by Anita Hughes
Lily remembered reading how Prince Aga Khan turned the wild stretch of Sardinia into a playground for the rich and famous in the 1960s. His consortium still owned most of the hotels and the marina.
“I suppose I could make the time.” She smiled. “Thank you, for the dress, it’s lovely. I’m just afraid I’ll be like Cinderella at the ball, and everyone will know I’m an imposter.”
“You will be the most stunning woman there,” Ricky said softly. “And Lily, wear the ruby pendant. I can’t wait to see it around your neck.”
Lily hung up and felt like Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s. Could she really spend her time drinking champagne and eating oysters? But there was nothing in the books about divorce that said she had to resign herself to carpools and chaperoning field trips. Ricky was handsome and charming, and she couldn’t wait to be with him.
She fingered the ruby pendant and noticed one of the rubies was missing. What if it had fallen out when she’d tried it on in front of the mirror? She crouched down and searched underneath the table. She peeled back the rug and looked behind the sofa.
She could ask Enzo, but he might think she was accusing one of the maids of taking it. Someone must have vacuumed it up and not noticed.
Ricky might not mind if she misplaced a straw hat, but he would be upset if she lost a precious jewel. Suddenly, she had an idea. She scooped up the velvet case and hoped it would work.
* * *
Lily turned onto the Via Porto Vecchio and passed Cartier, with its glittering diamonds, and Prada, with its soft leather sandals. Porto Cervo resembled the villages she and Oliver had visited in Tuscany. But instead of butchers with slabs of meat and delicatessens with sausages dangling from hooks, there were stores selling designer shoes and priceless jewels.
She entered a shop with a pink marble floor and pastel-colored walls. Jewelry cases held heart-shaped watches and rings set with amethysts and topazes.
“Welcome to Sybarite.” A man stood behind the counter. “May I help you?”
“I hope so.” Lily took off her sunglasses. “What a wonderful store, your collections are exquisite.”
“We take great pride in our pieces.” He nodded. “We just got in a selection of brooches designed for Princess Caroline of Monaco.”
“I’m not here to buy anything, exactly.” She handed him the velvet case. “I’ve done something terrible. A friend gave me a ruby pendant, and I lost one of the stones. I wonder if you could replace it.”
He snapped it open and took out the ruby pendant.
“It’s a beautiful piece. The rubies are imported from Burma, and the clasp is twenty-four-carat gold.” He looked up. “Ricky has wonderful taste. He told me he was buying it for the lovely American who owned the new Lily Bristol.”
“You know Ricky?” Lily asked.
“Of course.” The man nodded. “Last year, he bought our finest engagement ring. A square sapphire surrounded by white diamonds.”
Lily started, and her cheeks turned pale.
“Did you say an engagement ring?” she gasped.
“Yes, he brought in his fiancée. Her name was Poppy, and she was American. Long blond hair and wearing a striped jumpsuit,” he remembered. “You almost never see a couple shopping for an engagement ring together. Ricky said Poppy had excellent taste and knew exactly what she wanted.” He paused. “It was unfortunate that Ricky returned the ring a week later.”
“He brought it back?”
“It happens sometimes, of course,” he said. “One never asks why. A returned engagement ring is a sensitive subject.”
He opened a drawer and took out a ruby. He inserted it in the pendant and handed the case to Lily.
“Oh, that’s wonderful,” she breathed. “I can’t tell the difference. What do I owe you?”
“Business owners in Porto Cervo must help each other.” He thought about it. “Wear it to the store opening and tell everyone where it’s from. It will be our gift to the stunning owner of Lily Bristol.”
“Thank you.” She beamed. “That’s exactly what I’ll do.”
* * *
Lily stepped onto the cobblestones and adjusted her hat. She felt slightly queasy—like when you left the doctor’s office after conducting some tests, she thought. You knew it was probably nothing, and that any minute the nurse would call and say they came back all clear. But if there wasn’t a chance something was wrong, why would you have taken them in the first place?
Ricky had said he was serious about love, but he’d never met the right woman. But surely, if he had been engaged, he had been in love before. And why hadn’t he mentioned it?
It probably didn’t mean anything at all. They had so many other things to talk about: the Emerald Coast’s white sand beaches and Lily Bristol’s grand opening and where to buy the best gelato.
The only thing she could do was ask Ricky. But the problem with asking difficult questions was, sometimes you didn’t like the answer. And even if he could explain why he’d hidden his engagement, what if there were other things he hadn’t told her?
She shielded her eyes from the sun and remembered when Oliver had lied to her about Mirabelle. She had thought if only they could start fresh, everything would be different.
* * *
Lily plumped cushions in the farmhouse’s living room and sighed. Oliver had been gone for a week, and she had rearranged the pantry and scrubbed the mudroom. She hadn’t realized how much she would miss him. She missed him handing her coffee with two sugars every morning and calling during his lunch hour and arriving home with Momofuku blueberry cookies.
