Santorini Sunsets

by Anita Hughes

  Brigit thought of the last months of their marriage when they’d fought over how she opened the cereal box. She remembered going into their bedroom and hearing the front door slam. She pictured lying in bed and waiting for Nathaniel to return.

  “You made it perfectly clear you couldn’t stand being around me. I’m glad you left and I wish you hadn’t shown up in Santorini.” She jumped up. “If you spoil the only chance I have of being happy, I’ll never forgive you.”

  “Brigit, wait,” Nathaniel implored.

  “What is it?” Brigit asked.

  “You’re too stubborn to see things the way they are. It’s not that I couldn’t stand being around you, I couldn’t stand myself.” He shielded his eyes from the sun. “And you’re wrong about Blake finding other It girls in New York.” He paused. “There’s only one Brigit Palmer.”

  Brigit strode up the steep path and stopped to catch her breath. The farther she got from Nathaniel, the more nervous she became. She flashed on the guest list filled with Forbeses and Whitneys and thought, what if Blake only wanted to marry her to become part of New York’s inner circle?

  She was being ridiculous. Blake was a movie star; every door was open to him. He had sipped tea with Prince Harry and shared boiled rice with the Dalai Lama. If he wanted to be invited to cocktails at the governor’s mansion, all he had to do was ask.

  But she thought of her mother’s position on the Guggenheim board and her father’s membership at the Colony Club and a pit formed in her stomach. Many New York organizations didn’t want their charitable endeavors spread over the pages of People. And a former secretary of state would rather starve than eat lunch next to someone who dated a Sports Illustrated model.

  She had to ask Blake why he’d invested in the foundation without telling her. And she had to show him the article and ask if any of it was true. She was an attorney, if she didn’t address the facts now, it would be too late.

  She would change into a Kate Spade dress and gold sandals. She would fix her makeup and spritz her wrists with Estee Lauder, Beautiful. Then she would go to Blake’s villa and demand some answers.

  She glanced at the mosaic roofs and pink hibiscus and shimmering ocean. She hoped she was wrong about everything. She was madly in love and couldn’t wait to get married.

  * * *

  Daisy gazed at the floral skirts and gauze blouses littering the bed and thought she really should hang them in her closet. But she had been so flustered when she’d returned from Old Port; she’d climbed straight into the shower.

  She knotted her hair in a ponytail and tied it with a purple ribbon. She opened her laptop and thought she’d check her e-mails while she waited for Brigit to return. The first e-mail was from an old college roommate who was assistant buyer at Neiman Marcus in San Francisco.

  Daisy had sent photos of her designs before she’d left for Santorini. She clicked on the e-mail and read it quickly.

  Dear Daisy,

  I hope you are having a fabulous time in Santorini, it’s freezing cold in San Francisco. Most people hate summer fog, but I think it makes the fall fashions more exciting.

  I showed your designs to the head buyer and wish I had better news. Alice said they were “not quite,” which in fashion language means they are not quite original enough or elegant enough or bold enough to work at Neiman’s.

  I so wanted it to be a “yes,” I believe in supporting old friends. But I’m just an assistant buyer and I’m not allowed to buy a range of stockings without approval.

  I still think they’re gorgeous, I’m sure you will have better luck elsewhere.

  * * *

  Daisy closed the laptop and walked to the balcony. If Neiman’s wasn’t interested, how did she expect to get Daisies into the finest department stores on Fifth Avenue?

  She glanced down and saw Robbie enter the gate. He carried a white sketch book and his cheeks glistened with aftershave. She wished he’d stay away. He was like a doctor dispensing medicine that caused nothing but pain.

  But she had to go downstairs. If he gave the sketches to her mother, she might ask how he’d ended up with them. She pictured the woman with the blond chignon and soft British accent and didn’t want Sydney getting the wrong idea.

  She gazed at the turquoise chiffon dress for the rehearsal dinner and her chest tightened. She was thrilled Brigit was getting married, it would just be easier to be happy for her sitting in her own apartment, where no one asked if she’d had any luck with her designs or hoped to catch the bridal bouquet.

