Chapter One
BRIGIT WALKED DOWN the circular staircase and glanced around the living room of the villa. Every surface—the antique grand piano, the mahogany coffee table, even the pastel-colored love seats—was covered with wedding presents. There were silver boxes from Harrods and robin’s egg blue squares from Tiffany’s and parcels wrapped in Bloomingdale’s plain brown paper. She walked to the Regency desk and picked up a pair of silver candlesticks tied with a gold ribbon. She examined the ivory card and smiled at the note from the prince and princess of Spain wishing them well but regretting they couldn’t make it.
She thought about the thank-you cards she’d be writing for the next few months and desperately needed a cup of coffee. She entered the kitchen and glanced at the platters of sliced melon and fresh figs and prosciutto and was glad they had decided to get married in Santorini.
They had only been there for two days but already she adored everything about the villa perched above the town of Fira. She loved the square with its quaint boutiques and cramped cafés and twinkling lights stretched across the cobblestones. She loved the steep walking paths that were flanked by beds of white daisies and purple hyacinths.
When she woke up in the four-poster bed, wishing Blake was beside her instead of staying at a nearby villa, the ocean was the first thing she saw out the window. She loved running to the balcony and gazing down at the white sails and green fishing boats. She loved standing in the garden and seeing the white villas clinging to the cliffs and the glittering blue water far below.
She poured coffee into an enamel mug and thought of all the places they could have held the wedding. The easiest thing would have been to get married at the Plaza or the Carlyle in New York. It had a large ballroom with crystal chandeliers and thick marble columns. But she would have had to wear a satin gown by Escada or Versace with a full skirt and a twelve-foot train. The silver stilettos would have pinched her toes and the diamond tiara would have given her a headache.
Blake’s friends Leonardo DiCaprio and Tobey Maguire and Ben Affleck would have been uncomfortable in tuxedos and starched white shirts. She imagined shaking hands with five hundred guests and repeating that she was so pleased the Vanderbilts or the Rockefellers could attend.
Blake had suggested they get married at the Beverly Hills Hotel or the Chateau Marmont or even in his own home in the Hollywood Hills. Brigit had somehow thought that would have felt unreal—like their own wedding was part of a movie. She pictured Blake’s house with its tall glass windows and low leather sofas and still couldn’t believe she’d be living part time in California.
There were things she liked about Los Angeles—the wide stretch of Pacific Coast Highway, the pink and purple sunset, the smell of coconut suntan lotion—but she couldn’t get used to men and women strolling down the street in shorts and flip-flops, and how everyone ate salads in brown takeout boxes and that she couldn’t step outside without wearing sunglasses.
She had sat at the round kitchen table in her parents’ Park Avenue town house and told her mother they wouldn’t be getting married at the house in East Hampton. Her mother’s mouth turned down at the edges and her brow furrowed and she suddenly needed a gin and tonic.
Brigit wanted to explain she loved everything about Summerhill: the green lawn that rolled down to the Long Island Sound, the wide rooms with their worn oak floors and plump sofas and the kitchen with the murals she and Daisy had painted as children. But she couldn’t possibly get married there; it held too many memories.
Her mother smoothed her glossy blond hair and wrapped her arms around her and said no matter where they got married it would be perfect. They were so glad Brigit had found Blake and knew they would be happy. Blake entered her parents’ paneled library and said he didn’t mind if they got married in a rowboat on the Hudson and her mother laughed and replied that that was a terrible idea, they’d have to fish a dozen reporters out of the river.
Brigit stirred her coffee and pictured Blake’s wavy dark hair and green eyes. He had tan cheeks and a cleft on his chin. They’d met at a fund-raiser for the Save the Children foundation at the St. Regis. He’d stood at the podium in a black tuxedo and she thought his smile could light up the ballroom.
* * *
Brigit’s parents were leading New York philanthropists and she grew up attending galas for libraries and schools and hospitals. She took a semester off from Dartmouth to dig wells in Africa and last year she took a three-month sabbatical from the law firm to travel through India. Everywhere she went she saw children with stomachs as big as their eyes and blue lips and skin like paper. She hunched in her tent at night, trying not to cry and vowing she would change things.
