Santorini Sunsets (24 page)

*   *   *

Now Sydney stood in Summerhill's kitchen and rinsed butter lettuce. She gazed at the marble counter littered with purple asparagus and heirloom tomatoes and thought that whatever she'd seen this afternoon must be completely innocent.

She checked on the roast and waited for Francis to arrive. He would explain he'd come out to Summerhill to catch up on some paperwork and ran into the wife of a member of the club. He'd shown her around the house and then drove her back to the train station.

She heard the front door open and smoothed her hair. She rubbed her lips with red lipstick and took a deep breath.

“Darling, what perfect timing.” She looked up. “I asked Fred to give me the best cut of prime rib. There's an avocado salad and cream of asparagus soup.”

“I wanted to be here earlier but I was on a conference call with Singapore.” Francis loosened his tie. “And Friday evening traffic was a mess, it took me half an hour to get on the Long Island Expressway.”

“You just left Manhattan now?” Sydney asked.

“Myrna gave me your message.” He nodded. “This is a wonderful idea. When was the last time we sat down to a bottle of a cabernet and a steak dinner?”

Sydney walked into the living room and poured a glass of scotch. She swallowed it in one gulp and tried to stop her heart from racing. Why would Francis say he was at the office all day unless he was hiding something?

She heard footsteps and saw Francis standing in the hallway.

“Why don't you sit on the porch and I'll fix us two martinis.” He tucked her blond hair behind her ear. “Every hardworking chef deserves a dry martini with Bombay Sapphire gin and vermouth and orange-flavored liqueur.”

Sydney sat on the stone bench and gazed at the pond filled with goldfish. She suddenly pictured the villa in Provence with its tennis court and swimming pool and vineyards. She remembered the terrible guilt over losing the baby and thinking she would never be happy again.

She pictured the moment of pleasure with Oliver and then the fear she'd lost everything. She remembered the night after the company Christmas party when she and Francis finally made love.

They had come home tipsy and climbed the staircase to their bedroom. Her Chopard watch caught in her zipper and she asked Francis for help. He touched her skin and then suddenly turned her around and kissed her softly on the mouth.

She remembered the scent of his cologne and her sudden intake of breath. Her body shattered in the most exquisite release and she knew she would never do anything to risk their marriage again.

She thought of the slow years of rebuilding: spring at the Ritz in Paris and impromptu dinner parties with friends. She pictured Francis's surprise fiftieth birthday party in a private room at the Pierre. His cheeks glowed and his eyes sparkled and he was like a schoolboy accepting a prize on awards day.

She thought of all the wonderful times: celebrating Daisy's graduation from Swarthmore and Brigit and Nathaniel's engagement and their wedding on the lawn at Summerhill. What if she asked Francis who the woman was and couldn't bear the answer?

But could she sit across from him at the dining room table without knowing the truth? She remembered when she'd arrived home from Provence and thought she couldn't go on without telling Francis about Oliver. Sometimes you had to box things up and put them away like a wedding present you couldn't use.

Francis appeared on the porch and handed her a martini.

“You look very thoughtful,” he mused.

Sydney tasted the bitter gin and strong vermouth and sweet orange liqueur.

“I was thinking I should take the roast out of the oven.” She smiled. “I don't want it to be overcooked.”

*   *   *

Sydney placed her hairbrush on the dressing table and thought she was behaving like a melodramatic schoolgirl. Brigit probably had no desire to spend part of her honeymoon with her parents and Daisy was desperate to get an appointment with a buyer at Saks.

She snapped her Chopard watch around her wrist and thought a marriage shouldn't have secrets. Once you started hiding things it became as convoluted as a thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle.

But she couldn't dwell on the past; she had to move forward. She slipped on her sandals and hurried down the circular staircase.

 

Chapter Seventeen

B
RIGIT STIRRED SUGAR
into black coffee and gazed around the main square of Fira. It was almost noon and the outdoor cafés were filled with couples sharing vegetable risotto. The hot sun touched her shoulders and she thought she really should be getting ready for the rehearsal dinner. If she drank too much coffee her eyes hurt and her skin felt like paper.

