by Anita Hughes
“What do you mean?” Oliver handed her a champagne flute.
“I don’t know, Oliver. Sometimes I feel like you’re an actor reciting his lines. You’re in the scene, but you’re not really here,” she continued. “My last boyfriend would have punched him in the jaw.”
“I’m a restaurant critic for the New York Times. I don’t solve problems with my fist,” Oliver answered. “And I don’t know what you’re talking about. There’s nowhere I’d rather be than with you.”
“I’m not a mannequin you can practice kissing on.” She walked to the bed. “I like you, Oliver. But I need you to try harder.”
“We’re in an oceanfront suite, and I ordered oysters and champagne.” He waved at the ice bucket. “What more can I do?”
She slipped off her robe and peeled back the sheets. “You could start by calling me your girlfriend.”
Had he ever called her his girlfriend? He couldn’t remember. And he hadn’t used that term since college. But her hair was fanned out on the pillow, her lips were coated with lipstick, and his heart pounded.
“Of course, you’re my girlfriend.” He lay down beside her.
“Do you really mean it?” she asked. “You’re not just saying it to appease me?”
“Of course I mean it.” He nodded. “You are bright and beautiful, and when I’m around you, I feel like I matter. I’m the luckiest guy to be able to call you my girlfriend.”
“I can’t tell you how happy that makes me, Oliver.” She played with her necklace. “Now I’ll show you what a girlfriend can do.”
She climbed on top of him. He lay on his back and couldn’t remember the last time he’d done this with a woman. She ground into him, and he gasped and thought he had gone to heaven.
“I’m going to make you come,” she whispered in his ear. “Like you’ve never come before.”
Oliver groaned and flipped her onto her back. He slid inside her, and her nails dug into his flesh. Her stomach was rounded, and her breasts were heavy, and suddenly he couldn’t slow down. He grabbed her shoulders and came with one endless thrust.
“You see, Oliver. I thought you’d like that,” she murmured.
“We’re not quite done.” He lay beside her and stroked her thighs. His palm moved in circles, and she let out a small moan. She clutched the pillow, and her whole body shuddered.
“Maybe I was wrong,” Angela said, when they both lay on their backs. The ceiling fan turned overhead, and Oliver tried to catch his breath.
“Wrong?” he wiped his forehead. How could anything be wrong when he felt like Joe DiMaggio after he’d won the World Series?
“You don’t need to try harder.” She closed her eyes. “That was perfect.”
* * *
Oliver stepped onto the balcony and closed the sliding glass doors. It was almost midnight, and the piazzetta teemed with men and women in glittering evening clothes. Sports cars idled on the cobblestones, and a driver in a red uniform stood next to a gleaming silver Rolls-Royce.
He turned and studied the yachts in the harbor. Their wooden decks were lit up like a fireworks display on the Fourth of July. Sleek figures dove into swimming pools, and Jacuzzis resembled fizzy glasses of champagne.
Angela had fallen asleep, but Oliver was suddenly restless. A stunning redhead had just been straddling him. Why did he feel empty? He was incredibly attracted to Angela. And look how well he’d performed. After he’d finished, she was like a kitten with a warm bowl of milk.
It wasn’t just her looks and her actions in bed. She was easy to talk to. She valued his opinion, and when he was with her, he felt needed.
How was he supposed to know she wanted him to punch the guy at the church? Didn’t women these days carry cans of mace so they could protect themselves? It didn’t mean he wasn’t jealous; he’d just stopped behaving like a boy with a BB gun.
He gazed at the round portholes and knew he was kidding himself. Earth-shattering sex didn’t mean anything if, the minute you rolled off, you wondered if it was too late to order a pizza. And he hadn’t really matured. He didn’t see the point in poking out another man’s eyes because he’d looked up Angela’s skirt.
He opened the sliding glass door and approached the bed. He took off his robe and slipped in beside her. Angela was right. If she was going to be his girlfriend, he needed to try harder.