Now she sat listening to Blake and a tingle ran down her spine. She had just given notice and was going to join her father running the Palmer Foundation. She would miss the law firm on the fifty-fourth floor of the Empire State Building with its glass conference room and views of Central Park. She would miss the thrill of winning a settlement for her client and beating a large corporation.
She gazed at the women in Chanel evening gowns and men in Armani silk tuxedos and was excited about everything they would accomplish. She already had files full of goals for the foundation: to stock school libraries in low-income areas with her favorite books, Little Women and The Jungle Book and Anne of Green Gables. She wanted all children to grow up loving to read and knowing the world was full of wonderful places.
* * *
“Good evening, if you don’t know me, I’m Blake Crawford.” Blake’s voice came over the loudspeaker. “I’ve acted in a few little films like the remake of The Hunt for Red October.” Blake paused as the room erupted in polite laughter. He rustled his notes and blinked into the lights. “Five years ago I was shooting The Silk Road in Nepal with Steven Spielberg and Katie Holmes. When I wasn’t admiring Miss Holmes’s wonderful delivery or Steven’s superb directing, I visited villages where children had never had a glass of milk or visited a doctor. Families lived in a single room and didn’t have drinking water. After I returned to Hollywood I vowed every time someone watched one of my movies, part of the ticket price would go to needy children in Nepal and Pakistan and China. I know you think people in the movie industry only care about the weekend box office and the price of popcorn, but I am committed to helping end worldwide poverty and starvation.” Everyone clapped and Blake bowed and gathered his notes. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to enjoy some of that Veuve Clicquot champagne and stuffed Cornish game hens.”
* * *
Blake crossed the room and pulled out the chair next to Brigit. He wiped his brow and waited for the waiter to fill his champagne glass.
“Your publicist writes a wonderful speech,” Brigit said, eating a forkful of braised duck with grilled asparagus.
“Do you think because I’m an actor I can only read from a teleprompter?” Blake turned to her.
“We all know how it works.” Brigit shrugged, smoothing her hair behind her ears. She wore a silver Dior ball gown and gold sling backs. Her hair was held back with a gold clip and she wore diamond teardrop earrings. “The foundation hires you to champion their cause and in return you get free publicity for your next movie.”
“Just because I recite lines for a living doesn’t mean I don’t have my own opinions,” Blake bristled. “I’m sure you’re more aware of poverty in your parents’ Park Avenue town house with its maids’ kitchen that is as big as most apartments.”
“I’m sorry.” Brigit looked at Blake and noticed the yellow flecks in his eyes and the lines in his forehead. “Sometimes I speak without thinking, it’s a bad habit.”
“That probably comes from years of people listening to whatever you say.” Blake’s shoulders relaxed and his face broke into a smile. “I’ve read all about you: Brigit Palmer, attended Spence School in Manhattan, followed by Dartmouth and Columbia Law School. Recently gave up her partner-track position at Bingham and Stoll to head the Palmer Foundation.”
“Where did you read that?” Brigit flushed.
“It’s on the back of the program.” Blake picked up a gold sheet of paper. “I’ll tell you what, why don’t we start from the beginning.” He put down his champagne glass and held out his hand. “I’m Blake Crawford, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”
* * *
The next day Brigit arrived at her office to find two tickets to The Book of Mormon with the note: “You may not be a big fan of movies, but can I convince you to see a Broadway show and have dinner at the Four Seasons?”
Brigit pictured Blake’s dark wavy hair and bright green eyes and wide shoulders. She glanced from the note to the bouquet of a dozen yellow roses and couldn’t think of a reason to say no.
Blake started spending weekends in New York and they ran in Central Park and ate dinner at Eleven Madison Park and Per Se. They drove to Vermont to see the leaves change and flew to Palm Beach to watch the polo matches.
