by Anita Hughes
These days they were all together so seldom: Summerhill for the Fourth of July and Labor Day, a long weekend in Bermuda in February. Francis and Brigit were always working and Daisy had difficult hours and they never seemed to be in the same place.
She suddenly pictured Daisy clutching her champagne flute and Brigit saying she needed to ask Francis a question and frowned. They both seemed tense; as if there was something they weren’t telling her.
Relationships were so difficult. How could she protect her daughters from getting hurt? Daisy was beautiful and talented but she questioned her own decisions as if she needed someone else’s approval.
Brigit usually moved like an actress in a 1950’s movie who knew she could have anything she wanted with a tilt of the head. The last couple of days she’d seemed as if she was trying to solve a difficult algebra problem.
Maybe she should tell Brigit her marriage didn’t have to consume her; she still had her career and family and friends. But was that really possible? Of course you had to put your husband first, that was the point of the whole exercise.
She gazed at wooden fishing boats and thought even when you tried to do the right thing, you often failed. You buy your husband’s favorite macaroons at Bouchon only to discover he’s given up sugar, or make reservations at the St. Regis and learn he spent the afternoon entertaining clients and craves a quiet evening at home.
It was a wonder more people didn’t get divorced. You can be so confident you know everything about your spouse when you don’t know anything at all.
She remembered when Brigit appeared at the Park Avenue town house the spring before Nathaniel walked out. She’d worn an Ella Moss dress and her hair was held back with a gold clip.
* * *
“Darling, it’s lovely to see you.” Sydney stood at the marble kitchen counter. She and Francis were having a dinner party and she was making coq au vin and peach cobbler for dessert. “I thought you were buried in depositions and you and Nathaniel couldn’t make it.”
“We can’t come to dinner.” Brigit perched on a suede stool. “I left work early and made reservations at the Pierre.”
“Isn’t that a little pricey on an associate’s salary?” Sydney asked.
“I have big news for Nathaniel and wanted to go somewhere special,” Brigit explained.
“You’re not…” Sydney glanced at Brigit’s flat stomach.
“No, but that’s part of it.” She took a deep breath. “I’ve been offered a position at another firm. They mostly do pro bono work so the pay will be a lot less but I won’t work eighty hours a week. The head is a woman with three children and she believes in putting family first. I could leave work at five p.m. and eventually have Fridays off.”
“You’re only twenty-six and you’re on the partner track at your firm.” Sydney hesitated. “You might not want a baby for years, it seems a lot to give up.”
“If I stay at Bingham and Stoll I’ll always work impossible hours,” Brigit continued. “The senior partners still have dinner served in the board room and usually appear on Saturday mornings with a bag of croissants and the Wall Street Journal. We’ll never take a proper vacation and when we do have a baby, we’ll have to hire a live-in nanny.”
“Have you discussed this with Nathaniel?” Sydney rinsed cherry tomatoes.
“He’s always wanted a big family.” Brigit twisted her hands. “When we were children he envied James Finnegan because he had more siblings than the Partridge Family.
“After we got engaged he said he wanted a cottage in East Hampton filled with bicycles and surfboards. He imagined children slamming in and out of the house, carrying buckets and plastic shovels.” She stopped and her eyes were bright. “Lately I think he feels I’m so wrapped up in work. I have to show him I want children’s artwork on the fridge and action figures stuck under the sofa.”
“You need to talk to Nathaniel before you make a big decision. He might still want a large family or he might want something completely different.” She gazed at the ripe peaches and vanilla ice cream. “We think because we share Egyptian cotton sheets we know our spouses better than anyone. But often we keep our most important thoughts to ourselves.” Her eyes clouded over. “Then we discover we don’t know anything at all.”
* * *
Sydney sat in the bar at Daniel and gazed at the paneled walls and blue Brazilian marble. It was one of her favorite restaurants in Manhattan and usually she loved sipping a Golden Girl and waiting for Francis to arrive. But tonight her heart raced and she fiddled with the hem of her silk Dior dress.
