by Anita Hughes
“I don’t enjoy our dinners any more than you do, but it’s important that Louisa knows her grandparents. And my parents are behaving better.” Lily fixed her hair. “Last week they took us to the Bohemian Club. It was the best prime rib I ever tasted.”
“Your mother wanted you to run into your old friends: Buffy, who’s married to a hedge fund manager, and Chloe, whose husband started an Internet search engine.” He paused. “The members of the Bohemian Club might wear threadbare blazers, but they own real estate worth more than small countries.”
“We’ve been married for five years and have a beautiful two-year-old daughter. When will you realize it doesn’t matter if Chloe Burke sports a five-carat wedding ring? I’m in love with you,” she said stiffly. “And I’ve never had a friend named Buffy.”
“All the names sound the same.” He sank onto the sofa. “I just feel like I’m not enough.”
“You’re more than enough.” She sat beside him. “You’re everything I wanted.”
“I love what I do, and I love you and Louisa,” he said. “I just wish I could pay for a fancy preschool and our own vacations.”
“You’re perfect.” She kissed him. “Now let’s go to the grand opening before the guests eat all the canapés, and we have to come back and order overpriced room service linguini.”
* * *
The chrome walls were illuminated by pinpoint lighting, wood floors were covered with patterned rugs, and it all looked so inviting. There was an antique table Lily found at a farmhouse in Tuscany and earthenware from a ceramic factory in Spain.
“The owner has excellent taste,” a man commented. He wore a dark suit and tasseled shoes.
“I’m Lily Bristol.” She held out her hand. “To be honest, I was petrified it wouldn’t come together. But I’m in love with the Moroso leather ottoman, and I adore the jacquard slipcovers. It’s all perfect.”
“If my wife was here, she’d buy up the store.” He paused. “I just got transferred to Milan and came ahead to furnish the apartment.” He looked at Lily. “Perhaps you could come and take a look? I’m hopeless when it comes to design, and it would be a relief to turn it over to someone.”
“I’d be happy to.” Lily handed him her card.
“I hate to interrupt.” Oliver appeared beside Lily. “The bartender wants to know if the Negronis should be served with a lemon peel or a slice of orange.”
“Oliver, this gentleman wants me to look at his apartment.” She turned and smiled. “He’s interested in having me furnish it.”
Olive gulped his martini. “I’m sorry, my wife doesn’t make house calls.”
“What did you say?” she gasped.
“Lily Bristol is a home furnishings store, not an interior design firm.” He waved his drink. His words were a little slurred, and he took Lily’s hand. “You’d better come with me. The caterer is using too much garlic and ruining the ricotta crostini.”
“I’m terribly sorry.” Lily turned to the man. “I’ll get in touch with you tomorrow.”
* * *
“What the hell was that about, Oliver? And you’re tipsy. This is a store opening, not a cocktail party,” Lily raged. They faced each other in the back room, and she couldn’t stop shaking.
“I may have been thirsty and downed a couple of martinis, but that doesn’t change what you just offered. You can’t go to a strange man’s apartment,” Oliver said hotly. “You may as well put up a sign that you’re an escort service.”
“I own a furnishings store. Why shouldn’t I go to people’s homes?” she demanded. “Anyway, he’s married. His wife is coming from London.”
“If you believe that, you might believe in Santa Claus.” Oliver laughed. “He’s not wearing a wedding ring, and he drives a red sports car.”
“How dare you question my integrity,” she challenged. “Lily Bristol is a business, and I need to make a profit.”
“Because one of us has to pay for the imported vodka and fancy finger food?” he fumed. “I’d rather eat peanut butter sandwiches and drink Louisa’s apple juice than have you pick out a strange man’s bed linens.”
“You don’t know a thing about sales projections or cost per square foot,” Lily snapped. “If we lose money on this, we’ll never own a home or be able to go away on weekends.”
“You see.” Oliver’s face twisted. “It’s starting.”
“What’s starting?”