At first she was hesitant about dating an actor, she wasn’t used to being followed by cameras or having her photo in magazines. She had lived her whole life inside a doorman building on the Upper East Side and behind the gates of the house in East Hampton. But Blake was charming and witty and really seemed to care about getting rid of poverty and educating children. She gradually let down the wall she had built around her heart and allowed herself to fall in love.
* * *
Brigit put the cup in the sink and rubbed her lips. She wished Blake had decided to stay in the villa with Brigit and her family instead of taking his own villa with his groomsmen. She missed waking up beside him with their legs tangled together and his arm draped over her waist. In four days they were getting married and then they would have three weeks of a glorious honeymoon in Paris and Aix-en-Provence. They could make love all night and eat breakfast in bed and do whatever they want.
* * *
She opened the french doors and walked into the garden. She stood at the fence and gazed at the green cliffs and clusters of white houses. Stone churches had blue domed roofs and stained-glass windows. She leaned over the fence and gazed at the black sand beach and chipped fishing boats and clear blue water. She inhaled the scent of hibiscus and anemone and thought she was the luckiest girl in the world.
The wedding was in four days and tonight her parents were hosting a small dinner for their closest friends. Her mother insisted Brigit relax but she wanted to be sure the champagne was chilled and the waiters served the strawberries and fresh whipped cream she’d bought at the market. She turned to go inside and heard footsteps coming up the path. Two men were dressed in shorts and T-shirts and she wondered if the caterers had arrived early.
She looked more closely and saw one man wore a hat and carried a nylon backpack. He wore leather thongs and a black leather watch. The man took off his hat and Brigit’s eyes flew open. She put her hand to her chest and ducked behind a rosebush.
She watched them walk toward the villa and thought she must be seeing things. It couldn’t possibly be Nathaniel; she hadn’t seen him since he’d walked out of their Upper East Side apartment two years ago. She pictured his curly blond hair and blue eyes and her heart turned over. What was her first husband doing in Santorini?
She held her breath as they opened the gate and approached the wooden blue front door. She crouched behind the bushes and suddenly heard footsteps on the gravel. She looked up and saw Nathaniel fold his arms across his chest. His hair was cut short and the stubble on his chin was gone but he had the same long eyelashes and wide white smile.
“You never were good at hide-and-go-seek,” he announced, parting the rosebush. “Even when we were children, you would stand in the middle of the tennis court and count to ten and invite everyone to find you.” His face broke into a smile. “Hello Brigit, how are you?”
“How dare you come here.” Brigit stood up and smoothed her hair. She adjusted her floral dress and tightened her white leather belt. “I’m getting married in four days, and if you ruin it I’ll never forgive you. If you’re on vacation, you can pack your bags and go to Avignon or Tuscany.”
“That’s a fine greeting for someone who four years ago vowed to stay with me in sickness or in health, for richer or poorer, ’til death do us part.” Nathaniel slipped his hands into his pockets.
“You were the one who walked out.” Brigit walked to the stone fence. “Now what on earth are you doing here?”
“That’s a long story and I’m very hot and thirsty.” Nathaniel hesitated. “You are the one who filed the divorce papers.”
“I waited three months,” Brigit replied. “You didn’t call or write or send a postcard.”
“I was busy.” Nathaniel leaned on the fence beside her.
“Lying on the sofa watching the Yankees game and drinking cans of lemonade?” Brigit’s cheeks turned pink. “Wearing the same T-shirt four days in a row and eating the marshmallows out of the cereal box. Being too drunk at night to find the bedroom.”
“Being indolent is very time consuming.” Nathaniel furrowed his brow. His shoulders sagged and his eyes flickered. “I only drank at the end, when it was hopeless.”
“You made it hopeless.” Brigit twisted her watch. “You threw away a book contract and a whole career, and wasted your time doing the New York Times crossword puzzle.”
“Doing the New York Times crossword puzzle is never a waste of time,” Nathaniel protested. “I was looking for inspiration, after you sucked every original word and thought from my body.”
