by Anita Hughes
She put the wallet back and smoothed her hair. She was too old to be making love in the afternoon, she would never have time to set her hair and reapply her makeup. She thought about Brigit with her glossy blond bob and Daisy with her long auburn curls and sighed. They didn’t realize how precious it all was: being young with everything before them.
She thought about the week that changed everything ten years ago and shuddered. Then she slipped off her robe and turned on the shower. She wasn’t going to think about anything except the wedding favors and making sure the caterer knew who was vegetarian. The hot water touched her shoulders and she remembered Francis’s mouth on her breasts and shivered.
* * *
Brigit entered the dining room and studied the long oak table and bright Oriental rug and mosaic ceiling. She gazed at the deep wine goblets and gold candlesticks and felt a chill run down her spine. It was her and Blake’s first proper dinner party and she wanted everything to be perfect.
She folded napkins and polished silverware and remembered Nathaniel eating prosciutto on rye in the kitchen. She hoped he was part of some bad dream caused by jet lag and too much Greek coffee. But then she remembered him handing her the HELLO! contract.
Could Blake possibly have forgotten to tell her? Maybe he’d mentioned it in one of their long-distance phone calls and his voice had been drowned out by taxis honking or the loudspeakers at the airport. The last week had been a blur of security checks and duty-free stores and first-class lounges.
She pictured Nathaniel’s cropped blond hair and clear blue eyes and straightened her shoulders. She didn’t care what the contract said; she wasn’t going to let Nathaniel and Robbie join the bridesmaids in the church’s anteroom and photograph her putting her dress on. They could sit in the back of the chapel and toss rice at the bride and groom with the other guests. If she had to invite them to the reception, she’d seat them in a corner with Blake’s eight-year-old twin nephews.
She heard the front door open and smoothed her hair. If it was Nathaniel she would tell him that he was not swimming at Kamari Beach or hiking the panoramic footpath between Fira and the scenic town of Oia. She rubbed her lips and saw Blake stride into the foyer. He wore a white linen shirt and crisp navy slacks. His dark hair was brushed over his forehead and his cheeks glistened with aftershave.
“You are so beautiful tonight, I can’t imagine how you’re going to look on our wedding day.” Blake’s lips brushed her cheek. He smelled of Ralph Lauren cologne and citrus shampoo.
“The dress is Valentino.” Brigit flushed as if Blake could tell she had been thinking about Nathaniel. “He sent it with a note saying I was going to be the most beautiful bride since Grace Kelly married Prince Rainier.”
“Valentino thinks Grace Kelly was the greatest fashion icon of the twentieth century.” Blake raised his eyebrow. “If I didn’t know he’d been with his partner, Bruce, for thirty years and owns six pugs he loves more than his mother I’d be jealous.”
“The caterers still haven’t arrived.” Brigit frowned. “If they don’t get here soon I’ll have to put on an apron and grill the calamari.”
“This is Greece, everyone knows we won’t eat until midnight.” Blake shrugged. “We’ll keep their champagne glasses filled and feed them crab cakes and bread rolls. Anyway, they’re not here for the ouzo or lamb chops, they came to meet the woman I’m going to marry.”
Blake leaned forward and kissed her softly on the mouth. Brigit felt his hand press the small of her back and shivered. She kissed him back and suddenly saw the HELLO! contract on the mahogany end table.
“You didn’t tell me you talked to Winston.” She pulled away.
“Winston?” Blake frowned.
“Winston Powell, the editor of HELLO!” Brigit bit her lip. “You signed a contract giving him exclusive rights to our wedding without telling me.”
“I must have told you, I remember leaving Winston’s office and pulling out my phone. It was pouring rain and I was afraid it would get wet.” He rubbed his forehead. “Then I realized it was the middle of night in New York. Christ, did I really not call you back?”
“You didn’t.” Brigit perched on a high-backed velvet armchair.
