending urgent e-mails,” Sydney replied. “How could you spend more time away from the foundation?”

“Last night Brigit and I talked about books and art and movies,” Francis said. “I realized the most important things are right in front of me. I want to bicycle through vineyards and sample French cheeses and not think about anything except whether to eat fondue or soufflé for dinner.”

“It sounds wonderful,” Sydney said slowly. “I'll talk to Brigit.”

“It really is the most generous offer.” Francis gathered his newspaper and walked to the door. “We'll have to take Harley and Margot to the Four Seasons to say thank you.”

*   *   *

Sydney sat at the dressing table and picked up her hairbrush. It was one thing to tell Francis about an indiscretion ten years ago with a complete stranger.

What if Oliver was still in Gordes and they bumped into him at the outdoor market? They mustn't go to Provence. But until she found a way to stop it, she couldn't tell Francis about Oliver.

She would say Brigit couldn't change their hotel reservations in Antibes. Daisy was anxious to get back to her designs and Francis really shouldn't neglect the foundation. They could take Harley up on his offer next summer.

But Brigit was the most honest person she knew and she couldn't ask her to lie. She rubbed her lips with red lipstick and remembered when Brigit appeared in the Park Avenue town house a month before the wedding. She wore a crepe dress and clutched a Bloomingdale's brown bag.

*   *   *

“Darling, it's lovely to see you.” Sydney looked up. “I was making a list of dresses to take to Santorini. The weather in June is supposed to be quite hot with a cool breeze in the evening.”

“I saw Nathaniel's mother in the gift registry at Bloomingdale's.” Brigit entered the living room.

“How is Elizabeth?” Sydney asked. “I haven't seen her since the St. Luke's gala.”

“I told her I was buying a gift for John and Rachael's wedding this weekend,” Brigit continued. “I did buy them a silver toaster but I was also checking on our registry.” She paused. “I didn't tell her Blake and I are getting married.”

“Why not? Elizabeth has always been fond of you,” Sydney replied. “She'd be delighted that you are happy.”

“I didn't want her to tell Nathaniel,” she explained. “I know it's silly, I haven't spoken to him in years. He wouldn't care if I ran off with a Spanish polo player or joined a monastery in Tibet.”

“Then why don't you want him to know?” Sydney asked.

“That's the thing, I have no idea.” Brigit fiddled with her diamond ring. “I paid for the toaster and said it was nice to see her.”

Sydney gazed at a family photograph taken on the lawn at Summerhill. Brigit and Daisy wore striped bathing suits and carried yellow plastic buckets.

“I'm sure you did the right thing,” Sydney said. “When you are young you think everything is straightforward. But people are complicated and sometimes you have to trust your instincts about what to keep to yourself.” She paused and her eyes dimmed. “If you don't, you could do a lot of damage.”

*   *   *

Sydney stood at the living room window of the Park Avenue town house and gazed at the green trees in Central Park and yellow taxis on Fifth Avenue. Usually she loved September in New York. The summer tourists were gone and the department store windows were filled with winter coats and pastel-colored cashmere sweaters.

She straightened magazines on the glass coffee table and wondered why she felt so empty. She had plenty to do: pick up Francis's tuxedo from the dry cleaner and try on the new fall boots at Bloomingdale's.

But she didn't feel like fixing her hair and braving the lunchtime crowds in Midtown. She glanced at the tuna sandwich the housekeeper had left on the dining room table and realized she wasn't hungry.

She arranged a bunch of purple orchids and suddenly realized she was acting like a neglected wife whose children had their own lives and whose husband spent most of his time at the office.

Francis had started the foundation two years ago, and the first year had been glorious. He'd implored her to travel with him in the beginning but she admitted she was terrified of flying in tiny planes or sleeping in tents with spiders.

She attended charity balls and went to lunch with Brigit and Daisy. But lately Brigit worked straight through dinner and Daisy was busy at Cafe Lalo.

Sydney nibbled a green grape and knew the real reason she was unhappy. Francis had been coming home later every night and closing the door of his study. She'd bring him a turkey sandwich on a silver tray but he'd mumble he'd eaten at the club. She read paperback books until her head ached and she climbed the stairs to bed.

At least they spent weekends together at Summerhill. But by the time they arrived on Friday evening, they were too tired to do anything but eat a grilled cheese sandwich in bed. On Saturday nights she had to cajole him to put on a sport coat and go to dinner at the Palm.

She studied the vase of pink roses and suddenly had an idea. She would go out to Summerhill and pick up prime rib and smoked salmon. When Francis arrived the dining room table would be set with flickering candles and a bottle of Stag's Leap cabernet.

She left a message with Francis's secretary that she was going to Summerhill and he should drive out this evening. She threw her silk Dior nightie into a bag and added a bottle of Chanel No 5. She gathered her purse and took the elevator to the garage. She slid into the driver's seat of the Mercedes coupe and felt like a college coed blowing off a history final.

*   *   *

Sydney pulled into the driveway and adjusted her sunglasses. It was early afternoon and sprinklers played on the lawn. She inhaled the fresh ocean air and thought it had been a good idea to come to Summerhill.

She looked up and saw Francis's silver Audi parked next to the garage. Perhaps his secretary had gotten the message wrong. But when did he leave Manhattan at noon on a Friday?

She stepped out of the car and saw the front door open. Francis stood on the porch with a young woman with long, dark hair. Her eyelashes were coated with thick mascara and she wore a navy dress and beige stilettos.

Sydney froze and gripped the door handle. Perhaps it was a friend of Brigit's or someone Francis worked with. But she knew every employee at the foundation and why would a family friend be with Francis at Summerhill?

She climbed into the car and put the key in the ignition. She wasn't going to question Francis in front of a complete stranger. She backed down the driveway and drove until she reached the shore.

She sat in the Mercedes and gazed at the Long Island Sound. Francis wasn't the kind of husband who paid attention to other wives at dinner or brushed too close to women at a party. He didn't flirt with the hostess at Tavern on the Green or make conversation with the female bartender at King Cole Bar.

She suddenly pictured Oliver with his wavy blond hair and green eyes and felt like she couldn't breathe. But that was different. She had been miserable and it would never happen again.