Santorini Sunsets Read online

  Blake leaned forward and kissed her on the mouth. God, she was beautiful! Like a Greek goddess. He rubbed the sweet spot between her legs and suddenly inserted a finger deep inside her. He pressed her breasts against his chest and watched her eyes flicker and her shoulders tighten.

  Brigit tensed her muscles and the familiar warmth rushed inside her. His fingers moved faster and she strained her body to reach them. She felt the liquid filling her up and carrying her to the edge. She bit her lip and let her body rise and gasp and shudder.

  He waited until her breathing subsided and then drew her onto the ivory bedspread. He kissed her neck and her breasts and ran his hands over her stomach. He buried his head between her legs and thought he had never tasted such sweet wetness.

  Brigit wrapped her arms around his back and pulled him on top of her. Her breathing quickened and then she felt the long, slow pleasure. She grabbed his shoulders, urging him to go faster. He picked up speed and she felt a sudden surge of happiness. Then they came together in one long, endless thrust.

  Brigit tucked herself against his chest and listened to his even breathing. She glanced around the room at the crystal chandelier and silver wallpaper and marble busts. Blake had whispered “I love you” and she realized she hadn’t answered. She closed her eyes and pulled the Egyptian cotton sheets over her shoulders.

  * * *

  Brigit climbed back up the steep path to the villa from the main square of Fira. Her head throbbed when she thought about Blake allowing HELLO! magazine to cover the wedding and Nathaniel showing up in Santorini. But then she felt the warm sun on her shoulders and stopped and gazed at the view. She saw the deep blue Aegean Sea and black stone of the caldera. She saw the pale blue sky and high white clouds and silver cruise ships.

  She pictured tonight’s dinner of spinach salad and baked eggplant and grilled swordfish. There would be platters of lamb skewers marinated in olive oil. She imagined Blake’s favorite double chocolate cake and vanilla custard and colored macaroons.

  She thought of their friends who were arriving tomorrow from New York and Los Angeles and London. Blake had planned so many activities: visiting the ancient ruins at Akrotiri and having dinner on the beach in Kamari and hiking to Oia Castle and watching the sky turn pink and purple and orange over the ocean. She pictured the rehearsal dinner at the taverna on Amoudi Bay and the wedding ceremony in the Church of Panagia Episkopi.

  She walked faster up the path and decided she wasn’t going to let Nathaniel spoil her wedding weekend. She was going to pretend he was a piece of antique furniture or an Oriental rug and ignore him. She pictured Blake in a white tuxedo and felt light and warm and happy. She imagined her father raising his crystal champagne glass in a toast and announcing: “I’m so pleased to announce the new Mr. and Mrs. Blake Crawford.”

  She remembered the day she’d signed her divorce papers and flinched. She’d hurried down Lexington Avenue with the papers crushed against her chest and vowed never to change her name again. She adjusted her sunglasses and thought that was before she met Blake. Now she couldn’t wait to become Brigit Crawford. She pictured Nathaniel’s face when the priest declared them man and wife and put her hand over her mouth.

  Chapter Two

  DAISY FLICKED THROUGH THE DRESSES in her closet and thought again she should have come up with any excuse—she couldn’t get anyone to pet sit Edgar, her French bulldog, she had a first meeting with a buyer at Bergdorf’s, she had been invited on a last-minute weekend trip to Cape Cod—to avoid coming to the wedding in Santorini.

  She held up an orange linen dress and sank onto the white cotton bedspread. Of course she would never miss her sister’s wedding; she just wished they had done something simple like have a small ceremony at city hall followed by lunch at Tavern on the Green. Something that would have been over in four or five hours so Daisy could gamely try to catch the bouquet and throw rice at the bride and groom and then go home to her own apartment to watch Gilmore Girls on Netflix and fiddle with her design sketches.

  She gazed at her long auburn hair and brown eyes in the mirror and thought of all the events she had attended in Brigit’s honor: prize day at Spence School when Brigit received the Hamilton Prize for Math and the Woods Prize for English and the Ellen Hope award for being voted Future Business Leader of America.

  She thought of Brigit graduating from Dartmouth with honors and in the top tenth of her class from Columbia Law School. She remembered the dinner party at her parents’ town house to celebrate her being hired by one of Manhattan’s top law firms. She thought of Brigit and Nathaniel’s wedding on the lawn at Summerhill and cringed. Brigit had worn a silk Vera Wang gown and satin pumps and Daisy had never seen anyone so radiant.