“I was trying to help you, I couldn’t watch you avoid your computer as if it caused cholera,” Brigit replied. “If you had just sat at your desk, the words would have come to you.”
“Writing a novel isn’t like proofing a legal brief,” Nathaniel corrected. “And I wrote a damn fine book of short stories which is more than eighty percent of writers in America ever accomplish. I can’t help it if the critic at New York Times Book Review said: ‘If Nathaniel Cabot thinks he is equipped to write about social reform in America, then I’m going to publish a book of Southern recipes. Cabot should write what he knows: growing up with a silver spoon in his mouth and deciding whether to attend Harvard or Princeton,’” Nathaniel rubbed his brow. “If he had done his research he would have discovered I got rejected at Harvard and wait listed at Princeton. Anyway, I never would have gone anywhere besides Dartmouth because I couldn’t breathe without you.”
“I still don’t know why you’re here. I haven’t seen you in two years and now you show up at my wedding!” Brigit exclaimed, glancing at his tan arms and legs. “You look like you’ve been doing a pretty good job of breathing. Let me guess, you’ve been running around Europe as a tour guide or a gigolo.”
“I’m glad you think my performance in the bedroom was worth money but I don’t think I’d be suited to romance wealthy women. I’m sure I’d say something to offend them.” Nathaniel smiled. “My parents cut me off because they thought I was wasting my life, so I’ve been freelancing for newspapers and magazines. I moved to London and it suits me. It’s easier to be depressed when the sky is gray and you have to eat sausage rolls and meat pies.”
“I don’t have time to discuss your emotional well-being, I have to get ready for a party.” Brigit blinked back sudden tears. “Please leave or I’ll tell Blake to remove you and your friend.”
“That would be tricky.” Nathaniel’s face broke into a smile. “It’s your fiancé who invited us.”
“What are you talking about?” Brigit demanded. “Blake would never invite my ex-husband to our wedding.”
“You’re getting that peaked look you used to get when you skipped breakfast.” Nathaniel frowned. “Let’s go inside and feed you some scrambled eggs and bacon, then I’ll tell you how Robbie and I arrived in Santorini.” Nathaniel stopped and looked at the man with dark hair and large brown eyes. “The terrible thing about living alone is I’ve completely forgotten my manners. Robbie, this is the soon-to-be head of one of New York’s most prominent charity foundations, Brigit Palmer.”
“How did you know about my new position?” Brigit asked.
“I keep track.” Nathaniel entered the villa and put his hat on a mahogany end table. He glanced at the mosaic ceilings and plaster walls and thick burgundy curtains. He saw the crystal chandeliers and oak floors and worn Oriental carpets. He walked to the bar and filled a shot glass with vodka. He handed it to Brigit and whistled.
“You couldn’t have picked a more authentic setting for a Greek wedding.” He examined a painting in a gilt frame. “Any minute I expect a singing waiter to appear from the kitchen with a platter of grilled eggplant and hummus and a bottle of ouzo. Then the director will yell ‘cut’ and the bride and groom will leave on a bicycle with cans rattling behind them.”
“That was a scene from Mamma Mia!, we saw it at the Roxy in the East Village,” Brigit murmured. “Blake had nothing to do with picking the villa. My mother and I found it in the back of Town & Country.”
“I’m glad to hear Sydney is still reading Town & Country.” Nathaniel admired a marble bust. “She might want to add HELLO! to her subscription list.”
“My mother would never read HELLO!” Brigit replied. “It’s as bad as People.”
“She might,” Nathaniel mused. “If her daughter was on the cover.”
“What are you talking about?” Brigit gasped, fiddling with her gold necklace.
“I got a call from Winston Powell, the editor-in-chief last week,” Nathaniel continued. “He read my piece on Carla Bruni’s marriage to Nicholas Sazorky in Paris Match.”
“How can you write for those magazines?” Brigit interrupted. “They have no respect for people’s privacy, they’ll print anything that sells copies.”
