Santorini Sunsets (13 page)

But then one of Blake's friends said Daisy must see the Buddhist temples in Chiang Mai and a
Sports Illustrated
model insisted the underwater caves in Vietnam were spectacular. Suddenly the sun was too hot and Daisy couldn't breathe. She strode down a narrow path and perched on a stone outcrop.

“You're missing the tour of the House of Ladies, it has authentic furniture and pottery from 1600 B.C.” Robbie approached her. He wore a white short-sleeved shirt and tan shorts and his silver camera was slung over his shoulder.

“I'm tired of explaining that the only places I've visited are Big Ben and the Eiffel Tower and the Vatican.” Daisy sighed. “My parents loved showing us the European capitals but now everyone goes on extreme adventures to stand near water buffalos in Nairobi and swim with tiger sharks on the Great Barrier Reef.

“Brigit was always the one leaning against the railing at the top of the Empire State Building or demanding to ride the Eye in London,” Daisy continued. “I still read the safety manual on airplanes and won't go anywhere I need a malaria shot because I'm terrified of needles.” She stopped and gazed at the black outline of the caldera.

“The tour guide said the volcano on Santorini caused tsunamis in Crete that decimated the island. Citizens came down from the mountains to rescue survivors but every thirty minutes there was a new tidal wave.” She looked at Robbie. “Some people are so brave; I would have raced in the other direction.”

“You're very brave.” Robbie picked a yellow tulip. “Most people stay in the same job even if the only thing they look forward to is the Friday rugby pool. It's easy to go to work in the morning if you know you have to write ten reports followed by a salad sandwich and a Coke for lunch.”

“You fly to Istanbul and Bangkok to photograph bombings and riots.” Daisy fiddled with her gold earrings. “I try to decide on the length of a skirt hem.”

“But I have a boss telling me what he wants,” Robbie insisted. “All I have to do is point and click the camera.”

“The only time I ever saw Brigit afraid was when Nathaniel walked out,” Daisy mused. “They had their whole lives mapped out: buying a six-room apartment on the park and a ski cottage in Maine. Having two children before she was thirty-five and taking a year's sabbatical in France. When Nathaniel left, Brigit spent five days in bed before she put on her favorite Donna Karan suit and returned to the law firm.”

Daisy realized what she'd said and her cheeks went pale. She jumped up and smoothed her skirt. “We should go, the bus is leaving for Fira.”

“I thought I'd go swimming before dinner and wash off some of this three-thousand-year-old ash.” Robbie grinned. “Would you like to join me?”

“I can't.” Daisy shook her head. “I have to help Brigit with the place cards.”

Robbie reached out and touched her arm.

“I've spent most of the last few years eating at McDonald's in airport terminals because I don't know whether there will be food and running water at my destination,” Robbie began. “The last time I ate at a decent restaurant was five days after the earthquake in Nepal when we took a break and had pork dumplings and buckwheat noodles in a café in Kathmandu. Halfway through the chicken chow mein there was a large aftershock and we piled into the street. By the time we returned to our table, the chow mein was cold and the noodles had congealed.” He stopped and looked at Daisy. “I might not be very good at it, but I'm asking you on a date.”

Daisy opened her mouth and then closed it. She twisted her ponytail and fiddled with a gold bangle.

“We really have to go,” she said finally. “I don't want to mess up the schedule.”

“Will you think about it?” Robbie asked.

Daisy's face broke into a small smile. “Yes, I'll think about it.”

*   *   *

Daisy sat in the back of the bus and gazed at donkeys lumbering down the steep path. She saw old women carrying baskets of figs and purple grapes. The blue Aegean glittered far below and she had a sudden desire to splash in the ocean.

She remembered what she'd said about Nathaniel walking out on Brigit and flushed. She should never have mentioned that to Robbie; what if he told Nathaniel and he wrote about it in the article?

Nathaniel leaving was the best thing that had happened to Brigit because she was marrying someone bright and caring and handsome. Blake and Brigit had an apartment on Madison Avenue and a home in the Hollywood Hills and friends who were movie stars and directors.

Daisy bit her lip. She was in Santorini to make sure Brigit had the wedding of her dreams and she wasn't helping by saying foolish things to the photographer.