Chapter Seven
LILY BRUSHED HER HAIR WITH a wooden hairbrush and rubbed her lips with lipstick. She had spent the morning choosing floral arrangements for Lily Bristol’s grand opening in four days. There were going to be jugs of purple daisies and wreaths of wildflowers.
She debated what to wear for her picnic with Ricky. She tried on the straw hat, and a shiver ran down her spine. It was lovely to dress up for someone. And he really was handsome, with his dark eyes and white smile.
She studied her reflection in the mirror and knew she was being silly. What was the point of seeing Ricky if she was going home in a few days? But when she’d met Oliver in Naples, she’d thought he was just a ride to Florence.
Oliver! She hadn’t said his name so often since he’d moved out. And why shouldn’t she explore Sardinia with Ricky? She didn’t want to drive the winding roads by herself, and there was more to the Emerald Coast than boutiques and gourmet food stores.
What if he wanted to kiss her? She made a face in the mirror and laughed. If she got this nervous before a picnic, how would she survive a romantic dinner? She had to go with him or she’d spend her life doing sales projections for Lily Bristol and buying Louisa new ballet slippers.
Her phone rang, and she picked up.
“Lily?” a male voice said. “I’m glad I caught you.”
“Ricky!” Lily walked to the window. “I was debating whether to pack a swimsuit. It’s a gorgeous day, and I’ve been working all morning.”
“I’m afraid I can’t make our picnic,” he began. “The Greek shipping magnate, Christoff, arrived and is having a lunch party on his yacht. He has a wife in Athens and mistresses in Portofino and Monte Carlo. He buys three of every outfit in my boutique. He doesn’t want to send the wrong gift.”
“He sounds horrible.” Lily grimaced.
“I abhor his morals, but I can’t afford to turn him away,” Ricky explained. “And I have to go to his party. Every boutique owner on the Emerald Coast wants his business.”
“I understand.” Lily nodded and wondered why she felt deflated.
“I wonder if you could meet me there,” he continued. “His yacht is called the Hercules. It’s royal blue and has a shuffleboard court.”
“You want me to join you?” she asked.
“Of course,” he answered. “What did you expect?”
“I just thought…” She hesitated.
“We made plans, and Sardinians keep our word.” He stopped, and she wondered if she had lost the connection. “And besides, there’s nothing I’d rather do than be with you.”
“I’ll bring my bathing suit after all,” Lily said and laughed. “You’ll probably think it’s boring. It’s not cut up to my stomach or threaded with gold.”
“As long as you’re wearing it, it will be the prettiest swimsuit on the yacht.” He paused. “I’m glad you’re coming. I can’t wait to see you.”
* * *
Lily shielded her eyes from the sun and frowned. She was positive she’d written down the name of the yacht, but now she couldn’t find the paper. And it wasn’t as if she could walk along the dock until she spotted Ricky. There were dozens of yachts, and some of them were larger than buildings.
“Lily, what are you doing here?” a male voice asked.
“Oliver!” Lily turned around. “Don’t you think it’s odd that we keep running into each other? And where is Angela? I would have thought you wanted to spend all your time together.”
“Porto Cervo is a small place, it would be hard not to run into each other.” He shrugged. “And I’m working. I’m researching a background piece for the New York Times
. You know: the Emerald Coast is the playground of Russian oligarchs and European royalty who arrive on yachts outfitted with more precious jewels than the Taj Mahal.”
“They can’t be worth that much,” Lily said and laughed.
“That yacht over there,” he pointed to a four-story yacht with a helicopter pad. “It’s owned by an Arabian prince and has a bowling alley and aquarium.”
“Who wants to bowl when you’re sailing on the Mediterranean, and why do you need an aquarium when you’re surrounded by fish?”
“When you’re fabulously wealthy, you can buy whatever you like,” Oliver said. “It’s like being a child without parents to spoil your fun.”
“Being that rich doesn’t appeal to me,” she mused. “I like driving a Volvo, and I’d get tired of wearing designer clothes. I’m happy in a cotton dress and sandals.”
“Unfortunately, Angela doesn’t share your view.” Oliver sighed. “She’s at Trussardi, trying on their fall collection.”