“You’ve never bought a sweater for warmth rather than if it matched your Burberry jacket.” Nathaniel raised his eyebrow. “Your standards drop quickly when your flat doesn’t have central heating and the space heater sounds like it has a death rattle.”
“You could have stayed in the apartment,” Brigit said quietly. “Your parents bought it for us.”
“As a wedding present,” Nathaniel replied. “I thought you had to get something out of the marriage, since you sent back the engagement ring.”
Brigit pictured the pear-shaped sapphire surrounded by diamonds and flinched. “It was your grandmother’s, I could hardly keep it.”
“Then we’re even.” Nathaniel sighed. “You got a one bedroom at Eighty-Second and Lexington and I escaped a drillmaster who made sure our toothbrushes were lined up and the books on the bookshelf were alphabetized and we never ran out of toilet paper.”
“I still can’t imagine you writing for HELLO!” Brigit shuddered. “They’d ask you to write an exposé of your own mother.”
“Winston asked if I wanted to write about the wedding of the year: Hollywood movie star and perpetual bachelor, Blake Crawford weds New York society ice queen Brigit Palmer.”
“He said I was an ice queen?” Brigit’s lips trembled.
“I might have thrown that in but it makes a great pull quote.” Nathaniel shrugged. “The cover and a four-page spread including photos. And full access to the bride’s family and the wedding party.”
Brigit put her drink on the sideboard and walked to the Regency desk. She sifted through the boxes wrapped in silver tissue paper and found her phone.
“I’m going to call Blake, he’ll call Winston and threaten to sue unless this is stopped.” She punched in the numbers.
Nathaniel crossed the room and took the phone from her hand. He walked to his backpack and took out a sheet of paper.
“You might want to look this over first.” He handed her the paper. “Blake is the one who gave Winston the exclusive.”
Brigit’s heart raced and she felt slightly dizzy. She sat on the yellow silk sofa and scanned the contract. She looked up at Nathaniel and her blue eyes were huge.
“Why would Blake do that? We both agreed to keep the wedding private, that’s why we chose Santorini—so it would just be our families and closest friends.”
“He is donating the two-million-dollar fee to charity,” Nathaniel said grudgingly. “It’s on the last line.”
Brigit glanced at the bottom of the contract and the air left her lungs. She thought about Blake’s passion for helping the underprivileged and felt her shoulders relax.
“Well, that’s wonderful! I knew there had to be a reason.” She smoothed her hair. “I wonder why he didn’t ask me first.”
“It’s not a good idea to keep secrets this early in the relationship.” Nathaniel nodded. “Who knows what he’ll agree to next.”
“We don’t have any secrets.” Brigit put the contract on the mahogany end table. “I’ve been so busy this week seeing to the caterers and florists, he probably told me and I forgot.”
“The girl with the photographic memory who got a perfect score on her SAT?” Nathaniel asked. “Maybe you haven’t been eating correctly and it’s affected your thinking. You do look thinner.” He studied her shoulder-length blond hair and high cheekbones and slender neck. “You’re missing that wonderful cleavage. Let’s go into the kitchen and fix a sandwich. I’m starving, our expense account doesn’t stretch past a wedge of feta cheese and a bowl of bean soup.”
“How dare you!” Brigit crossed her arms. “My breasts are my own business.”
They entered the kitchen and saw a young woman standing next to the fridge. Her auburn hair was pulled into a ponytail and she wore a knee-length turquoise dress. She wore lace-up espadrilles and a silver charm bracelet.
“Nathaniel, what on earth are you doing here?” Daisy turned around. “You are the last person I expected to see in Santorini.” She turned to Brigit. “Surely, his name wasn’t on the guest list.”
“Of course, he’s not invited,” Brigit snapped. “I found him in the garden.”
“Well, you better leave,” Daisy said to Nathaniel. “This is a family affair, and you gave up membership when you walked out on Brigit two years ago.”
“I’m supposed to be here, Brigit will explain.” Nathaniel paused. “Daisy, you’re all grown up. And you’re so glamorous, don’t tell me you’ve gone Hollywood like your sister.”