  She slipped on leather espadrilles and thought in a few days she’d be back in Manhattan. Maybe she’d buy Edgar one of those crochet dog sweaters she’d seen at the duty free store at the airport.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked, stepping onto the porch.

  “I’m returning your sketch book,” Robbie replied. “You left it at the café.”

  “Thank you, but it could have waited until the rehearsal dinner.”

  “Blake is taking the groomsmen to swim in the Nea Kameni Hot Springs,” Robbie continued. “The water is incredibly warm and the sulfur is good for you. I’m shooting photographs and wondered if you’d like to join me.”

  Daisy opened her mouth to say she knew Robbie was taking another woman to Mykonos and Crete, so he should really leave her alone. But suddenly she saw Brigit walk up the path. Her cheeks were pale and she looked like she’d been crying.

  She wondered if something had happened with Nathaniel. He was always doing something to upset Brigit. Even when he was completely innocent, he often drove her crazy.

  Daisy remembered during the first year of their marriage, when Brigit appeared at her apartment. Her cheeks were flushed and her mouth was set in a firm line.

  * * *

  “We’re having our first dinner party and Nathaniel ate a slice of the banana cream pie I bought at Magnolia Bakery,” Brigit fumed. “How am I going to serve a pie that has a piece missing?”

  “Why would he do that?” Daisy stood at the counter of her galley kitchen, peeling an orange.

  “I met our neighbors in the lobby and invited them to come over this evening. I didn’t mention it to Nathaniel because he was so intent on his writing,” Brigit admitted. “But I set the table with our Lenox wedding china and Baccarat wineglasses. Did he think I opened a bottle of Pegasus Bay pinot noir to go with takeout Thai food?”

  * * *

  Daisy thought of all the times Brigit and Nathaniel fought like children or completely ignored each other and wondered how their marriage lasted. But then she remembered thinking their love was like a searchlight that never faltered.

  She was glad Robbie was taking another woman to Mykonos and Crete. Being in love seemed like the hardest job in the world.

  She saw Brigit reach the gate and shuddered. What if Robbie took her photo and it appeared in HELLO! with the caption: “Brigit Palmer Has Emotional Breakdown the Day Before Her Fairytale Wedding”?

  “I’d love to go to the hot springs,” Daisy said suddenly.

  “You would?” Robbie asked.

  “We have to leave right now.” She took his arm and led him to the side gate. “I have to be back to get ready for the rehearsal dinner.”

  “But you’re not wearing a bathing suit,” he spluttered.

  “Don’t worry,” she insisted. “I’ll figure out something.”

  * * *

  She strolled down the steep path and thought it would be lovely to splash in the warm water with Robbie. But she was only going so he didn’t run into Brigit and she hadn’t had time to grab a swimsuit. She would have to stand on the shore and watch everyone else having fun.

  * * *

  Brigit climbed the stone steps of Blake’s villa and caught her breath. The villa was perched on a cliff with an infinity pool and wide glass terrace. There were floor-to-ceiling windows and beds of purple lavender.

  She opened the front door and entered the living room. The white marble floor was scattered with low silk sofas
and crystal vases were filled with yellow orchids.

  “This is a pleasant surprise.” Blake crossed the room. “Are you going to join us at the hot springs? I promise we’ll be back in time to dress for the rehearsal dinner.” He circled his arm around her waist. “Though you might be overdressed. We’ll have to find you a bathing suit, or you can wear one of my T-shirts.”

  “I don’t have time to visit the hot springs,” she said. “I wanted to show you something.”

  “That sounds serious.” Blake grinned. “Don’t tell me the caterer forgot to order pistachio gelato or there’s not enough calamari.”

  “Nathaniel was doing research for a background piece and found this.” She handed him the newspaper. “Of course, I’m furious that he showed it to me. But you should read it.”

  Blake scanned the page and looked at Brigit.

  “This was just after I bought my house in the Hollywood Hills.” He shrugged. “It’s ancient history.”

  “Is any of it true?” she demanded. “Are you marrying me to become part of New York society?”

