Santorini Sunsets Page 18

  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.

  * * *

  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

  BRIGIT 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 mischi
evously. “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.”