“I’m twenty-six.” Daisy put a loaf of bread on the tile counter next to an heirloom tomato. She searched in the cupboard and found a jar of mustard and a bottle of olive oil. “I was grown up the last time you saw me, it’s only been a couple of years.”
“I can’t help it if I still remember the little girl who always got stuck in trees.” Nathaniel turned to Robbie. “Robbie, this is Daisy Palmer, the other most beautiful girl in New York and a terrific pastry chef. I stood in line at Cafe Lalo on many Sundays to get her delicious coconut custard cream pie.”
“I quit.” Daisy spread mayonnaise on whole wheat bread. “I’m not a pastry chef anymore.”
“The Upper West Side must be in mourning.” Nathaniel took a green apple from a ceramic fruit bowl and rubbed it on his shirt. “What are you doing these days?”
“I’m designing clothing.” Daisy layered the bread with prosciutto and lettuce and red onions. “I have my own line of dresses called Daisies, I hope to get them into Bergdorf’s.”
“Nathaniel is writing a story on the wedding for HELLO!” Brigit opened the fridge and took out a bottle of milk. “Don’t tell him anything you don’t want to appear in the pages of a gossip magazine.”
“Is there anything to tell?” Nathaniel picked up half the sandwich and took a large bite.
“I thought about becoming a nun but I don’t like scratchy fabric against my skin.” Daisy took her plate and walked to the round kitchen table. “Now, I really think you should leave. The last thing Brigit needs is to be feeding her ex-husband a sandwich four days before her wedding.”
“But I’m being paid to gather background material.” Nathaniel wiped his mouth with a napkin. “HELLO!’s readers love to get a glimpse behind the scenes.”
“I’m afraid Nathaniel does have to be here.” Brigit turned to Robbie and smiled. “Daisy and Nathaniel still squabble like children. Daisy has never forgiven Nathaniel for ruining an Easter egg hunt. All the other children were collecting eggs but Daisy said she was going to wait for the Easter Bunny to bring them. Nathaniel announced the Easter Bunny wasn’t real and Daisy burst out crying.” She glanced at her watch. “I have to go, I told the florist I’d approve the table arrangements for tonight’s dinner.”
“There’s a dinner tonight?” Nathaniel sat up straight.
“Grilled octopus followed by moussaka and honey baklava for dessert,” Brigit said.
“God, that sounds delicious.” Nathaniel wiped his mouth with a napkin. “What time are cocktails?”
Brigit walked to the door. As she turned around her blue eyes sparkled. “My mother already did the place settings and you’re not invited.”
* * *
Brigit ran down the steep path to Fira. She rubbed her lips with pink lip gloss and slipped on her oval sunglasses. She didn’t really have an appointment with the florist but suddenly she couldn’t breathe. Even with his blond curls cut short, Nathaniel made her stomach churn and her blood boil.
She entered a café and ordered a cone of strawberry ice cream. She strolled past boutique windows filled with wide straw hats and soft leather sandals and began to feel better. She was in one of the most beautiful spots in the world, about to marry the man she loved. She pictured Blake’s wavy dark hair and green eyes and felt her shoulders relax. Having his photo taken was part of his job and she would have to get used to it.
She glanced at couples holding hands and remembered the first time Blake whispered, “I love you.” He had surprised her with two first-class tickets to Athens. They stayed at the Hotel Grande Bretagne and visited the National Garden and Temple of Zeus. They climbed to the top of the Acropolis and ate a picnic in the Theater of Dionysus. They strolled through outdoor markets and sampled cucumber tzatziki and Kalamata olives and ripe feta cheese.
On their last night they sat at an outdoor café on the Plaza Syntagma. Brigit ate lamb medallions and smoked eggplant and felt a warmth spread through her chest. Everything was perfect: their hotel suite with its Carrara marble bathroom and balcony overlooking the Parthenon, the driver who drove them around in a sleek black car and showed them every part of the city, the way Blake held her hand when they crossed the street and was eager to explore the Old Parliament House and the Temple of Hephaestus.