  Daisy wasn’t jealous of Brigit; she hadn’t applied to Dartmouth because she couldn’t stand the thought of spending winters wrapped in scarfs and sweaters and seeing nothing but fields covered in snow. And she could have easily gone to law school after Swarthmore, but the thought of spending another three years lurking in a university library and existing on black coffee made her stomach turn. But she admired everything about her: the way her hair was always perfectly brushed and her cheeks glowed and she wore only the faintest trace of lipstick. The way her clothes seemed to be made just for her and she wore just the right amount of jewelry. Mostly she admired that she always smiled so that people flocked around her like moths to a flame.

  * * *

  Daisy stepped into the orange dress and thought about the only time she had seen Brigit in pain—when Nathaniel walked out of the apartment. She remembered finding Brigit huddled under a checkered Burberry blanket. She wore a navy Theory dress and beige Gucci pumps and was clutching her red leather briefcase.

  “Go to bed.” Daisy stroked Brigit’s hair. “I’ll call the law firm and tell them you came down with a fever.”

  “I can’t miss work because Nathaniel is acting like a child,” Brigit insisted. Her eyes were watery and her cheeks were pale and she couldn’t stop shivering. “I knew I shouldn’t have married him, do you remember when we were children and he hated losing at Monopoly? If I won, he’d gather all his money and toss it on the board like confetti. And he was always stubborn, if he couldn’t be the shoe he wouldn’t even play.”

  “He’ll come back,” Daisy soothed. “He’s like a fish in the Sahara desert without you.”

  “Of course he’ll come back.” Brigit stood up and smoothed her hair. She scooped up an empty soda can and a half-eaten bag of potato chips and a stack of old New Yorkers. “And he’ll find a clean apartment and a Whole Foods chicken in the oven and fresh flowers from the flower market. I’m not going to let him turn our lives into a scene from his Dartmouth fraternity house. We’ll have a delicious dinner and a bottle of Penfolds cabernet and talk like two sensible adults.” She looked at Daisy and her blue eyes filled with tears. “I’m a lawyer, I know there are two sides to every story. I want to help him write his novel, I just can’t stand him wasting his talent lying on the sofa and playing Pac-Man on his iPhone.”

  * * *

  Daisy remembered the week after Nathaniel left when Daisy slept in the alcove that served as a guest room. Brigit shuffled around in a yellow bathrobe and white slippers. Her hair was flat and her skin was papery and her cheekbones were narrow. She remembered her curling up in her Pottery Barn bed with an old teddy bear and a bottle of NyQuil.

  * * *

  Daisy brushed her auburn hair into a ponytail and tied it with an orange ribbon. She added gold hoop earrings and a gold necklace and thought about when Brigit had introduced her to Blake. She remembered seeing his smooth cheeks and impossibly white smile and thinking only Brigit would recover from a broken marriage by dating one of the most eligible bachelors in Hollywood.

  She remembered Brigit describing dinners at Le Bernardin of warm artichoke panache and poached skate and roasted figs with vanilla ice cream for dessert. She pictured her displaying gifts of a Philip Treacy hat or a Tory Burch scarf or a first-edition
copy of The Sun Also Rises. She remembered the morning Brigit insisted Daisy meet her for brunch at Sarabeth’s on Madison Avenue and Ninety-Second Street.

  * * *

  “God, these eggs are delicious.” Daisy ate Popeye eggs and a berry corn muffin and sipped a glass of banana and pomegranate juice. She wore a fisherman’s sweater and green leggings and beige suede loafers. Her hair was wound into a ponytail and tied with a green ribbon.

  She glanced at Brigit in a floral Alice + Olivia dress and thought she’d never looked so lovely. Her smooth blond hair was held back with a gold clip and her eyes were coated with thick mascara. She wore a shimmering blush and her lips were painted with coral lipstick. “I should quit Cafe Lalo and work here. I love their menu: Popeye eggs and Goldie Lox and vegetable frittata with scallions and peppers.”

  “You love being a pastry chef.” Brigit sprinkled pink Hawaiian sea salt on green-and-white eggs. “You’ve never been happier.”