  “Do you remember when I gave my speech at the St. Regis gala and you assumed my publicist wrote it?” Blake asked. “I’m grateful to be a movie star, if I wasn’t I wouldn’t have any of this.” He waved at the abstract paintings and marble statues. “But it’s hard to be taken seriously when everyone thinks you spend your time jumping off trains or saving women from speeding cars.

  “When I arrive at Jinnah Airport there’s already a swarm of reporters wanting to know why Blake Crawford is building schools in Pakistan. Eventually some magazine will print that it’s part of a publicity stunt to make my public persona more endearing.

  “If I stop making movies, the tabloids will spend the next five years running ‘What Happened to Blake Crawford’ stories until I have to appear on the Today show to convince Matt Lauer I didn’t end up in rehab.”

  “Of course I envy men who sit in paneled offices on the sixtieth floor of the Chrysler Building or drink Hennessey at the Harvard Club,” he finished. “They can change the world without anyone knowing their name.”

  “So you are marrying me to break into New York’s inner circle?” Brigit blinked back sudden tears.

  “Do you remember when we stayed at the Hotel Grande Bretagne in Athens and those journalists accosted us in the lobby?” Blake continued. “They asked if you were the woman who was going to drag me to the altar. I said I was lucky you let me buy you a cup of coffee, and if I weren’t careful I’d end up in the doghouse.

  “From the moment I saw you, I knew you were out of my league. When you enter a room everyone stops, but it’s not because of your smooth blond hair and clear blue eyes.” He paused. “It’s because they can tell at a glance you’re the best person they’ll ever meet.

  “I’ve been a bachelor for thirty-four years, and the only reason I would ever marry is for love.” He grabbed her hand. “I told those reporters I was the luckiest guy in the world and I was right. I fell in love with the girl of my dreams and by some crazy coincidence, she loved me back.”

  Blake put his arm around her waist and kissed her softly on the mouth. Brigit inhaled his citrus cologne and her shoulders relaxed. Of course they were in love, she hadn’t been wrong. Then she suddenly remembered the check registry and her heart pounded in her chest.

  “There’s something else.” She pulled away. “I met Peter Martin, your banker, on the cruise to Therasia. He mentioned you donated two million dollars to the Palmer Foundation. I asked my father and he admitted you sent him a check.

  “I was afraid it had something to do with us so I looked through the foundation’s accounts,” she continued. “I was relieved when I discovered you sent the check a week before we met.” She took a deep breath. “Then I noticed another check for three million dollars. It was dated the day after you proposed.”

  Blake sat on a silk sofa and put his head in his hands.

  “Francis flew out to Los Angeles a couple of months after we started dating. We had lunch at the Polo Lounge and talked about slush in New York and the price of gasoline in California.

  “He mentioned Sydney had said you and I had been seeing a lot of each other, and I told him we watched the polo matches in Palm Beach and visited friends on Martha’s Vineyard.

  “Then he put down his turkey club sandwich and asked what my intentions were,” Blake continued. “I was so stunned, I almost dropped my blueberry sidecar.

  “He explained you had been hurt by your ex-husband and he didn’t want it to happen again.” He paused. “I told him you were the most amazing girl I’d ever met and I was madly in love.”

  “He said he had something to tell me and made me promise not to breathe a word. He’d made some bad investments and the foundation was on tenuous footing. With my international appeal and his connections he was confident he could turn it around.” He fiddled with his TAG Heuer watch. “But he wanted to make sure the foundation stayed in the family.”

  Brigit felt suddenly chilled. “He said that?”

  “He loves you more than anything in the world,” Blake insisted. “He was only being a good father.”

  “So you waited until I accepted your proposal and then sent him another check?” Brigit’s voice shook.

  “It wasn’t like that. The minute he asked me what my intentions were, I knew I wanted to marry you.” He jumped up. “It was such an incredible feeling, I wanted to buy drinks for everyone at the bar.

  “For years I’d seen friends settling down and wondered if I was like the robot Hymie in old Get Smart episodes,” he mused. “I looked good in a suit but didn’t have a heart.