“I was so busy, I had to pick up the groomsmen’s bow ties and the ring bearer’s tuxedo.” He sat beside her. “It was a complete surprise, Winston invited me to lunch and I thought he wanted to gossip about Scarlett Johansson’s meltdown on the set of Always Sunday. But I couldn’t turn down two million dollars; I thought you’d be pleased. Think about the libraries the Palmer Foundation can build with that money.”
“The money is wonderful.” Brigit nodded. “But we wanted to keep our wedding private.”
“Winston promised the reporter and photographer wouldn’t disturb the guests.” Blake took her hand. “Isn’t it worth a little discomfort to help achieve our goals?”
Brigit looked at Blake’s green eyes and firm jaw and her shoulders relaxed. She knew he must have tried to tell her; they would never keep secrets from each other. Then she pictured Nathaniel’s short blond hair and straight nose and jumped up.
“Did Winston tell you the name of the reporter?” She walked to the table and straightened the place cards. She fiddled with the ivory silk tablecloth and rearranged the salt and pepper shakers.
“I don’t think he mentioned it but I trust him.” Blake wrapped his arms around Brigit’s waist. “Let’s take advantage of the empty kitchen and have a siesta in the pantry. I’ve always wanted to make love surrounded by grape leaves and jars of green olives.”
“That’s tempting.” Brigit turned around and kissed Blake hard on the mouth. She fumbled with his zipper and rubbed the crease in his slacks. Suddenly she heard male voices speaking in rapid Greek. She looked up and saw three young men carrying silver salad bowls. They juggled bags filled with red onions and heads of lettuce and cherry tomatoes.
“We’re going to have to wait until dinner is over and my buddies polish off two bottles of Grand Marnier and a box of Cuban cigars.” Blake groaned, arranging his slacks. “I just hope they don’t insist we play Scrabble. Bradley Cooper is a terrible loser and he hides the j’s and q’s under his cocktail napkin.”
* * *
Brigit watched Blake walk down the driveway and wished she’d had a chance to tell him about Nathaniel. They had never met but he had seen their wedding photo buried in a box of Christmas ornaments. Brigit remembered Blake studying it carefully and covering it with silver snowflakes. She remembered him kissing her on the mouth and murmuring he was lucky to have found her.
She saw Blake pick up a basket of bread loaves and a warmth spread though her chest. He was a famous movie star but he didn’t mind rolling up his sleeves and helping the caterers carry their shopping bags. She turned around and gazed at the ceramic water pitcher and crystal vases filled with yellow and white daisies. She couldn’t wait for their guests to arrive; everything was going to be perfect.
* * *
Brigit stepped into the garden and wrapped her arms around her chest. The night sky was filled with stars and far below she could see sleek white yachts bobbing in the harbor. A bus climbed up the narrow path and bright lights twinkled in the square.
She heard laughter through the french doors and thought the dinner party had been wonderful. She pictured wide plates of pork wrapped in pastry and tomato sauce. There were platters of artichoke and eggplant and sausage. She remembered the rich chocolate cake and vanilla custard.
She pictured Blake sitting at the head of the table in a dark suit and white silk shirt. Daisy looked lovely in a bright orange dress and gold hoop earrings. Her mother wore a cream Jil Sander sheath and matching pumps and her father was elegant in a pin-striped blazer and tan slacks.
She remembered Blake giving a toast that winning an Academy Award was nothing compared to having Brigit agree to marry him. The best man said she was out of his league and he must have slipped something in her drink to convince her. She remembered ever
yone laughing and agreeing they were the most beautiful couple since Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie.
Finally guests started to disperse and Blake and his groomsmen retired to the library to play backgammon and drink Rémy Martin. Brigit’s cheeks were flushed from the warm air and Metaxa and she slipped outside and ran down to the garden.
Suddenly she heard footsteps and saw a figure leaning on the stone fence. He wore jeans and a leather jacket and suede loafers. She looker closer and recognized Nathaniel’s short blond hair and blue backpack.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded. “I told you it was a private dinner party.”
“I had dinner at a tavern in Fira, the chicken souvlaki was delicious and the orzo pasta was better than at the Ithaka restaurant on East Eighty-Sixth Street,” Nathaniel replied. “Do you remember we used to sit in a booth and hold hands in the candlelight? The portions were so large we always took home a doggy bag.”