But she had to find out when Blake had sent her father the check, and she couldn't log onto her iPad in the villa's living room. She'd received the account passwords when she joined the foundation, but so far she had only glanced at the annual report and future projections.

She flipped through the check entries and saw Blake's check for two million dollars. She read the date and noticed it was a week before the St. Regis gala.

She leaned back in her chair and her shoulders relaxed. Blake's donation had nothing to with her and they hadn't even met when he'd sent the check.

She would order a Greek salad and a bowl of fava beans. Then she would stroll up to Blake's villa. She didn't care if it was full of groomsmen drinking Metaxa and playing backgammon. It was their wedding weekend and she wanted to be with her fiancé.

She was about to close the iPad when she saw Blake's name in the check registry. She looked more closely and saw he'd sent another check for three million dollars. She glanced at the date and gasped.

She pictured the weekend in Crete when Blake proposed. She remembered the tiny church in Plaka and the picnic of stuffed grape leaves and feta cheese tapas. Blake had gotten down on one knee and presented her with the Neil Lane diamond ring. He'd whispered that he'd waited all his life to meet the right woman and she had to say yes.

Brigit snapped the iPad shut and shivered. Why did Blake send another three-million-dollar check to the foundation the day after he proposed, and why hadn't her father mentioned it?

*   *   *

“There you are, I came back to the villa but you'd left,” a male voice said. “It's the day before your wedding, you should be sequestered in your bedroom like Marie Antoinette.”

“I was thirsty.” Brigit looked up and saw Nathaniel. He carried a newspaper in one hand and his backpack was slung over his shoulder.

“If you drink too much coffee during the day you'll fall asleep.” Nathaniel pulled out a chair. “Do you remember when you drank four cups of black coffee and passed out in your history exam? I told the professor you'd just returned from visiting your dying grandmother in London and needed a few hours' rest.”

“He let me go back to my dorm and retake it in the morning.” Brigit smiled.

“It helped that you were an A-plus student and never missed a class,” he replied. “Sydney was worried about you, you disappeared without telling anyone.”

“I had to look up something.” Brigit hesitated.

“That's funny, so did I.” He handed her the newspaper.

“What is it?” she asked.

“I was doing research for background pieces on Blake,” Nathaniel explained. “This was in the
Los Angeles Times
four years ago.”

“‘Standing on the balcony of his Hollywood Hills home and dressed in an understated Tom Ford blazer, actor Blake Crawford is living the American Dream. With a string of box office hits and a contact list filled with the hottest models, Crawford's meteoric rise to fame is the classic fable of small-town-boy-makes good,'” Brigit read out loud.

“‘He arrived in Hollywood by Greyhound bus seven years ago, with no acting experience but fierce determination.

“‘“I've never been afraid to work hard,” Crawford says, sipping a pale ale from a local microbrewery. “In high school my buddy and I started a car wash business and soon washed all the cars in the neighborhood. I fell in love with cinema when I saw Francis Ford Coppola's
Apocalypse Now.
Coppola overcame budget issues, on-set drama, and a typhoon to shoot the movie. He never gave up and it is arguably the greatest film ever made.

“‘Crawford was named
People
's Most Beautiful Person last month, but he's not resting on his laurels. He's not even sure he wants to stay in Hollywood.

“‘“I'm grateful for everything the industry has given me, especially a certain brunette,” he says mischievously. “But, let's face it, an actor is always judged by his last movie or the new gray in his hair.

“‘“One of my favorite films is Martin Scorsese's
The Age of Innocence.
He captured the undercurrents of power in old New York drawing rooms like no other director. I've always had a fascination with New York society. You never see their photos in newspapers but they rule the world.” He fiddles with his new Patek Philippe watch and flashes the irresistible Crawford smile. “If I could be anywhere it would be at the Plaza in New York, drinking old-fashioneds with Rockefellers and Vanderbilts. But it wouldn't be a scene from a movie, it would be my real life.”'”