Perhaps the note from Mirabelle was perfectly innocent. They’d had a friendly cup of coffee or run into each other on Fifth Avenue. But if nothing had happened, Oliver would have told her. Instead, he’d hurried away like the villain in a spy novel.
They had to think about Louisa. They couldn’t let their marriage dissolve like aspirin in a glass of water. But what if she asked Oliver about Mirabelle and he gave her an answer she didn’t want to hear? Then she would have to call a divorce attorney and think about selling the farmhouse.
She straightened magazines on the coffee table and thought anything was better than living in limbo. It was like when she taught Louisa how to dive. You couldn’t stay perched on top of a diving board; you had to work up the courage and jump into the pool.
She grabbed her purse and ran down the front steps. She opened the car door and slid into the driver’s seat. She fiddled with the mirror and saw a figure ducking into the garage. She jumped out and ran to the garage door.
“Oliver! What are you doing here?” she demanded.
“You look lovely this morning,” he said. “You should always wear that shade of lipstick, it suits you.”
“It’s eight o clock in the morning! Why are you in the garage?”
“I bought Danishes and wondered if I could use the microwave. The one in my room at the Comfort Inn isn’t working. There’s nothing worse than a cold Danish, it tastes like cardboard.”
“But why are you prowling around our house? I could have thought you were a burglar and called the police.”
“I hope you recognize your own husband, I’ve only been gone a week.” He paused. “Though you look different. You’ve done something with your hair.”
“You haven’t answered my question,” she said. “And you’re getting pastry flakes on the garage floor.”
“I brought you one too.” He handed her the bag. “I come here every morning. I watched you polish the dining room table and dust the bookshelves,” he admitted. “But today you walked outside, and I got scared.”
“So you hid in the garage?”
“We don’t have any bushes,” he explained awkwardly. “It was the closest thing.”
“You’ve been spying on me all week?” she asked, and didn’t know whether to be furious or slightly happy. Oliver hadn’t been having trysts with Mirabelle; he had been peering through their window.
“Well
, yes.” He nodded. “We really should hire someone to clean the drapes. I don’t like you climbing on that ladder.”
“Why didn’t you knock on the door?”
He rubbed his forehead, and she noticed his cheeks were pale, and there were circles under his eyes.
“I was afraid you would tell me to go away.”
“I probably would have.” She fiddled with her earrings.
“Are you going to tell me to leave now?” he asked.
“No, Oliver.” She shook her head. “I want to hear what you have to say.”
“I had dinner at Mirabelle. I shouldn’t have, but I was so miserable,” he began. “She offered to show me the kitchen, and things got out of hand. It was a terrible mistake. You’re the only woman I ever wanted, and I’d do anything to keep you.”
“Something did happen between you and Mirabelle?” She clutched the paper bag.
“Yes, but it’s not as bad as you think.” He touched Lily’s hand. “I promise it will never happen again.”
“That’s what you said when you kissed her.” Lily pulled away.
“But I had a reason to kiss her, you kissed Roger,” he reminded her. “This is different, it’s entirely my fault.”
“How you could see her again when we were trying to work things out?” she asked, and her voice rose.
“Not talking to you was the worst thing in the world. I needed to end the pain,” he explained. “But I realized right away it was a mistake. I should have begged you to take me back.”
“I don’t think that’s possible, Oliver,” she said slowly. “It’s better if we separate before we cause each other more pain.”
“We love each other! We can’t throw away our marriage like cold pizza,” he protested. “We have to start over.”
“What do you mean?” she looked up.
“Do you remember when we met at the train station in Naples?” he asked eagerly. “Let’s have our first date all over again. We’ll be together just because we love each other’s company.”
“You want to go on a first date?” She laughed.
“That’s exactly what I want to do,” he insisted. “And I know where. Meet me at Grand Central Station at six PM.”
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“It’s a surprise.” He handed her his pastry. “You can have my Danish too. I have to catch a train.”
* * *
Lily stood under the clock at Grand Central and glanced at the revolving glass doors. It was almost six thirty and Oliver hadn’t shown up. Maybe he’d gotten delayed at work or forgotten he had an evening function. She would have a bowl of corn chowder and take the train home.
She turned and saw Oliver hurrying toward her. He wore a blue blazer and carried a paper sack.
“It’s impossible to get fresh peaches in New York in November.” He handed her the bag. “I finally found a market on the Upper West Side that imports them from Argentina, and charges fifteen dollars a peach.”
“You brought me peaches?” She looked inside.
“Don’t you remember when we met?” he asked. “Your sandwich fell on the floor, and you lost your credit cards. I offered you a peach because you were starving.”
“Thank you.” She nodded. “They smell delicious.”
“You can’t eat them yet. You’ll spoil your appetite.” He took her hand. “Come with me.”
They walked a few blocks to East 44th Street and entered a brick building. The interior had polished wood floors and red wallpaper and pinpoint lighting. Tables were set with checkered tablecloths, and it smelled of garlic and tomatoes.