“Then why are you here?” Brigit asked. “It’s almost midnight.”
“I didn’t want to go back to the inn.” Nathaniel slipped his hands into his pockets. “The mattress on my bed is so thin I may as well sleep on the floor. The monks in the abbey have better accommodations.”
“You can’t come inside.” Brigit glanced at the french doors. “The rest of the guests are leaving and everyone’s going to bed.”
“What are you doing out here alone?” Nathaniel raised his eyebrow. “Shouldn’t you’d be sipping Metaxa brandy in front of a fire while your fiancé whispers in your ear?”
“Blake and his friends are playing backgammon in the library.” Brigit flushed.
“And they didn’t invite the president of the Dartmouth backgammon society?” Nathaniel asked. “I suppose it takes a real man to be beaten by a woman.”
“I haven’t played backgammon in years,” Brigit replied. “Plus, the smell of cigars makes me dizzy.”
“Smoking cigars is a ridiculous habit,” Nathaniel agreed. “You may as well park yourself in the cancer ward.”
“You smoked a pack of cigarettes a day and drank half a bottle of vodka,” Brigit retorted.
“I gave all that up, now I do a cleanse once a month. You should try it, it helps you think clearly.” He waved his hand. “Of course then you realize how miserable your life is because you can’t afford a decent winter coat or a holiday in Biarritz and you take your last paycheck and spend it on a bottle of Absolut. But at least you know why you’re drinking, so it must be healthy.”
He stopped and gazed at Brigit’s smooth blond hair and diamond teardrop earrings. He admired her pearl necklace and pale pink gown and beige sling backs.
“You do look lovely. I like the way you’ve let your hair grow, Brigit,” Nathaniel mused. “I actually came for a reason, I want to call a truce.”
“What do you mean?” Brigit frowned.
“I took this job because I need the money. You don’t know what it’s like to see your bank account sink into triple digits.” Nathaniel dug his heels in the ground. “Sometimes I think if only I worked harder and produced a novel, I’d be holding court in Bushwick surrounded by first-year Columbia grad students.”
“You did the best you could,” Brigit murmured.
“I slept and breathed that book for two years and ended up with three lousy chapters and a permanent crick in my neck.” Nathaniel’s blue eyes flickered. “But I want you to know I’m not going to ruin your wedding. If Blake makes you happy, then something good came out of it.”
“He makes me very happy.” Brigit nodded. “He’s honest and hardworking and cares about other people.”
“Sounds like an ad for life insurance.” Nathaniel rustled in his backpack. “I brought you a gift.”
“You didn’t have to bring a present.” Brigit glanced at the tall box wrapped in silver tissue paper.
“I do remember the rules of etiquette,” Nathaniel protested. “Technically I have a year to give a gift but some marriages don’t make it to the paper anniversary.”
“Blake and I will last fifty years,” Brigit said hotly. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to say thank you to the caterers.”
“Take it.” Nathaniel pressed the box into her hand. “It’s not much but the Tiffany’s soup tureens on your gift registry were out of my price range.”
Brigit accepted the box and looked up at Nathaniel’s short blond hair and clear blue eyes. She was about to say something and then she hurried up the stone steps and entered the kitchen.
* * *
She gazed at the smooth marble counters and dark oak floors and beamed ceilings. There was a silver teapot and porcelain demitasses and pitchers of cream and sugar. She thought it would be lovely to drink a cup of tea with Blake and discuss the delicious seafood and the warm toasts and their friends. But she heard muffled laughter in the library and knew they could play backgammon for hours. She poured a cup of tea and sat at the round wooden table.
She tore the silver tissue paper and opened the box. She took out a yellow plastic bucket and two orange shovels. She gasped and remembered the summer after she graduated from law school. She had just accepted an offer from Bingham and Stoll, and Nathaniel had sold his short story collection. She pictured sharing platters of oysters at the East Hampton Grill and browsing in White’s Pharmacy and BookHampton on Main Street.