Ever since she’d returned from Gordes three months ago she tried to eat out as often as possible. She picked at a salade niçoise at Le Bernardin and wished she were eating a bowl of pumpkin soup in their kitchen. But anything was better than sitting across from Francis at the mahogany dining room table, sipping a dry martini and trying to make light conversation.
Everything about Francis seemed different: his cologne, the way he wore his hair, the lines on his forehead. It was only when she caught sight of her reflection in her dressing room mirror she realized she was the one who had changed. Her hair was dull and her Chanel suits hung loosely on her body.
On the flight from Paris she’d rehearsed how she was going to tell Francis what happened. She never kept secrets in their marriage and she had to tell him the truth. But when they arrived at Summerhill and she saw Brigit’s tan shoulders and the new freckles on Daisy’s nose, she couldn’t do it. How could she spoil their summer to assuage her guilt?
Now Brigit was back at Dartmouth and Daisy was applying to colleges and the space between them grew wider. One evening Francis suggested they make love and she followed him up to the bedroom. She unzipped her dress and stepped out of her panties and suddenly panicked. She hastily pulled on a robe and murmured she wasn’t ready and would sleep in the study.
* * *
“You look stunning.” Francis entered the bar. He wore a navy suit and red silk tie. His salt-and-pepper hair was slicked back and he wore black tasseled shoes. “We must be celebrating something special. Daisy got an early acceptance to Vassar or you were named head of the Robin Hood Foundation winter ball.”
“Nothing that exciting. I had a craving for the seviche and I know you love the caramelized veal shortbread.” She looked up. “Our table is ready, why don’t we move to the dining room.”
Francis ordered an Anderson Valley pinot noir and they ate lobster with mango coulis. Sydney nibbled duck foie gras but it got stuck in her throat.
“Brigit is busy with school and Nathaniel, and we never see Daisy except when she tosses her school clothes in the hamper. It’s a perfect time for you to resign and start the foundation.” She fiddled with her wineglass. “We could plan a trip for next summer to Ghana or Haiti. The girls are perfectly capable of being alone at Summerhill and we don’t have to hurry home.”
“The foundation?” Francis asked. “I haven’t thought about it since…”
“You wanted it so much. Now we don’t have to worry about years of private school tuition.” She paused. “I’ve sat on every charity board in Manhattan and you’ve entertained enough clients at the Colony Club, it’s time we went on an adventure. I can’t wait to build schools in Africa and South America.”
Sydney saw the gleam in his eyes and her shoulders relaxed. She would wait until they were in a remote village in Nepal and then she would tell him what happened. He would be so grateful he was doing what he loved; he would eventually forgive her.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea.” He shook his head.
“Why not?” Sydney asked.
“I didn’t want you to go to Provence, but Robert insisted you needed a change,” he began. “When you returned you were so pale, I thought you’d contracted a disease and I’d never forgive myself. But once you arrived at Summerhill you bloomed like one of your hothouse roses. I watched you make tuna sandwiches for Brigit and Nathaniel, and help Daisy with her summer reading and knew
that’s where you belonged.
“Brigit is always calling you about something and Daisy hopes to get into Swarthmore or Vassar. She’ll probably come home every other weekend. I don’t want to cart you off somewhere there isn’t a phone or it takes days to reach an airport,” Francis finished. “You belong with your family.”
“But this is the perfect opportunity to do what you want,” Sydney urged.
“Eventually Brigit and Daisy will have their own homes and won’t eat Thanksgiving dinner at the Park Avenue town house or spend all summer at Summerhill.” He leaned back in his chair. “We’ve been so fortunate. What I want more than anything is for the striking blond debutante I fell in love with twenty years ago to be happy.”
Sydney dropped her fork on her plate. Her cheeks were pale and she felt dizzy.
“Are you alright?” Francis asked.
She smoothed her hair and rubbed her lips. She took a deep breath and a small smile lit up her face.