“You’re blaming me for things we can’t afford. Remember when I proposed and said I’d never be able to give you three weeks in Lake Tahoe every summer?”
“I didn’t ask for three weeks in Lake Tahoe,” she said. “I just want a car that doesn’t break down on the Golden Gate Bridge.”
“It doesn’t make sense to own a decent car when you live in the city,” he insisted. “It’s too easy to get broken into.”
“My parents own two Audis and never have any trouble.”
“Then stay with them. Or better yet, go to Roger.” He walked to the door. “Your mother said he just bought a Mercedes.”
“I’ll tell you what I did ask for,” she called after him. “All I wanted was a marriage where we loved and respected each other.”
* * *
Lily gulped Oliver’s martini and set it on the table. How dare Oliver bring up Roger every time they had a fight? The room swam before her eyes, and she needed fresh air. She stepped into the alley and leaned against the wall. A cat sprang across the pavement, and she wrapped her arms around her chest.
Of course there were things she craved: a full-sized washer and dryer and a proper dining room table. But she never blamed Oliver for not having them. He had been so supportive of Lily Bristol: giving her the money from Guido, watching Louisa so she could work on weekends. And it had been her idea for Oliver to be a restaurant critic.
Lily Bristol was doing well; soon they’d be able to afford family holidays. Why should they argue about money now? And what was the point of any of it if they didn’t make each other happy? But she couldn’t act as if nothing had happened. It was her grand opening, and Oliver had behaved like a child. She would go inside and mingle with the guests. Then she’d go back to the hotel and take a bath. They could talk about it in the morning.
There was a rustling sound, and Lily turned. A figure was slumped against the wall. She squinted under the street lamp and recognized Oliver’s gold cuff links.
“What are you doing out here?” she demanded. “I thought you were a cat rummaging through the garbage can.”
“I couldn’t stomach eating canapés and making small talk. But I didn’t want to desert you by going back to the hotel.” Oliver fiddled with his cuffs. “I thought I would wait here until the party was over.”
“Oliver…” Lily began.
“You don’t have to tell me I acted like I child, I already know,” he cut in. “Of course I’m proud of you. I tell everyone my wife is the owner of Lily Bristol.” He paused. “I had too much to drink and thought that man was hitting on you. I apologize.”
“You were horrible and you spoiled one of the most important nights of my career.” She walked over to him. “But I forgive you.”
“You do?” He looked up.
“I couldn’t have built Lily Bristol without you. And I know you’re going to be a success as a restaurant critic.” She paused. “The important thing is to make each other happy.”
“Sometimes I don’t deserve you, but I always love you,” he said.
“I love you too, Oliver.” She leaned down and kissed him.
“You know what would make me happy?” He stood up. “A cup of black coffee and two aspirins.”
“We’re in Italy, they have the best espresso.” She took his hand. “Let’s go back inside and find some.”
* * *
Lily sat in a striped armchair in their room at the Hotel Baglioni and slipped off her pumps. It had been a whirlwind three days since the store opening. They climbed to the roof of the Duomo and admired the pink Candogl
ia marble statues and ornate spires. They visited La Scala opera house and marveled at Leonardo da Vinci’s Last Supper.
Now she wanted to relax with a book and a cup of hot chocolate. She thought of Louisa and brightened. Being in Milan with Oliver was heavenly, but she couldn’t wait to see Louisa. There was a new doll and a pair of pink slippers in her suitcase.
“There’s my beautiful wife.” Oliver entered the room. “Please get dressed, I have a surprise for you.”
“We’ve eaten Milanese saffron risotto and Tuscan lamb. We’ve sampled pistachio ricotta and eaten too much gelato.” Lily looked up and smiled. “I’m too tired to go out. I want to lie here and think of all the things I’m grateful for: a wonderful husband and a healthy daughter and a bright future.”
“Your wonderful husband has planned an evening you won’t forget.” He leaned down and kissed her. “Wear the cocktail dress you wore to the opening. A car is picking us up in half an hour.”
“Where are we going?” Lily asked.
