Santorini Sunsets Read online

  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 f
urious 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?”

  “East Hampton has quaint shops and it’s only two hours from Manhattan,” Sydney replied. “Brigit and Daisy adore the beach and my husband loves being close to the office.”

  Oliver put his napkin on his plate and leaned back in his chair. “If it’s perfect, why did you come to Provence?”

  Sydney gazed at the platter of sliced capers and soft cheeses. There was a plate of fig tarts and white nougat.

  “I had a craving for ratatouille and nougat.”

  * * *

  Sydney strolled through the outdoor market in Gordes and ate a juicy plum. She was going home in two days and wanted to buy a silk scarf for Brigit and hoop earrings for Daisy and a bottle of burgundy for Francis. She tossed the plum pit in her basket and thought she would miss the Tuesday market with its jars of preserves and slices of pork.

  The mistral had lasted two days and then the Luberon valley was bathed in sunshine. She spent the week swimming and riding her bicycle. Sometimes she gazed at the fields of purple lavender and felt a pleasant warmth. Then she would remember losing the baby and double over in pain.

  She selected a patterned scarf and handed it to the vendor. She heard a male voice behind her and turned around.

  “There you are,” Oliver said. “I haven’t seen you in days, you’re all brown.”

  “I did a lot of walking.” Sydney smiled. She reached into her purse and took out a fifty-euro note. “I’m leaving in a couple of days and wanted to pay for the window.”

  “It’s been fixed but you can do something for me,” Oliver replied. “My roommate is the line cook at Hotel Les Bories, it has one Michelin star and overlooks the whole valley.

  “It usually takes months to get a reservation but he got a table for tonight. If I go alone, I won’t be able to sample all the dishes. Will you join me?”

  “I’m sure you can find a more suitable dinner partner,” Sydney mused.

  “All my friends are in Nice or Paris for the summer,” Oliver pleaded. “You can’t leave Provence without eating at Les Bories. The guinea fowl with amandine mashed potatoes is delicious.”

  “I’ll go if you let me pay for dinner.” Sydney put the euro note back in her purse. “It’s the least I can do for breaking the window.”

  “It’s a deal.” Oliver grinned. “I’ll pick you up at seven p.m.”

  * * *

  They sat at a table on the terrace overlooking the rolling hills. It was almost sunset and the sky was a muted orange. Sydney saw stone farmhouses and green hedges and felt like she was in a Monet painting.

  The restaurant had wood floors and plaster walls and a long marble fireplace. The booths were covered in white damask and littered with purple silk pillows.

  The waiter brought duck liver pâte and stuffed artichoke with yellow egg. There was lamb in honey and mustard and summer vegetables. Sydney sipped a Château Sainte Marguerite and thought it was the best rosé she’d ever tasted.

  “This is delicious but you should have brought a date,” Sydney said, after they’d ordered lemon meringue for dessert. “You must have a girlfriend.”

  “All the girls in Provence either get married when they’re twenty or go to Paris and never return.” Oliver shrugged.

  “Why do you come back?” Sydney asked.

  “When I started university, I couldn’t wait for the train to leave Gordes,” he replied. “My mother had just died and I never wanted to return. But I sat in my flat in Paris and knew being away wasn’t the cure. It sounds silly but Provence is like a warm blanket.”

  “It doesn’t sound silly at all.” She ate a bite of meringue. “I know exactly what you mean.”

  * * *

  They drank shots of Pastis and talked about Oliver’s plans and Brigit and Daisy. Sydney opened her purse to pay the bill and realized she’d left her credit card at the château.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it.” Oliver reached into his pocket and took out two fifty-euro notes.

  “I’m terribly embarrassed.” Sydney flushed. “I’ll pay you when we reach the château.”

  Oliver went to pay the check and a young man approached the table. He couldn’t have been more than twenty and wore a white linen apron.

  “I’m not usually allowed to leave the kitchen but I wanted to make sure you enjoyed your meal,” he said.

  “You must be Oliver’s roommate.” Sydney held out her hand. “It was delicious, I’ve never tasted such sweet vegetables.”

  “I’m glad you like it,” he replied. He had dark hair and a British accent. “Oliver said he had a very important date and the ratatouille had to be perfect.”

  * * *

  Sydney opened the door of the château and entered the kitchen. She took two fifty-euro notes out of a drawer and heard footsteps behind her.

  Oliver crossed the stone floor and touched her shoulder. He pulled her toward him and kissed her on the mouth.

  “What are you doing?” Sydney spluttered.

  “You’re like a photo in a fashion magazine but you’re completely real,” Oliver said. “I can’t stop thinking about you and I’ve never wanted a woman more in my life.”

  “I’m married,” Sydney exclaimed. “I’ve never cheated on my husband.”

  “But you forgot your credit card.” Oliver ran his hands through his hair. “I thought you did it on purpose, you wanted me to come here.”

  “I had a wonderful time.” Sydney smoothed her skirt. “But you have to go.”

  “Could I have a cup of coffee?” Oliver asked.

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Sydney held out her hand. “Thank you for everything, I had a lovely stay in Provence.”

  Sydney waited un
til the front door closed and sat in the living room. She heard a door open and looked up. Oliver stood in the entry, clutching a bouquet of lilies.

  “I forgot to give these to you.” He entered the living room. “They would have wilted in my car.”

  She tried to stand but suddenly her legs were unsteady. Oliver sat beside her and took her face in his hands. He kissed her slowly, tasting of sugar and liqueur.

  He took her hand and led her up the wooden staircase. She glanced at the canopied bed and was seized by a terrible panic. She started to say something but his hand reached under her dress. His fingers brush her thighs and she gasped.

  “Come here,” he moaned. “I’ve wanted this since the first moment I saw you.”

  She unzipped her dress and slipped off her sandals. He drew her onto the bed and she opened her legs and guided him inside her. She clung to his back and suddenly thought of everything she was giving up. Then her whole body opened and she thought she would die of pleasure.

  Oliver clasped her shoulders and buried his mouth in her hair. He pushed faster until he came with a terrible force. He groaned and collapsed against her breasts.

  “I knew you were beautiful,” he whispered, pulling the sheet over them. “But I never thought anything could be so exquisite.”

  “Neither did I.” Sydney felt his slick thigh on top of hers. “It was almost too good.”

  She waited until he fell asleep and then she pulled on a cotton robe and sat at the dressing table. She glanced at her pale cheeks and tousled hair and shuddered. Losing the baby had been an accident and Francis had already forgiven her.

  She picked up a wooden hairbrush and brushed her hair. He could never forgive what she’d done now. If he found out she would lose everything.

  * * *

  Sydney pushed away the plate of risotto and gazed at the whitewashed houses and deep blue Aegean. Of course she recognized Robbie, he was Oliver’s roommate! She pictured him standing at the table of the restaurant in Gordes and could barely swallow.

  It had been ten years; she must look different. Her hair wasn’t as blond and she had new wrinkles on her forehead. Why would he remember an American tourist he’d met for a few moments?