“I always forget how much alcohol is in a Golden Girl.” She picked up the menu. “I need something sweet. Why don’t we share the Bing cherry custard for dessert?”
* * *
Sydney glanced at the yacht bobbing in the harbor and suddenly longed for a cigarette. It was impossible to calm your nerves these days when everything was bad for you.
She had to tell Francis the truth before Robbie discovered it first. She thought of the last few days in the bedroom of the villa and shivered with desire. They had been together for thirty years; surely their marriage could survive one indiscretion.
She finished her lemonade and put a five-euro note on the table. She would tell Francis the whole story, and at the same time she would ask him about that afternoon in Summerhill when she thought he was in Manhattan and saw him on the porch.
Everyone made mistakes, what was important was being honest. Francis had to forgive her. She adjusted her sunglasses and prayed he hadn’t done something she wouldn’t be able to forget.
Chapter Fifteen
BRIGIT STEPPED INTO THE VILLA’S garden and gazed at the black velvet sky and silver stars. The moon glinted on the dark Aegean and white sailboats drifted in the port.
After the guests returned from the village of Manolas, they boarded the yacht and ate beetroot salad and mozzarella risotto. There were platters of fried calamari and tiramisu. Brigit gazed at the pink and orange sky and turquoise water and thought she’d never seen a more beautiful sunset.
The yacht docked in Santorini and guests dispersed to boutique hotels perched above Fira. The cool air settled on her shoulders and she longed to curl up in the living room with a cup of hot tea. But she had to ask her father why he hadn’t told her Blake had invested in the foundation. She crossed the grass and inhaled the smell of cigarettes.
“I thought you were giving up smoking as my wedding present,” she said lightly, joining her father at the stone fence.
“Greece is the only country where smoking is as natural as brushing your teeth.” Francis stubbed the cigarette with his shoe. “Even the old men with their donkeys keep a packet of Marlboros in their shirt pocket.”
“I won’t be one of those brides who expects everyone to change just for me.” She linked her arm through his. “But you have to promise you’ll cut down before Blake and I have children. You can’t push a stroller through Central Park if you have trouble breathing.”
“That’s a deal.” Francis nodded. “What are you doing out here? I thought you’d be chatting with Daisy or planning the rehearsal dinner menu with your mother.”
“I was looking for you actually,” Brigit explained. “We’ve barely had a chance to talk since we arrived in Santorini.”
“People think weddings are relaxing, but they can be more grueling than a high-powered merger. Your mother spent sixteen months planning our wedding. The altar at St. John the Divine was decorated with thirty dozen South African tea roses and the ballroom of the Waldorf Astoria resembled the main salon at Versailles.”
“It sounds exhausting.” Brigit sighed. “I’m so grateful you and Mom came to Santorini, I know you’re terribly busy.”
“And miss riding a mule or eating pork souvlaki?” Francis smiled. “I hope you’re enjoying yourself. It can’t be easy having your first husband appear at your wedding.”
“I’m used to Nathaniel showing up where he’s not invited.” Brigit shrugged. “Do you remember when he arrived at my ninth birthday party? It was an American Girl party and the other girls were horrified, they’d never had a boy at a party.
“Nathaniel said he didn’t want to miss pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey and chocolate ganache birthday cake. Then he saved Elsie’s doll from being chewed by our golden retriever, and by the end of the party all the girls wanted to be his best friend.”
“Are you sorry your marriage didn’t work out?” Francis asked.
“Nathaniel and I were like two fabrics that rubbed the wrong way.” Brigit shook her head. “Blake is everything I’ve dreamed of. He’s intelligent and hardworking and we care about the same things.
“But there is something I want to talk to about.” She fiddled with her gold earrings. “Nathaniel mentioned he ran into you at Claridge’s last summer. You said you’d met the perfect guy for me and he was an actor named Blake Crawford.
“I asked Blake and he admitted you’d met in Jackson Hole and you invited him to speak at the St. Regis gala.” She stopped and looked at her father. “I thought Blake was seated next to me by accident. You both lied to me.”