She and Nathaniel had spent whole days on the beach, reading magazines and licking Good Humor bars. Sometimes he had to drag her into the water because it felt so wonderful to lie in the sun without worrying about torts and rebuttals. At dusk they would wrap themselves in a blanket and eat a picnic of roast beef sandwiches and potato chips and watermelon.
* * *
“Who would have imagined that at twenty-four, I’d be a corporate attorney and you would be a serious author,” Brigit mused.
It was the last day of summer and they sat on the back porch at Summerhill. She gazed at the house with its gabled roof and thick stone walls and thought she had never been anywhere so lovely. She loved the pond filled with bright orange goldfish and the rose garden with her mother’s Princess Diana roses and the sloping lawn with its wide view of the sound.
“I knew you’d be an attorney when we were seven years old and you convinced the woman who sold apples on the roadside to give you everything for a dollar,” Nathaniel replied. “You ran back to the house and begged your mother to bake three apple pies. You wrapped them in plastic wrap and put them in a wagon and made me pull it all the way back to the stand. Then you handed the woman the pies and said she could have them for free.”
“I was afraid her apples would be rotten and she wouldn’t make any money.” Brigit frowned. “I thought she’d have a better chance of selling them if they were made into pies.”
“You could convince anyone to do anything, you’ll be the best associate they ever had.” Nathaniel leaned on his elbows. “We don’t know if I’m a real author yet. Macmillan may publish my stories and realize they are nothing but smoke and mirrors. I’ll be another young writer with glowing potential whose book stinks like old fish.”
“I’ve read your stories and they’re wonderful,” Brigit insisted. “You’re going to be our generation’s E. M. Forster or F. Scott Fitzgerald.”
“If I sell a single book it’s because of you. What would have happened if I hadn’t drank too many Irish coffees at winter carnival and confessed I’ve been in love with you since your tenth birthday party? It had a cowboys and Indians theme and you let me shoot an apple off your head.”
“You had great aim and it was a rubber bow and arrow.” Brigit smiled.
“I remember thinking you were the bravest girl I’d ever met.” Nathaniel reached behind himself and handed her a tall box wrapped in gold paper.
“My birthday isn’t until February.” Brigit frowned, lifting the lid and seeing a blue velvet jewelry box. She looked at Nathaniel and her hands started shaking.
“I know people will say we’re too young but I want to experience everything wi
th you.” Nathaniel drew out the jewelry box. “I want to see the bulls running in Pamplona and trek across the glaciers in Patagonia. I want to watch James Bond marathons on Netflix and share boxes of Thin Mints Girl Scout cookies. There’s no point waiting when there is no future without you.” He dropped to his knee. “Brigit Emily Palmer, will you marry me?”
Brigit glanced at the pear-shaped sapphire surrounded by diamonds and gasped. She wanted to tell Nathaniel to wait; they had their whole lives ahead of them. But he had always been in a rush: insisting they apply early decision to Dartmouth, renting a loft in the East Village without meeting his roommates, accepting the first offer on his stories.
Then she thought of her parents who’d married on her mother’s twenty-second birthday. She remembered her mother describing the formal ceremony at the Cathedral of St. John the Divine and the elegant reception at the Algonquin and the honeymoon in Monte Carlo. She pictured her parents drinking Manhattans on the lawn at Summerhill or curled up in front of the fireplace in their study. She thought of the way her father knew exactly how her mother liked her eggs or that they both loved the style section in the Sunday New York Times.
She remembered the summer when she was eight years old and she and Daisy and Nathaniel spent lazy afternoons on the lawn making daisy chains. She pictured the crooked chain Nathaniel had slipped on her finger. She remembered not removing it until the petals fell off and her skin turned green. Years later she found it pressed inside a copy of Little Women.
If they got married, it didn’t mean they would stop spending weekends browsing in bookstores in East Hampton. They could still devote whole Sundays to working on the New York Times crossword puzzle or seeing Italian movies at the Roxy. She glanced at Nathaniel’s bright blue eyes and knew he was right, she couldn’t imagine a future without him.