If Robbie asked her out again she would say she couldn't concentrate on anything except the silver centerpieces and making sure Brigit's ivory crepe veil wasn't crumpled. After the wedding he could have her number and if he was ever in New York, they could drink vanilla lattes at Joe Coffee.

She looked out the window at white stone churches and beds of pink azaleas and let out her breath. Santorini really was lovely; coming to the wedding had been a good idea.

*   *   *

Sydney poured cream into the enamel cup and added a spoonful of honey. She never put sugar in coffee but Greek coffee was so dark, she had to make it sweeter. It was midafternoon and the square was full of tourists buying gold jewelry and cotton scarves and soft leather sandals.

After the tour of Akrotiri, Francis had suggested they relax at a café in Fira. They sipped glasses of Agiorgitiko wine and Sydney fiddled with her sunglasses. She gazed at Francis's salt-and-pepper hair and thought this was a good time to suggest they spend a few days in Mykonos before they returned to New York.

“I didn't realize I would enjoy the Greek islands so much,” she began. “The fish is delicious and the scenery is breathtaking. I was thinking…”

“Oh, God, I was sure I turned this off,” Francis interrupted, taking his phone out of his pocket. “For half an hour I wanted to sit across from my gorgeous wife and enjoy a local glass of wine and plate of olive tapas.” He stood up and pushed back his chair. “But this time I have to take it. Do you mind if I step away for a few minutes?”

“Of course you do.” Sydney tried to smile. “Don't worry, we have plenty of time.”

But his call lasted for ages and finally he sent her a text saying he had another conference call in ten minutes and he would have to go back to the villa. She traded her glass of wine for a cup of coffee and pushed away the tapas.

Now Sydney fiddled with the cup and thought about Nathaniel. It had been such a surprise seeing him at the villa; she couldn't imagine how Brigit felt. Having your ex-husband report on your wedding wasn't the ideal for a romantic, carefree weekend.

But she pictured Brigit strolling through the ruins in a floral Lilly Pulitzer dress and white sandals and smiled. She was as relaxed as Jackie Kennedy patting elephants in India.

Sydney nibbled a bite of honey baklava and remembered when Brigit had twisted her ankle before a school tennis tournament. Brigit didn't tell anyone because she was afraid she would have to forfeit the match. She won two sets before the smile pasted on her face was replaced by a gasp of pain.

She never turned in a homework assignment late even when she had pneumonia and appeared at breakfast on the morning of her AP statistics exam with her hair perfectly brushed and her cheeks lightly powdered.

Sydney remembered the Thanksgiving after Brigit and Nathaniel got married. Brigit was assigned to a high-profile case and Nathaniel's book of short stories had just received a stinging review in the
New York Times.
She pictured Brigit standing in the galley kitchen of her Lexington Avenue apartment with her mascara smudged and her dress rumpled and felt her chest tighten.

*   *   *

“I didn't put the turkey in the oven in time, and now I've got eight people coming to dinner and nothing to feed them except stuffing and grilled asparagus.” Brigit twisted her hands. “And I don't have any canned pumpkin so they'll have to eat berries and whipped cream for dessert.” She stopped and her eyes filled with sudden tears. “I wanted our first Thanksgiving to be perfect. Instead it's going to be like the tea parties I served to my American Girl dolls but on our wedding china.”

“Where's Nathaniel?” Sydney glanced at the normally pristine counter littered with jars of gravy and a bottle of cranberry sauce.

“I told him I didn't want help and he should go to the New York Public Library,” Brigit admitted. “I didn't realize Alistair would insist I work fifty hours on the Chevron case the week of Thanksgiving. Zabar's was closed when I got off work, so I couldn't pick up my order.”

“You should have asked Nathaniel to pick it up.” Sydney rinsed cherry tomatoes.

“You always prepared the most delicious Thanksgiving feast with stuffed Cornish hens and roasted sweet potatoes and caramelized onions.” Brigit fiddled with her diamond ring. “And Nathaniel's mother serves warm goat cheese salad and rack of lamb with herb confit on Christmas Eve. I don't want to be one of those working wives who show up thirty minutes before a dinner party to see if the caterer left the chicken in the oven.