“Why aren’t you with her?” she asked. “I thought you’d like to help her shop.”
“I was afraid that if I commented on the dress, I’d end up handing over my credit card,” he explained. “You know how much I earn. If it wasn’t for my expense account, I couldn’t afford a bag of figs.”
“Being the restaurant critic for the New York Times is a huge achievement.”
“It looks good on a Twitter handle, but it will never pay for one of these.” He waved at a catamaran. “You were the one who brought in real money. That’s why you kept the farmhouse, and I’m living in an apartment I can’t afford. But Louisa can’t stay with me in a walk-up in Harlem.”
“Oliver, this isn’t the time.” Lily turned away. “I have to go, I’m already late.”
“Where are you going?” He followed her. “There’s nothing here but yachts.”
She bit her lip and hesitated. It wouldn’t hurt to tell Oliver; maybe he could help her.
“If you must know, I was invited onboard a yacht.” She turned around. “I wrote down its name, but I can’t find the piece of paper.”
“Invited by who?” Oliver asked.
“That’s none of your business,” she said and started walking. “I shouldn’t have told you. I’ll figure it out myself.”
“I’m happy to help, I’ve always loved word games.” He raced after her. “Do you remember anything about it?”
“I think it was the name of a god.” Lily stopped.
“Roman or Greek?” he asked. “Did you know Zeus is the same as Apollo? I learned that from watching Louisa’s Disney movies.”
“Greek, I think.” She sighed. “It’s no use, I’ll go back to my suite and look for the paper.”
“You can’t do that, the yacht will leave without you,” he protested. “You must remember something. What was the first letter?”
“It started with an H.”
“Was it Helios, the god of the sun, or Heracles, the son of Zeus? That’s the Greek name for the Roman god Hercules.”
“That’s it, Hercules!” Lily said, and a smile spread across her face. “How did you know?”
“Louisa and I watched the DVD until it wore out. The musical score is superb.” Oliver pointed to a blue yacht with gold trim. “That’s it, over there.”
Lily looked up and gasped. The decks were gleaming walnut, and there was a marble bar. And the people! The women had bronze skin, and the men wore chrome watches, and they all looked like ornaments on some fabulous Christmas tree.
“I should take a picture and send it to your mother.” Oliver whistled. “She’d be happy you’re hobnobbing with the rich and famous. Maybe if I owned a yacht like this, we’d still be together.”
“That’s a horrible thing to say.” Lily’s cheeks flamed. “My mother never had anything to do with our split, it was all in your head. And the man who invited me works very hard. He just happens to have wealthy friends.”
Why had she told Oliver anything about Ricky? They were divorced, and Oliver had a girlfriend. Lily could date whomever she liked.
“Believe that if you want to,” he answered. “Everything revolves around money, even sex.”
“When we got together, you didn’t have a penny, and the sex was wonderful.”
“It was, wasn’t it?” Oliver perked up. “We were like puppies that couldn’t get enough of a ball.” He paused. “If only you had trusted me. I never would have done anything to hurt you.”
“You lied about where you were that night, Oliver.” She bristled. “You can’t trust someone who lies.”
“Once I asked Louisa if she ate a piece of fruit for breakfast, and she said she had a banana. I couldn’t find a banana peel in the whole apartment.”
“She’s six and doesn’t like bananas,” she said. “Maybe that’s the only kind of fruit you had.”
“I’m just saying there can be different reasons to lie, and not all of them are bad.”
“I don’t want to argue, that’s why we got divorced.” Lily fixed her hat. “We said if we kept making each other miserable, we would stop trying.”
“I never stopped trying, it just didn’t work,” he mumbled.
“Good-bye, Oliver,” she said. “Thank you for helping me remember the name of the yacht.”
“Watch your step.” He pointed to the wooden planks. “You don’t want to get your sandal caught.”
She walked along the dock, and her shoulders tightened. The next time she saw Oliver she would run in the other direction. He still made her feel like she did when she shared Louisa’s cotton candy. It tasted delicious until your head buzzed from the sugar and you felt slightly ill.