“It’s a secret.” Oliver’s blue eyes sparkled. “I promise it will be worth it.”
* * *
“We can’t afford this,” Lily gasped, admiring the restaurant’s sleek marble floors and alabaster walls. There was an aquarium filled with neon-colored fish and racks stacked with hundred-year-old wine bottles.
A town car had picked them up and delivered them to Ristorante Cracco; Carlo Cracco was the most famous chef in Milan. The restaurant had two Michelin stars, and Carlo was known to stop by the table to make sure the egg yolk spaghetti with chili was served al dente.
“Tonight we can afford anything,” Oliver said, and Lily thought he looked like a schoolboy on awards day. His dark hair was tousled, and he wore a white shirt and striped tie.
“We already drank Campari at the Foyer bar to commemorate our anniversary, what are we celebrating now?” Lily said and felt almost giddy. It was lovely to see Oliver not worrying about her mother or Louisa’s college fund.
“You’re looking at the new restaurant critic for the New York Times.”
“What did you say?” she asked.
“I applied a few months ago, but I never thought I had a chance,” Oliver began. “Their critic usually has a degree from Cornell and a certificate from a Cordon Bleu cooking school.”
“But we’d have to move to New York.” Lily’s throat was dry, and she couldn’t swallow.
“I start in four weeks, we have plenty of time to find an apartment.” He picked up a breadstick. “I’ve always wanted to live in New York! We can take Louisa to the Bronx Zoo and the Museum of Natural History. We’ll pick apples in the Hudson Valley and buy maple syrup in Vermont.”
“What about Lily Bristol?” she reminded him. “I can’t leave San Francisco.”
“I thought you’d be pleased, you love Manhattan.” He was surprised. “I’d earn a decent salary, and you could be bicoastal. You can open a Lily Bristol in New York. And think about Louisa. She’ll grow up visiting the Guggenheim and the Met. New York is the center of the world.”
“It’s too soon to expand with another store.” Lily wished she had ordered a cocktail. “I’m still involved in the day-to-day operations of Lily Bristol San Francisco.”
“You can hire a manager for the San Francisco store. Can you imagine your own furnishings store in the West Village or Chelsea?”
Lily wanted to open more stores eventually, but Lily Bristol Milan was barely off the ground. And they couldn’t move Louisa across the country; she adored her grandparents, and they would have to find a new nanny.
“It’s a wonderful opportunity, but it’s not the right time.” She refolded her napkin. “Louisa is already enrolled in preschool, and it’s too soon to open a new store. I don’t have the capital, and if I overleverage, the whole thing might fail.”
“We’ll take out a loan to open a new store and sign up Louisa at the best preschool in Manhattan. I’ll ask the editor in chief for a recommendation.” Oliver waved his hand.
“I’m sorry, Oliver. Maybe in a few years.” She shook her head. “But not now.”
“You were willing to move to New York before.” Oliver clutched his wineglass.
“What are you talking about?” She looked up.
“Your mother said you planned on moving to New York when Roger graduated from law school,” he said slowly.
“That was different. I was young and didn’t have any commitments.” She fiddled with her earrings.
“You’re right, this is different.” Oliver’s voice shook. “I’m asking you to support your husband. If I don’t do this now, I’ll always be a second-rate columnist at a provincial newspaper. But maybe that isn’t as important to you as being the wife of a partner at a law firm.” He threw his credit card on the table and stood up. “If you’ll excuse me, I lost my appetite.”
* * *
Lily handed the driver five euros and stepped out of the taxi. How dare Oliver apply for the position without asking her? And they couldn’t just move to New York like college kids whose belongings fit into a duffel bag.
She hurried up the steps of the Hotel Baglioni and entered the glass foyer. Bellboys carried soft leather luggage, and an uneasy feeling formed in the pit of her stomach. She and Oliver were married; weren’t they supposed to support each other?
Maybe Oliver was right. Being the New York Times restaurant critic was like starring in a Broadway show. She imagined his byline in the New York Times and felt a thrill of pride.