Brigit's cheeks turned pale and she felt like she couldn't breathe. She dropped the newspaper onto the table and looked at Nathaniel.

“Why did you give me this?”

“I thought you should see it.” He shrugged.

“You're just jealous of Blake's success.” Brigit's eyes flashed. “You were a rising literary star but you couldn't do the work to finish your novel.” She fiddled with her gold necklace. “You should know better than anyone it's probably all lies. The reporter took one quote and twisted it to say something else. Even if Blake wanted to marry into New York society, why would he choose me unless he was in love? There are plenty of New York It girls with better pedigrees and longer legs.”

“Maybe Blake is enamored by New York society, but that's not a bad thing.” Nathaniel's voice was tight. “You're the one who needs everyone in your life to be as perfect as the cashmere twinsets you wear to work.”

“What do you mean?” Brigit demanded.

“Authors can be blocked for months or even years,” he continued. “Just because I didn't produce a novel in your time frame didn't mean I wasn't a writer. Nathaniel Hawthorne's wife waited ten years for him to write
The Scarlet Letter
.”

“You're the one who quit writing,” Brigit whispered.

“Because you stood over my shoulder like a foreman on an assembly line,” Nathaniel snapped. “You have to decide if you can accept Blake if he's not quite Cary Grant or Gregory Peck.”

Brigit thought of the last months of their marriage when they'd fought over how she opened the cereal box. She remembered going into their bedroom and hearing the front door slam. She pictured lying in bed and waiting for Nathaniel to return.

“You made it perfectly clear you couldn't stand being around me. I'm glad you left and I wish you hadn't shown up in Santorini.” She jumped up. “If you spoil the only chance I have of being happy, I'll never forgive you.”

“Brigit, wait,” Nathaniel implored.

“What is it?” Brigit asked.

“You're too stubborn to see things the way they are. It's not that I couldn't stand being around you, I couldn't stand myself.” He shielded his eyes from the sun. “And you're wrong about Blake finding other It girls in New York.” He paused. “There's only one Brigit Palmer.”

Brigit strode up the steep path and stopped to catch her breath. The farther she got from Nathaniel, the more nervous she became. She flashed on the guest list filled with Forbeses and Whitneys and thought, what if Blake only wanted to marry her to become part of New York's inner circle?

She was being ridiculous. Blake was a movie star; every door was open to him. He had sipped tea with Prince Harry and shared boiled rice with the Dalai Lama. If he wanted to be invited to cocktails at the governor's mansion, all he had to do was ask.

But she thought of her mother's position on the Guggenheim board and her father's membership at the Colony Club and a pit formed in her stomach. Many New York organizations didn't want their charitable endeavors spread over the pages of
People.
And a former secretary of state would rather starve than eat lunch next to someone who dated a
Sports Illustrated
model.

She had to ask Blake why he'd invested in the foundation without telling her. And she had to show him the article and ask if any of it was true. She was an attorney, if she didn't address the facts now, it would be too late.

She would change into a Kate Spade dress and gold sandals. She would fix her makeup and spritz her wrists with Estee Lauder, Beautiful. Then she would go to Blake's villa and demand some answers.

She glanced at the mosaic roofs and pink hibiscus and shimmering ocean. She hoped she was wrong about everything. She was madly in love and couldn't wait to get married.

*   *   *

Daisy gazed at the floral skirts and gauze blouses littering the bed and thought she really should hang them in her closet. But she had been so flustered when she'd returned from Old Port; she'd climbed straight into the shower.

She knotted her hair in a ponytail and tied it with a purple ribbon. She opened her laptop and thought she'd check her e-mails while she waited for Brigit to return. The first e-mail was from an old college roommate who was assistant buyer at Neiman Marcus in San Francisco.

Daisy had sent photos of her designs before she'd left for Santorini. She clicked on the e-mail and read it quickly.

Dear Daisy,

I hope you are having a fabulous time in Santorini, it's freezing cold in San Francisco. Most people hate summer fog, but I think it makes the fall fashions more exciting.