What did Oliver mean, saying that money was the cause of their problems? She’d never cared how much Oliver earned. Even owning Lily Bristol wasn’t a means to get wealthy. She adored her stores as if they were her children.
She remembered when she and Oliver had flown to Milan for the opening of the new Lily Bristol. It was their first time away from Louisa together, and they were as giddy as newlyweds. Milan was glamorous and intoxicating, and Lily had everything she’d ever wanted.
* * *
Lily stood at the window of their room at the Hotel Baglioni and thought she had never been anywhere so fashionable. Even Rue St.-Honoré in Paris wasn’t like Milan’s Golden Quadrangle. Via della Spiga was lined with Versace and Prada, and the female shoppers reminded her of greyhounds. Their hair was slicked back, and they wore narrow slacks and ankle boots.
The lights of Milan Cathedral twinkled in the distance, and Lily let out her breath. Oliver was in the bathroom shaving, and then they were going to the grand opening of Lily Bristol Milan.
It had all happened so quickly. A year before, she’d been on a buying trip and entered a design store in an eighteenth-century palazzo on the Corso Venezia. The exterior was all creamy granite and iron latticework, but inside there were teak floors and chrome walls and bright leather furniture.
She had a lively discussion with the owner about Milan’s fashion houses and how people actually wore what they saw on the runway. It was the only city in the world where women could wear a dress made of feathers, and no one batted an eye. And the food! Milan served the darkest espresso and sweetest cannoli and better veal cutlets than in Rome.
A few months later, the owner had called and asked if Lily wanted to buy the store. Lily had only opened Lily Bristol San Francisco two years before, and was having so much fun. Every morning, she left Louisa with the babysitter and chatted with Presidio Heights matrons looking for the perfect serving bowl and young professionals furnishing their apartments in the Marina.
If she opened a store in Milan, she would have to hire a manager and staff. She would be away from Louisa for longer periods, and what if something went wrong? She couldn’t hop on a plane if the roof leaked or there was a problem with the credit card machine.
But Oliver convinced her she couldn’t pass it up. Milan was the most important design center in Europe. She coul
d attend estate sales on Lake Como and pick out glass vases in Murano.
Oliver appeared in the doorway and fiddled with his cuff links. His dark hair was freshly washed, and he had a shaving nick on his chin.
“I sent my shirt to get pressed, and it cost more than my whole wardrobe.” He grimaced. “And I haven’t eaten a thing since we got off the plane. But the macadamia nuts in the minibar are the price of a pair of loafers.”
“Why are you complaining?” Lily turned around. She wore a black cocktail dress and silver pumps. “You’re the one who wanted me to open a store in Milan.”
“I’m just uncomfortable that we left Louisa with your parents. Your mother will point out all the things the other girls have and she’s missing: private singing lessons and Gymboree classes. She doesn’t miss an opportunity to show I’m a terrible provider.”
“Louisa is two and a half. The only thing they discuss is whether to watch Dora the Explorer or The Wiggles. And you’re being too harsh on her. My parents did book us a room at the Hotel Baglioni as an anniversary present.” Lily waved at the black-and-white marble floor and sideboard set with Italian chocolates. “If you relaxed, we might enjoy ourselves.”
“How can I relax when she keeps telling me I’ll never be able to save for a college fund?” He smoothed his collar. “She’s right, of course. If Lily Bristol wasn’t doing well, we’d still be living in a studio apartment.”
“What does it matter who earns more, as long as the money ends up in our bank account? And you’re a wonderful father. Louisa has a better vocabulary than any of her friends.” She stopped and laughed. “Though I did hear her mutter a swear word.”
“It was probably after we came back from a Sunday dinner with your parents.” He grimaced. “I don’t see why we have to subject ourselves to your mother’s inquisition. Last week, she asked if I’d thought of being a firefighter. They have good benefits, and the protective clothing makes it perfectly safe.”
“You’re the restaurant critic for the San Francisco Chronicle. You’re famous all over the city,” Lily said.
“The homeless man who waves at cars on Van Ness is famous, but he doesn’t have a 401(k) either.” Oliver unwrapped a chocolate truffle.