Francis tapped a cigarette onto his palm and lit it with a pearl lighter.
“Do you remember when you were eighteen and knocked on the door of my study?” he began. “It was just before finals and I thought you wanted to talk about your interview at Harvard. Instead you said you wanted to come out at the International Cotillion.
“I was so surprised, I spilled coffee on my annual report,” he mused. “You’d always been so focused on school and tennis. I thought the last thing you wanted was to parade around the Waldorf Astoria ballroom in a white satin ball gown.
“You explained you knew you wanted to go to Harvard or Dartmouth and study pre-law or pre-med. You wanted an apartment in Manhattan and a cottage in the Hamptons and two children before you were thirty-five. All that was easy, you just had to set goals and achieve them.
“Meeting the right husband was harder, you couldn’t control falling in love.” His voice wavered. “You wanted to attend the cotillion because you wanted to marry someone like me. What better place to find that man than at the same ball where your mother and I met?”
“Then Nathaniel offered to be my date and no one asked me to dance.” She grinned. “He admitted later he’d told everyone my dog had died and I was overcome with grief.”
“I know the last couple of years have been difficult and you gave up finding the right man,” Francis finished. “When I met Blake I couldn’t let him disappear. He suggested being seated with you at the gala. He said the fastest way to kill a romance is to know you’ve been set up.”
“He told me and I understand…” Brigit hesitated.
“It turned out better than I imagined.” Francis blew a thin smoke ring. “You’ll have homes on two coasts and travel all over the world. And anyone who sees Blake can tell he’s madly in love with you.”
“There’s something else.” Brigit took a deep breath. “I met Blake’s banker on the yacht. He said Blake invested two million dollars in the foundation.”
Francis’s shoulders tensed and he stubbed out his cigarette. “He was very impressed with my vision. He wanted to be involved.”
“I’m about to become chief counsel and you never told me?” Brigit gasped. “Don’t you think I’d like to know my future husband is an investor?”
“That’s what these financial summits are about,” Francis replied. “Everyone sits around eating fresh fish and drinking fine wine and discussing how they can make a difference in the world. I told Blake about the library we w
ere building in Bangladesh and his eyes lit up.”
“So he wrote you a check over grilled trout and corn on the cob?” Brigit asked.
“He sent it to me later.” Francis shrugged. “You know better than anyone how serious Blake is about improving health care in third world countries.”
Brigit inhaled the scent of hibiscus and tried to stop her heart from racing.
“Why didn’t Blake tell me?” she demanded.
“Most men win women with diamonds and furs, not with a desire to erase world hunger.”
“We agreed the Palmer Foundation wouldn’t accept outside donations.” Brigit twisted her hands. “If you accept checks from Pepsi you have to install a soda machine in a village in Kenya. And if Frito-Lay becomes a sponsor, you have to teach malnourished children in Fiji that potato chips are part of a healthy diet.”
“Blake’s a movie star. He was hardly going to hand out DVDs of the sequel to The Hunt for Red October.” Francis smiled. “This is different, he was practically family.”
“It’s the principle,” Brigit insisted. “Someone should have told me.”
“I was about to fly to India and you were working eighty-hour weeks and Blake was promoting his movie.” He put his arm around her shoulder.
“I’m the luckiest guy in the world having my daughter work beside me. From now on I promise I won’t make any decisions without consulting you.” He walked toward the villa. “And I would be a terrible father if I let you catch cold before your wedding. Why don’t we open a bottle of Rémy Martin and toast the future of the Palmer Foundation?”
* * *
Brigit stood on the balcony and gazed at the lights twinkling in Fira. Daisy had gone to the square for a cup of hot chocolate and her parents were in their bedroom. Brigit heard muffled laughter and smiled.
Lately when she stopped by the Park Avenue town house, her mother had seemed strangely distracted. As soon as she saw Brigit she fixed her makeup or smoothed her hair but Brigit noticed new lines around her mouth.