by Anita Hughes
“Oliver.” Angela opened the bedroom door. She wore a peach robe, and her hair cascaded over her shoulders. “Why aren’t you getting undressed?”
“I thought…” He walked to the bar and poured a glass of scotch.
“Thought what, Oliver?” she interrupted. “That I would be upset that you tried to save your ex-wife from having an allergic reaction?”
“It can be terrible. Lily’s eyes water as if she’s been chopping onions, and her skin itches for days.”
“I don’t mind at all. You make a charming knight in shining armor.” She paused. “Unless you still have feelings for her. But you don’t, do you?”
“Of course not.” Oliver downed the scotch. “We’re divorced.”
“I didn’t think so, or you wouldn’t call me your girlfriend. I’m glad you’re friends with Lily.” She stood close to Oliver. “It’s important to have a good relationship with your ex, especially when children are involved.” She rubbed his chin. “You have a bit of custard on your chin. Why don’t you shower before we go to bed?”
“That’s an excellent idea.” He put his shot glass on the bar. “I could use a shower.”
* * *
Oliver stood under the water and massaged his neck. He pictured Lily demanding her dessert, and Ricky crouching beside him, and was glad the evening was over. It could have been worse; at least Angela was understanding.
The shower door opened, and Angela stepped inside. She was naked, and water pearled up on her breasts.
“Have you ever done it sitting down in the shower?” she asked.
“I beg your pardon?” Oliver gulped.
“Sit down.” She motioned to the tile bench. “And lean against the wall.”
Oliver sat on the bench, and Angela climbed into his lap. The water sprayed her hair, and he buried his mouth in her neck.
He wrapped his arms around her, and she moved on top of him. Steam filled the shower, and he was so hard he was afraid he would come too fast.
“Say my name,” she whispered.
“Angela,” he breathed, kissing her breasts.
God! He had never experienced anything like it. Her nipples were erect, and her skin glistened, and she was like some incredible mermaid.
“I want you, Oliver.” She tossed her hair over her shoulders. He was about to answer, but the water droned in his ears. Tension built inside him, and he came with an unbearable force.
“Come into the bedroom when you’re ready.” She climbed off him and grabbed a towel. “I’ll keep the bed warm.”
* * *
Oliver knotted a towel around his waist and wondered how he’d gotten so lucky. Even thinking about what he and Angela had just done made him groan.
He remembered her saying she wanted children, and was suddenly apprehensive. Most women in their twenties said that; it didn’t mean anything. And he and Angela had never said they loved each other. They were just having a good time.
He rubbed his wrists with cologne and entered the bedroom. Angela’s hair spilled over the pillow, and she looked like an angel. He dropped his towel and slid into bed beside her.
Chapter Nine
LILY STROLLED ALONG THE piazzetta and inhaled the scent of coffee and hyacinths. It was mid-morning, and the sun glinted on the harbor. Lily had never seen that shade of blue. The water was like one of Louisa’s watercolor activity books, but the only colors were turquoise and magenta, mixed with gold.
She and Ricky had had a wonderful time the night before, drinking champagne and dancing. She’d forgotten what it was like to hold hands in the moonlight. The harbor had been lit up like a thousand fireflies, and pearl-colored yachts swayed against the shore. When they kissed in front of the hotel, her heart expanded and she felt light and happy.
Ricky was handsome and charismatic and they had so much in common. He had a niece Louisa’s age, and he knew all about Hello Kitty. And Ricky wanted to learn everything about Lily: her favorite foods and books and movies.
Lily entered a market and picked up a basket. They were going to drive to Porto Rotondo and have a picnic. It was the prettiest stretch of beach on the Emerald Coast, and the sea was almost transparent. Afterward, they would have a romantic dinner at S’Astore Ristorante tucked high in the hills.
She selected pane carasau and dried beef and a packet of ricotta cheese. She added a bag of figs and walked to the cash register. The clerk rang up her purchases, but she couldn’t find her wallet.
“Are you looking for this?” a male voice asked.