Her mother adored Central Park in the spring and New York Fashion Week in the fall. She would have a dozen reasons to visit Louisa. And it would be exciting to open a Lily Bristol store in Manhattan.
Couples mingled in the hotel lounge, and she wondered when it had all gotten so difficult. They wanted the same things, but they seemed to come from opposite directions. It was like one of Louisa’s Lego structures. Every time you added a piece, you were in danger of toppling everything you had built.
She walked past the restaurant and saw a man sitting at the bar. He wound spaghetti around his fork and cradled a shot glass.
“I thought I’d find you here.” She sat down beside him.
“I’m sick of pretentious dishes: tortelli with mint and asparagus cream, and apricot-stuffed quail with roasted goose liver. You know what’s the best Italian food? Spaghetti with butter and grated Parmesan cheese. It doesn’t even have to be the real stuff. I’m perfectly happy with the Kraft cheese they sell at the supermarket.”
“That doesn’t sound like something the New York Times restaurant critic would say,” she replied.
“You’ll have to write and ask how he likes his pasta,” he snapped. “I’m sure his contact information will be on the website.”
“Do you remember when we drove to Florence, and I asked what made you happy? You said the usual stuff: a pretty girl and a good book and delicious food. I said you can’t answer ‘the usual stuff’ to every question, and you said that I made you happy because I’m so unusual.” She paused. “When did we stop making each other happy?”
“You do make me happy.” Oliver put down his fork. “I know I get irritable, but I’m so lucky to have you.”
“How can I make you happy when we argue about everything?” she sighed. “We’re about as happy as turkeys on Thanksgiving morning.”
“But that’s what marriage is about,” he explained. “You can’t imagine we would agree on everything.”
“You stormed out of the restaurant.” She frowned. “I thought you were furious.”
“I am furious. The job means everything to me.” He nodded. “But I’m still in love with you.”
“So you wouldn’t be disappointed if we didn’t move to New York?” she asked.
“I would do everything I could to convince you.” He paused. “But if the answer was still no, I’d get over it eventually.”
Lily inhaled deeply and shivered. Oliver was smart and handsome and he was her husband.
“Owning three sto
res might be difficult at first, and we’ll have to buy Louisa a proper winter wardrobe. But we’ll have so much fun. We’ll take her ice-skating in Rockefeller Center and buy gumdrops at Dylan’s Candy Bar.” She took a deep breath. “It’s a fabulous opportunity, and you can’t pass it up.”
Oliver threw a wad of euros on the bar and jumped up. He took her hand and ran to the elevator.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“That spaghetti tastes like something for a five-year-old.” He pressed the button. “We’re going to order room-service Iberian pork with turnips and mustard, and Italian cheeses with dried fruit and honey for dessert.”
“You said you were tired of fancy food, and room service is terribly expensive.”
The elevator doors opened, and he pulled her inside.
“That was before I was the New York Times food critic.” He kissed her. “Now I want the most exotic item on the menu, and we can afford it.”
“I knew when we got married I’d worry about getting fat.” She kissed him back. “We’re going to have to do some strenuous lovemaking to work it off.”
“The best move I ever made was asking you to marry me,” he whispered. “You’re everything I ever wanted.”
* * *
Lily walked along the dock and approached Christoff’s yacht. Maybe it had been a bad idea to stay at the Hotel Cervo once she knew Oliver was there. He was like a deep conditioner she couldn’t get out of her hair.
They had been so young and in love; they’d thought talking could solve anything. But all the talking in the world couldn’t fix things that were broken. She’d destroyed Oliver’s trust and then he’d done something she couldn’t forgive.
The advice articles said you had to move on from people in your life who weren’t working. Look how much happier they were now. Oliver had a girlfriend, and she was having lunch with a sexy Sardinian. How could she complain when she was about to board a fabulous yacht?
“Lily,” a male voice called. “Up here. I was afraid you got lost.”
Lily looked up, and her shoulders relaxed. Ricky’s dark eyes smoldered, and he looked like an ad for men’s cologne.