“You’re Blake Crawford, the actor.” A young boy approached their table. He had dark curly hair and large brown eyes and olive skin. He wore a gray T-shirt and frayed blue jeans.
“How did you know?” Blake asked, putting down his wineglass. He wore a white linen shirt and blue blazer. His dark hair was smoothed back and he wore a black leather watch.
“My brother works in a cinema, he lets me take out the trash and watch the movies,” the boy replied. “I learned English by watching Mission: Impossible and Spider-Man.” He gazed at the platter of sautéed scallops and calamari and capers and his eyes widened. “My name is Matthias. Could I have your autograph?”
“It would be my pleasure.” Blake took a pen out of his blazer pocket and scribbled on a napkin.
The boy folded it carefully and put it in his pocket. He was about to walk away when he turned around. “Could I please have autographs for my three brothers and sister and parents?”
Blake laughed and scribbled on a stack of napkins. “Tell your parents they raised a polite son, and try to watch some of the great directors: Francis Ford Coppola and Martin Scorsese and David Fincher.”
* * *
They shared baked pears with chestnut puree and crumbled spices for dessert and talked about Blake’s next movie and Brigit’s upcoming trip to Ecuador. Brigit gazed at Blake’s green eyes and wide mouth and felt a chill run down her spine. It had been so long since she’d talked with someone who made her feel excited and alive. He shared her drive to accomplish great things: provide doctors to remote parts of Peru and start small farms in Central America.
“I want to teach children in Honduras how to milk goats and grow barley.” Brigit scooped up pistachio nuts and hazelnut ice cream. “I want villages to become self-sufficient with a bank and a post office and a grocery store. I don’t want to just build schools and libraries in Fiji and Bhutan, I want to create whole universities.”
“I’ve never understood actors who keep buying mansions and Porsches and sailboats.” Blake sipped a glass of port. “I love owning Tom Ford suits and Bruno Magli shoes but I couldn’t slip them on in the morning if I didn’t know I was doing something to put shoes on the feet of children in Bangladesh and Pakistan.”
* * *
Blake paid the check and they strolled through the Plaza Syntagma. They saw tourists carrying silver cameras and children licking lime ice cream cones. They saw a young boy surrounded by men and women. He handed them scraps of paper and they reached in their pockets for euros and dollar bills. Brigit looked closely and saw it was the boy who’d asked Blake for his autograph.
“Matthias.” Blake strode across the square. “Are you selling my autograph?”
The boy looked guiltily at Blake and stuffed the money into his pocket. “I’m saving to buy a video camera, I’m going to shoot a movie and come to America.”
Blake frowned and rubbed his chin. Suddenly he took off his watch and handed it to Matthias. “The back is engraved with my initials, make sure you get a good price for it.” His face broke into a smile. “And if you make it to Hollywood, look me up, the movie business needs fresh talent.”
* * *
They entered the tall glass doors of the Hotel Grande Bretagne and crossed the black-and-white marble floor. Brigit glanced at the gold inlaid ceilings and ivory columns and felt her cheeks flush and her heart race. She inhaled Blake’s Ralph Lauren cologne and couldn’t wait to slip off her sandals and unzip her dress and lie down in the king-sized four-poster bed.
“Blake, tell us about your new girlfriend.” A man wearing black jeans and a black T-shirt approached them. He was followed by a man with reddish hair carrying a black camera. “Is she an actress or a model? She looks like a young Grace Kelly.”
“You know me better than that.” Blake stopped and slipped his hands into his pockets. “I’m not going to betray my date’s privacy by telling you anything that’s going to end up in the newspapers.”
“Give us a hint,” the man persisted. “Is she the girl who’s finally going to drag Blake Crawford to the altar?”
“Does she look like the kind of woman who has to drag a man anywhere?” Blake’s green eyes sparkled. “I’m lucky she let me buy her a cup of coffee. If you gentlemen don’t leave us alone, I’m going to end up sleeping in the doghouse.”