She turned around and saw Oliver holding her leather wallet. His hair was freshly washed, and he wore khakis and loafers.
“What are you doing here, Oliver?” she demanded. “And where did you find my wallet?”
“You left it next to the almonds.” He pointed to a barrel of nuts. “I was going to say something, but you were engrossed in your shopping.”
“I must have taken it out when I looked for my list.” She grabbed the wallet. “This can’t be a coincidence. I haven’t seen anyone in Porto Cervo this often except Enzo, my butler.”
“I saw you leave the hotel.” He shuffled his feet. “I came to apologize.”
“To apologize?” Lily looked up.
“For the scene last night at the Yacht Club,” he began. “I was only trying to help.”
“You didn’t have to do anything. I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”
“Last Thanksgiving, you ate a slice of pumpkin pie with cinnamon at Louisa’s class party,” he reminded her. “You couldn’t stop itching for days.”
“You embarrassed me.” Lily shuddered. “The Yacht Club is the most exclusive restaurant in Porto Cervo.”
“Angela thought I did the right thing,” he said and stopped. “Apparently, she’s quite a fan of yours.”
“What are you talking about?” she asked.
“I’d rather not discuss it here.” He pointed at shoppers standing at the cash register. “Why don’t you pay, and I’ll wait outside?”
Ricky was meeting her in an hour, and she needed to pick up a sponge cake at the pasticceria. But it had been kind of Oliver to stop her from eating the tiramisu. And they were both going in the same direction. There was nothing wrong with talking while they walked.
“What is it, Oliver?” She stepped onto the piazzetta. “I’m in a hurry.”
“How can you be in a hurry on a morning like this?” Oliver waved at boats gliding across the bay. “It’s a perfect day to sit at an outdoor café with a paperback book and an iced chocolate.”
“I’m going on a picnic,” Lily said.
“With Ricky?” he inquired. “Isn’t this a bit sudden? You’ve seen him every day since you arrived.”
“That’s none of your business,” she answered. “You said you wanted to talk about something.”
“Angela read some articles about Lily Bristol, and she’s impressed with your success.” He bit into an apple. “She’s quite serious about her career.”
“That’s very flattering,” Lily answered. “And why shouldn’t she be serious about her work? I’m sure she’s intelligent, or you wouldn’t be seeing her.” She paused. “Unless there’s another reason you’re together.”
“If you’re implying I like her for her physical attributes, you’re wrong,” Oliver retorted. “I admire her ambition. But she also said she wanted to have a family. She asked if I wanted more children.”
“Why are you telling me? If you want relationship advice, you should write to GQ.” She paused. “But that’s not unusual. Most women want a husband and children.”
“We’ve only known each other for two months,” Oliver explained. “Isn’t it too early to talk about the future?”
“Honestly, Oliver, I don’t want to have this conversation.” She walked faster. “But it’s never too early to think ahead, if you have feelings for someone. The whole point of a relationship is to move forward.”
“The last time I mentioned Angela, you said our rel
ationship seemed rushed,” he protested. “Now you think it’s all right if she wants to know if Louisa wants a half sibling?”
“All I’m saying is I don’t blame her for talking about her plans.” Lily turned to Oliver. “Excuse me, I have to go.”
“Wait.” Oliver touched her arm. “The only reason you would change your mind is because of Ricky. You can’t be serious about a Sardinian you met in the piazzetta?”
“I didn’t meet Ricky in the piazzetta. He’s a friend of Enzo’s sister,” she corrected him. “And he’s intelligent and charming.”
“You’ve known him for three days, he could be a serial killer!” he spat. “You can’t think this is long term.”
“I doubt the Emerald Coast has any serial killers.” She smiled. “And I’m not thinking about anything. I’m just enjoying myself.”
“I don’t believe you,” Oliver said stubbornly. “You’d be up in arms about what Angela said if you weren’t thinking the same things about Ricky yourself. Ricky lives halfway across the world, it’s ridiculous.”
“I didn’t ask you for dating advice,” Lily snapped. “Good-bye, Oliver. Thank Angela for the kind words.”