  “I’m tired of waking up at four a.m. and always having my hands covered with a layer of powdered sugar.” Daisy smoothed her napkin. “I might work in a flower shop or paint houses.”

  “You’re terrified of ladders.” Brigit giggled. “Whenever the gardener left the ladder out at Summerhill you walked around the whole lawn to avoid it.”

  “It would be so satisfying to finish work and see a room painted magenta or sunflower yellow or turquoise.” Daisy spread butter on a pumpkin muffin. “Maybe I’ll become a dress designer; my art professor at Swarthmore thought I was talented and I always loved making clothes for my American Girl doll.”

  “You could design my bridesmaid dresses,” Brigit said slowly. “I picture knee-length dresses with a gathered waist and a full skirt. And some wonderful light fabric, a green chiffon or a pale blue Italian silk.”

  “You’re getting married?” Daisy gasped. She picked up her glass of pomegranate juice and took a long sip.

  “Blake proposed in Crete.” Brigit flushed. She tucked her hair behind her ears and fiddled with her gold necklace. “He packed a picnic of stuffed grape leaves and ricotta cheese tapas and ripe peaches and we spent all day exploring the palace of Knossos and the Psychro Caves and the pink sand beaches of Elafonissi. We hiked to a tiny church in Plaka at sunset and watched the glorious sunset.

  “We entered the church and Blake took my hand and said he felt like Odysseus when he finally found his way home. He never thought he would get married because he couldn’t imagine spending his life with one person, but now he couldn’t survive a day without me. Then he dropped to his knee and pulled out a black velvet box.” Brigit stopped and smiled. “To be honest I was afraid it might be over the top with a ten-carat diamond and a jeweled band.” She held out her hand and displayed a yellow oval diamond flanked by two small rubies. “But he designed it himself with Neil Lane and it’s lovely. I can’t imagine anything I’d like better.”

  “But you only met last fall.” Daisy frowned. “Isn’t it a little sudden?”

  “We won’t get married until the summer,” Brigit mused. “We’ll have the wedding in Mykonos or Sardinia where we don’t have to worry about photographers bursting into the church.” She stopped and suddenly her eyes were dark. “I knew Nathaniel since he colored on my self-portrait in kindergarten and our marriage still failed. I remember when we were six and he suggested we play Peter Rabbit and sneak into our neighbor’s garden. Mrs. Black opened the back door and he got scared and ran away.” Brigit blotted her mouth with the napkin. “She was very sweet and insisted I come inside for ice cream but he didn’t know that. He left me to take the blame.

  “Blake and I have so much in common, he’s committed to helping end world poverty,” Brigit continued. “And he’s a perfect gentleman, he always opens my car door and he sends different colored tulips every day of the week. I’m ready for someone who enjoys French champagne and shopping in the men’s department at Saks and seeing a Broadway show.” She looked at Daisy and her eyes were huge. “I’m twenty-eight, it’s time I started acting like a grown-up.”

  “You’ll have a penthouse on Fifth Avenue and a vacation home in Malibu and a Range Rover with matching car seats.” Daisy ate a last bite of fluffy egg whites and grilled tomatoes and Gruyère cheese. “You’ll give birth to twin boys with blond hair and green eyes and they’ll learn to throw a baseball before they’re five. You’re marrying Blake Crawford! Every woman in America is jealous.”

  * * *

  Daisy gazed out the bedroom window at the wide olive trees and pink azaleas and thought Brigit couldn’t have picked a more beautiful location. The steep path to the villa was flanked by lemon trees and the air smelled like citrus and honey. Everyone in Santorini was friendly; the taxi driver had given her a bag of figs and the old woman who’d directed her to the villa had insisted she take a bottle of olive oil.

  She pictured Nathaniel eating prosciutto and red onions on rye bread in the kitchen and flinched. Nathaniel and Brigit were like two kittens fighting over a ball of yarn. She remembered the first time they met, when Nathaniel was five and crawled under a hole in the fence and appeared in their garden.

  Brigit had led him into their parents’ dinner party like a new pony. She saw Brigit’s mouth pucker when the guests exclaimed over his curly blond hair and long eyelashes and didn’t notice her new summer dress or patent leather sandals.