  “Then I met you and for the first time I understood what is really important. My life wasn’t about my next role or a write-up in Vanity Fair, it was about being with the person who made me feel alive. I couldn’t get enough of your laugh and smile and whenever we were together I was completely happy.” He took her hand. “I was so in love I wanted to rush into your office with two dozen red roses and a ten-carat diamond ring. But I didn’t want to scare you away. I designed the ring with Neil Lane and planned the trip to Crete.” He looked at Brigit. “When you whispered ‘yes’ in the church in Plaka it was the best moment of my life.”

  “I don’t understand any of this,” Brigit said. “Why would my father tell a stranger about financial troubles instead of his own family?”

  “He knew how important Summerhill is to your mother.” Blake sighed. “He was afraid he would have to sell it and I was his last resort. But I wouldn’t have invested a penny unless it was what I wanted.”

  Brigit felt something hard press against her chest. She looked at Blake and her eyes were wide.

  “What does Summerhill have to do with this?”

  “He had already taken out a second mortgage on the Park Avenue town house. Summerhill was all he had left,” Blake said. “He was afraid he was going to lose it and Sydney would never forgive him. But you have to believe me, I didn’t do it to help Francis. I did it because I was in love with his daughter.”

  Brigit pictured Summerhill with its gabled roof and wide porch and views of the Long Island Sound. She saw twinkling lights strung across the lawn on the Fourth of July and the Christmas tree reaching the ceiling on Christmas morning.

  She grabbed her purse and ran to the door.

  “Where are you going?” Blake asked.

  “I have to see my mother.” She turned around.

  “What about us?”

  Brigit gazed at his dark hair and tan cheeks and bright green eyes. “We’ll talk about us later.”

  * * *

  She raced up the narrow path to the villa. She felt the hot sun on her shoulders and slipped on her sunglasses. She thought of everything she loved: Blake and her parents and Summerhill. She inhaled the fresh sea air and walked faster.

  Chapter Eighteen

  SYDNEY SAT IN THE VILLA’S living room and flipped through a magazine. Francis was buying cigarettes and Brigit had gone
out and even Daisy had disappeared. She remembered how she relished the silence at Summerhill before anyone came downstairs, and thought parents were really the most self-important people in the world. They imagined their children would always be young so they could complain about mud on wood floors and sand on fresh towels and open jars of peanut butter left on the kitchen counter.

  She closed the magazine and wished she could enjoy the quiet. Soon everyone would arrive home and there would be the flurry of getting ready for the rehearsal dinner. She imagined Francis not being able to find his tie and Daisy deciding on a pair of earrings and Brigit needing help with the zipper of her Prada dress. She pictured her own silver Carolina Herrera gown and wished she could be more excited.

  She thought she had seen Robbie approach the house, but then he’d disappeared. What if he was coming to tell her they’d met ten years ago in Provence?

  She had to convince Francis they were all too busy to go to Gordes and then she had to tell him about Oliver. If she confessed privately he might forgive her, but if he heard it at the rehearsal dinner or during the wedding reception, her marriage would be over.

  She heard the front door open and looked up. Brigit entered the foyer and placed her purse on the side table. Her hair was tousled and her mascara was smudged.

  “Are you alright?” Sydney asked. “You look like you saw a terrible accident.”

  “I just came from Blake’s villa.” Brigit bit her lip. “Everything is ruined.”

  “Nothing can be that horrible,” Sydney insisted. “Tell me from the beginning.”

  “I met Blake’s banker on the yacht.” Brigit perched on a floral love seat. “He told me Blake invested two million dollars in the Palmer Foundation. I asked Dad and he admitted Blake sent him a check.

  “I was worried that it had something to do with us so I looked through the accounts.” She paused. “He sent the check even before we met. But there was another check for three million dollars dated the day after Blake proposed.”

  “I don’t understand.” Sydney frowned.

  “This morning I was having coffee in Fira and Nathaniel showed me an old article in the Los Angeles Times. He discovered it while he was researching a background piece on Blake.”