“Anyway, Nathaniel knew how much I've been working. He could have offered to help.” She opened the fridge and took out a head of butter lettuce. “He's too busy moaning about how the book reviews in the
New York Times
are written by frustrated English professors who think good writing is about grammar and syntax.”

“Do you remember the summer you turned sixteen and tried out for the girls' cross country team? Nathaniel offered to come over and run with you at six a.m. before it got too hot.” Sydney sliced shallots. “You said you were perfectly capable and didn't want him to get up that early. One morning you bumped into him on Town Pond in his jogging shorts and running shoes. He didn't want to admit he was trying out for cross country too in case he didn't make the team.” She paused. “Sometimes we all need a little help, we just have to ask.”

“When Nathaniel wrote his short stories I had to put a turkey sandwich and bag of chips under his nose or he would forget to eat,” Brigit said. “I'd wake up in the morning and the whole apartment smelled of freshly ground coffee because he got up at five a.m. to start typing.

“Since the review came out, he hasn't written a word of his novel. He reheats the same cup of coffee all day because he's too tired to drink it,” she continued. “Sometimes I come home and find him dunking a Nerf ball in the fruit bowl. If I ask him to wait in line at Zabar's the night before Thanksgiving, it means I know he isn't accomplishing anything.”

“Marriage is about communication. If you need something you have to ask.” Sydney gazed out the window at the soft snow covering the cars. “If you don't, you could lose everything.”

*   *   *

Sydney glanced around Summerhill's living room with its thick plaster walls and floral Oriental rugs and brightly colored silk sofas. The marble fireplace was littered with Christmas cards and crystal vases were filled with white and red roses and a giant Christmas tree reached the ceiling. She inhaled the scent of pine leaves and cinnamon and thought how much she loved Christmas at Summerhill.

Many of their friends flew to Bermuda and stayed in pink villas and drank Tom Collinses on the beach. But Sydney insisted the family celebrate Christmas at Summerhill. She pictured the long mahogany table set with platters of baked ham and roast beef and grilled vegetables. She imagined the snow falling softly on the pond and hot apple cider simmering on the stove.

Brigit was coming from Dartmouth and Daisy was bringing a school friend and even Francis had promised to take a week off. He had suggested she wait and they drive to Summerhill together but Sydney wanted to get the house ready.

The best part really was seeing everyone's faces when they saw the wreath on the door and silver lights flickering on the porch and heard Bing Crosby singing, “White Christmas” on the stereo.

Now she gazed at boxes of Christmas ornaments and thought maybe she should have taken Francis's advice. Decorating the tree was exhausting when she was six months pregnant. She remembered when she was expecting Brigit and Daisy and loved digging in the garden and furnishing the nursery. This time her whole body ached and all she wanted to do was drink cups of sweet tea and read paperback books.

She thought of the new baby's room with its glossy white crib and blue bedding and her chest tightened. Some days she was so impatient for him to be born she felt like a child waiting for a birthday party.

But Francis worked endless hours and often didn't come home for dinner. All fall he'd avoided joining her at Summerhill on the weekends and she arrived home on Sunday nights and found him hunched over his desk with a glass of scotch and a half-eaten sandwich.

She gazed at his blue eyes and salt-and-pepper hair and wanted to ask if he was really buried in work or if he didn't want to talk about the baby. But he would kiss her on the cheek and say he didn't know where the time went and go upstairs to bed.

*   *   *

She selected a clay ornament Daisy had made in kindergarten and thought she didn't have time to worry about Francis. She had to finish decorating the tree and make sure everyone had an equal number of presents. She remembered when Brigit was four and learned to count. Sydney came downstairs on Christmas morning and found Brigit sitting at the oak table in the kitchen, her eyes filled with tears.

“Darling, what's wrong?” Sydney asked. “It's five a.m., you should be asleep.”

“I woke up because I was starving,” Brigit said. “I was too excited last night to finish my ice cream.”

“I hope you didn't come downstairs,” Sydney replied. “Santa Claus wouldn't come if he thought you and Daisy were awake.”