“Do you remember when we were in Naples, and I took you to Mergellina to see the sunset? You were so excited by the ancient buildings and lights twinkling on the bay. I thought if I could always see the world through your eyes, I’d be the luckiest guy alive.” He tossed the apple core onto the pavement. “We’re both smart people, and we can be so stupid.”
“What do you mean?” She turned around.
“If we had trusted each other, none of this would have happened.”
“We had reasons not to trust each other. You lied to me about Mirabelle, why would I believe you again? And you never accepted the fact that I was over Roger.” She adjusted her sunglasses. “We can’t change what happened, that’s why we got divorced. You enjoy Angela, and I’ll go on a picnic with Ricky. I’ll see you later.”
* * *
Lily hurried along the alley and then realized she’d forgotten the sponge cake. She didn’t want to go to the pasticceria and risk running into Oliver. She and Ricky would have to buy dessert in Porto Rotondo.
Could Oliver be right, was she falling in love with Ricky? That was impossible; she had to think about Louisa and Lily Bristol. She couldn’t stay on the Emerald Coast forever.
She wasn’t even thinking about love. It was Oliver who’d brought it up. She suddenly remembered Oliver saying they should have trusted each other. Oliver had lied to her; how could she have trusted him?
She clutched her shopping bag of picnic items and remembered the first tremor in their marriage. It was like the earthquakes in San Francisco when she was a child. She was never sure they really happened, until she saw a broken vase in the living room and wondered if she would ever feel safe again.
* * *
Lily strolled through the West Village and admired the lacquered window boxes and striped restaurant awnings. It was early evening, and couples hurried into the Waverly Inn to eat lamb shanks and Fedora to sample the braised duck with rhubarb jam.
Fall really was the best season in New York. The trees were orange and yellow, the women wore wool scarves, and the air smelled of damp leaves. She turned onto Christopher Street and was thrilled to be joining Oliver at Mirabelle, Manhattan’s most exciting new restaurant.
The last three years of living in the farmhouse had been exhilarating. Everyone in New York read Oliver’s reviews, and he was a local celebrity. Whenever Lily’s friends heard she was married to Oliver Bristol, they demanded to know where they should eat in the city.
He wore Brooks Brothers shirts and was invited to sporting events and art openings. Lily watched him sipping vodka gimlets at summer parties in the Hamptons and knew they had made the right decision.
And the new Lily Bristol was a success! The store had white linen sofas and woven baskets filled with seashells. Clients drank fresh lemonade and admired pastel-colored fabrics and wooden hutches. On the weekends the showroom was so busy, she hired an assistant.
The farmhouse needed more work than they had anticipated and sometimes they were terrified they’d gotten in over their heads. But Lily could spend hours puttering around the kitchen, and she adored the sloped floors and beamed ceilings.
And the endless projects were worth it when Lily watched Louisa performing cartwheels on the lawn. In the summer, Louisa chased butterflies and slept in a tent on the porch. Her legs and arms grew tan, and she learned to ride a bicycle.
There were parts of their life Lily wished were different: She often prepared Oliver’s favorite dinners and fell asleep before he arrived home. Oliver was too busy to accompany her on buying trips, and she had to travel to Europe alone. But they were both thriving and in love.
* * *
Now Lily climbed the steps of a brownstone and opened the door. Mirabelle had glass tables and high-backed velvet chairs. Recessed lighting illuminated abstract paintings, and there was a marble fireplace.
“Excuse me.” Lily approached the desk. “I’m meeting Oliver Bristol for dinner.”
“I believe your husband is waiting at the bar,” the hostess greeted her. “It’s such an honor to have you with us.”
Lily followed her and smiled. Dining out with a New York Times restaurant critic was like being with a pitcher for the Yankees. She and Oliver were treated to bottles of vintage wines and chanterelles grown in Provence. And the desserts! The chef always insisted they sample the fruit tarts and macaroons. Sometimes Lily was so full she was tempted to fold them in her napkin and pretend she’d finished them.