“Rumor has it that she’s from an old New York family who has no interest in Hollywood,” the man persisted. “How is she going to feel about you globe-trotting around the world and being photographed with beautiful actresses?”
“Have you ever felt so lucky that you want to knock on every piece of wood you pass and throw rice over your shoulder?” Blake mused. “I’ve felt like that three times in my life, when I dropped out of Ohio State and took a Greyhound bus to Los Angeles, when I was a waiter at Nobu and spilled potato leek soup on Brian Grazer, and when I was seated next to Miss Palmer at a charity dinner and discovered we both liked French champagne and tiramisu.” He pressed the button on the elevator. “Now if you’ll excuse us, we’re going upstairs and do something boring like play canasta and watch an old Sean Connery movie.”
“Did you really spill potato leek soup on one of the most important producers in Hollywood?” The man raised his eyebrow.
“See how lucky I am, if it had been tomato soup it would have stained.” Blake stepped into the elevator. “And my acting career would have been over.”
* * *
Brigit entered the suite and put her evening bag on the glass end table. She gazed at the polished wood floor and plush gold sofas and shivered. Suddenly she didn’t want to be here with Blake, eating petit fours on a silver tray and watching the lights flicker on the Acropolis. She didn’t want to be grilled by reporters and listen to gossip about Blake’s old girlfriends.
“I’m sorry about our friends at the elevator.” Blake slipped off his blazer. “I hope they didn’t spoil our evening.”
“They seem to know a lot about you.” Brigit walked to the balcony. She glanced at the stone columns of the Parliament Building and the dim outline of Mount Lycabettus. She listened to the sound of horns honking and tires screeching and wished she were home in her Upper East Side apartment.
“I’m thirty-four and don’t get thrown out of bars or start fights at Hollywood parties. I don’t show up at the airport with a two-day stubble or a new earring.” Blake stood beside her. “They have to think of something to write about.”
“When my mother was young she was featured in a story about debutantes in Vanity Fair.” Brigit rested her elbows on the railing. “She was furious when she read it because they made the debutante season sound like a marriage market. She said it was much more than that: it was about history and philanthropy and finding one’s purpose.” Brigit turned to Blake and smiled. “Of course they were right, that’s how my mother met my father.”
“Reporters are like monkeys at the zoo, you have to feed them some stories so they don’t grow hungry and rattle the cages, but there’s so much they don’t know about me: I’m afraid of snakes and love margarita pizza and I’m sucker for a beautiful blond attorney who keeps a copy of The Snows of Kilimanjaro on her bedside table.” He pulled her close and kissed her softly on the lips.
Brigit felt his mouth on hers and her shoulders relaxed. She kissed him back, tasting wine and chocolate and hazelnuts. She pressed herself against his chest and felt a moistness between her legs.
“And they don’t know that I’ve never told a woman ‘I love you.’” He pulled away and touched her chin. “Until now.”
Brigit sucked in her breath. She fleetingly pictured Nathaniel with his curly blond hair and blue eyes and felt an odd flickering in her chest.
“We’ve only known each other a few months but you’re like no one I’ve ever met.” Blake tucked her hair behind her ears. “You’re more beautiful than any model on the cover of a magazine but you run out of the house without a stick of makeup. You have a whole closet of designer clothes but you walk down Fifth Avenue in jeans and sneakers. And you’re so passionate about what you do you’re like a shooting star.”
Brigit felt his hand on the small of her back and the image of Nathaniel disappeared. She unbuttoned his shirt and ran her palms over his skin. Kissing him was the best feeling in the world. His arms were strong and he made her feel safe and happy.
Blake took her hand and led her into the bedroom and watched her unzip her dress and slip off her gold sandals. She stepped out of her lace panties and felt a surge of something hot and wet. Her heart raced and she walked over to Blake and unbuckled his belt. She took a deep breath and ran her hand down his thigh.
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.
Copyright © 2016 by Anita Hughes