  She pictured Nathaniel throughout their childhood: teaching them to use the archery set Brigit received for her eighth birthday; digging a hole for Goldie, their goldfish, when he jumped out of his fishbowl. She saw him standing over the shallow grave, reciting a poem by Dr. Seuss, and giggled.

  She slipped on her cork sandals and remembered when Brigit and Nathaniel burst into the living room of their parents’ Park Avenue town house and announced their engagement. She remembered gazing at their white smiles, the Manhattan skyline twinkling behind them, and wondering what it was like to feel so certain about anything.

  She thought of all the hours Brigit had spent planning her and Blake’s wedding: the pastel bridesmaids’ bouquets and six-tier marzipan cake baked by a local baker. She saw the ivory Oscar de la Renta gown and delicate gold sandals and pink pearl necklace. She pictured Brigit’s smooth blond hair and large blue eyes and knew she couldn’t let Nathaniel ruin her hard work.

  Chapter Three

  SYDNEY LEANED OUT the bedroom window and gazed at the garden filled with lush bougainvillea and white hibiscus. She saw the steep cliffs and white villas and clear blue sea. She inhaled the scent of oranges and figs and thought she was so happy to be in Greece.

  The room was beautiful with a canopied bed and wooden dresser and ceramic vase filled with sunflowers. Her linen dress was flung over a brocade armchair and her sandals sat under the floral bedspread and her silk slip peeked out from the cotton sheets. She pulled the robe around her waist and remembered Francis’s mouth on her lips, his hands in her hair, his fingers caressing her breasts.

  She pictured Brigit in the dining room straightening the white china plates and gleaming silverware and smiled. Her daughter would have been shocked to know that her parents were upstairs in the villa’s sunny bedroom in the middle of the afternoon.

  “Come here,” Francis had whispered, putting his finger to his mouth and leading her to the bed.

  “What are you doing?” Sydney gasped. “The windows are open and Brigit and Daisy will hear us.”

  Francis walked to the balcony and closed the shutters. He turned and admired Sydney’s full breasts and sloping stomach.

  “We’re in Greece and it’s two o’clock in the afternoon.” He kissed her. “We have to follow local customs and take a siesta.”

  The mattress creaked and they dissolved into a fit of giggles. There was a sudden hush when she pulled him on top of her and he plunged deep inside her. Her body tipped and Francis clutched her shoulders and fell onto her breasts.

  “Now I know why the ancient Greeks created such great art and literature,” he murmured, inhaling her
jasmine scent.

  “Why?” Sydney felt her heart slow down.

  “Because they took the time to appreciate beauty,” he murmured.

  * * *

  Now she gazed at the white porcelain bathtub and wished she could spend the afternoon surrounded by bubbles. She imagined eating plump grapes and reading one of the paperbacks she’d brought onto the plane. Francis would return and they would have a romantic dinner on the terrace. She saw Francis dipping calamari into cocktail sauce and drizzling olive oil on Salade niçoise. They would leave their plates half full and climb back into the four-poster bed.

  She glanced at her Chopard watch and knew she should be thinking about the caterers and the florists and the harpist. In two hours the villa would be filled with guests from New York and London and Los Angeles. A case of French champagne chilled in the fridge and platters of fresh fruit and soft cheeses waited in the pantry. She took a deep breath and saw Francis’s wallet on the bedside table.

  After they made love, Francis said he was going into Fira to buy cigarettes and the Wall Street Journal. He had zipped up his slacks and buttoned his shirt and slid his phone into his pocket. Then he blew her a kiss and hurried out the door.

  She reclined against the silk pillows and thought of all the things she wanted to say: he really had to stop smoking, he could exist one day without reading the Wall Street Journal, he must relax, it was their daughter’s wedding.

  But for the last ten months he had been so preoccupied, coming home from the office late and eating a tuna salad sandwich in his study. Working on Saturdays and only coming out to Summerhill late in the evening. Missing weekends altogether so she had to host their dinner parties alone and make jokes about her husband being a summer bachelor.

  She turned the wallet over and thought Francis couldn’t buy cigarettes without any euros. He never used to be absentminded; even in the early years when he worked fourteen-hour days he never forgot the girls’ school performances or her birthday. She pictured waking up every year to two dozen yellow roses and a blue Tiffany’s box. She remembered untying the bow and thinking she was the luckiest woman in the world.