“There you are.” Oliver waved. He was sitting next to a blonde wearing a white blouse and tan slacks. “I was afraid you weren’t coming.”
“I’m terribly sorry. The train was late, and Midtown traffic was a nightmare.” Lily approached the bar. “I was tempted to get out and walk.”
Oliver introduced them. “This is Mirabelle. She trained under the chef at the Palace Hotel in Montreux.”
“It’s a pleasure.” Mirabelle extended her hand. She was in her late twenties and wore diamond stud earrings. “I was trying to bribe your husband into giving us a good review, but he refused.”
“I doubt you have to bribe me. Every chef in New York wants to replicate your celery root–saffron soup.” Oliver smiled broadly. “I read in the New York Post that the chocolate ganache was worth skipping the entrée for.”
“Everyone knows Oliver Bristol’s review is the only one that matters,” Mirabelle said. Lily noticed her eyes were green, and she wore shimmering lipstick.
“I only write about what’s put in front of me.” Oliver shrugged. “You have nothing to worry about.”
“I’ll have plenty to worry about if I don’t get back to the kitchen.” She stood up and turned to Lily. “It was a pleasure meeting you.”
The hostess escorted them to a table, and Lily sat stiffly in the chair. She buttered a slice of pumpernickel and looked at Oliver.
“Mirabelle is very pretty,” Lily commented, and for some reason her heart beat faster.
“Is she?” Oliver looked up. “I didn’t notice.”
“She could be on the cover of a magazine,” Lily continued. “She had one of those moles on her cheek that always makes you wonder whether or not they added it in Photoshop so the model wasn’t completely perfect.”
“I stopped looking at women when you stepped out of the shower at the hostel in Naples,” Oliver mused. “You wore that blue bathing suit, and your hair clung to your head like a bathing cap. You looked like a water sprite.”
“Everyone looks at women in New York, Oliver. The sidewalks are a moving catwalk,” she pointed out. “And you were having a drink with her. Your knees were practically touching.”
“It was a cramped bar, and I don’t drink alcohol before a meal. It dulls the palate.” He paused. “You’re not jealous?”
“She just acted so familiar.” Lily bit her lip.
“All chefs butter me up. I received a gold pen from the chef at the Four Seasons for my birthday. It’s part of the job.”
“I suppose you’re right.” She sighed. “Sometimes I miss being together every night. Connecticut is wonderful, but it’s another planet. While Louisa and I are watching fireflies, you’re sampling wines and eating off bone-white china.”
“And counting the hours until I walk through our door.” Oliver smiled. “Let’s ask the babysitter to spend the night and get a room at the W. We’ll stay up eating M&M’s and watching movies.”
“Audrey charges us a fortune to sleep over, and I have to get home,” Lily said. “I’m leaving for San Francisco tomorrow.”
“Then we’ll make out on the train like teenagers who ride the subway all night because nothing else is open.”
Lily looked at Oliver, and the knot in her chest loosened. He was the same Oliver he had been from the day they met, and she was being silly.
“I’m acting like a typical suburban wife.” She picked up the menu. “Let’s have dinner and forget I said anything.”
They ate salad of asparagus with bacon, and chicken with fingerling potatoes. Lily nibbled baby fennel and thought Oliver was right; Mirabelle really was a talented chef. But she was still uncomfortable when Mirabelle insisted on making their soufflé at the table. The custard was too sweet, and the nougat got stuck in her throat.
* * *
“Do you think you could ever fall in love with someone else?” Lily asked when they walked onto the sidewalk. The street lamps glowed, and a light mist touched her shoulders.
“What are you talking about?” Oliver asked.
“I mean, if something happened to me. Say I was killed in a plane crash or an earthquake in San Francisco. Would you get married again?”
“That’s a silly question,” Oliver said. “Planes are safer than cars, and San Francisco hasn’t had a catastrophic earthquake in almost thirty years.
“I’m just asking if you could be attracted to another woman,” Lily prodded. “Louisa would need a mother. And you’re hopeless at doing laundry. If I’m gone for more than a few days, Louisa runs out of underwear.”