“Piccolo Fiore is the finest Italian restaurant in Midtown.” Oliver led her to a table by the window. “Their gnocchi Genovese is better than you’ll find in Rome, and the pastas are made fresh in the kitchen.”
“That’s very nice, Oliver.” She sat down. “But why did you drag me into the city? We have Italian restaurants in Wilton. And I’m not in the mood to have the chef come to the table and thank you for your review.”
“That’s not possible,” Oliver said and smiled. “The restaurant is closed.”
“What did you say?” She looked up.
“The restaurant is closed on Tuesdays,” he explained. “We have the place to ourselves.”
Lily noticed the water glasses weren’t filled and the breadbaskets were empty.
“How will we eat?” she asked.
“Wait here,” Oliver replied. “I’ll be right back.”
The kitchen doors opened, and Oliver carried plates of buffalo mozzarella and stuffed olives. There was spaghetti with meatballs and grilled asparagus. He poured two glasses of Chianti and handed one to Lily.
“Where did all this come from?” She took a bite of melon wrapped in prosciutto and had never tasted anything so delicious.
“Daniel, the chef, owed me a favor.” Oliver sipped his wine. “Do you remember our first meal at Umberto’s? The door was locked, and you thought we were breaking into a restaurant. I went into the kitchen and brought out eggplant parmigana and bowls of minestrone.
“I asked what you wanted to be when you weren’t getting stranded in train stations, and you said you wanted to open a furnishings store.” He paused. “Then you suggested I become a food critic.”
“Of course I remember,” Lily said, and a chill ran down her spine.
“Look what we’ve achieved.” Oliver sat forward. “Lily Bristol is an international brand, and I’m the restaurant critic for the New York Times, and we have a wonderful daughter. We can’t throw it away because of a few missteps. Think of what we’ll miss.”
Oliver’s blue eyes sparkled, and Lily remembered everything she loved about him. But then she imagined him kissing Mirabelle, and her stomach clenched.
“Too much has happened.” Lily fiddled with her glass. “I don’t know if we can look at each other in the same way.”
“I’m looking at you now, and I see a woman in a yellow dress who is more beautiful than the day we met.” He took her hand. “Of all the airports and bus terminals and train stations in Italy, you ended up in Naples. Don’t you think if we had the good fortune to find ourselves on the same platform, we have to keep trying?”
“It doesn’t mean anything if we don’t make each other happy.” Lily’s eyes glistened. “Every marriage is built on trust, and we broke it.”
“They rebuilt San Francisco after the earthquake and New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina,” he urged. “We have to make it work.”
Oliver kissed her, and her heart melted. He was everything she wanted, and she couldn’t imagine life without him.
“All right,” she whispered. “We’ll give it another chance.”
“Good,” Oliver said and smiled. “Because I just got spaghetti sauce on my tie, and you’re better at getting the stains out.”
* * *
They ate flourless chocolate cake and talked about spending a week on Lake Michigan the following summer. Oliver suggested having an aperitif, and they took a cab to the St. Regis.
Lily sipped a Casanova with Campari and orange juice and thought she never tired of the King Cole Bar. The Maxfield Parrish mural was stunning, the inlaid gold ceiling was spectacular, and the walnut booths made you feel like were in an English library. And the people! Men wore wool overcoats, and women were dressed in cashmere suits, and they all looked impossibly sophisticated.
Lily went to the powder room to refresh her makeup and returned to the bar. Oliver drummed his fingers on the wood. His fists were clenched, and he looked like he was going to explode.
“What happened?” She sat next to him. “I was only gone a minute.”
“You left your phone and you got a text,” he offered. “I shouldn’t have looked, but I thought it might be the babysitter. It was from Roger. He’s going to be in New York next week and wanted to know if you’d like to have lunch.”
“Roger!” Lily gasped, and ice filled her veins. “I have no idea why he would text me. I haven’t s
poken to him since that night in San Francisco.”
“Why does he have your number at all?” Oliver asked.
“I’ve had the same number for years.” Lily’s eyes blazed. “I thought we were going to trust each other.”
“That was before Roger’s name showed up on your phone.” He stood up. “I don’t feel like drinking a Bloody Mary and listening to jazz. I’m going home.”
* * *
Lily fumbled with her key and opened the door of the farmhouse. Oliver hadn’t said a word on the train. Now he entered the living room and poured a glass of scotch.
“Don’t you think it’s odd that Roger would text you out of the blue and try make a date?” He filled the glass with ice and took a long gulp. “Usually when people are in New York on business, they’re too busy to have lunch.”
“I would never make plans to see Roger. And I told you, I have no idea why he contacted me,” Lily said. “If you don’t believe me, you can call and ask him if we’ve been in touch.”
“The last person I want to talk to is the man who keeps trying to ruin my marriage.” He bristled.
“No one can ruin our marriage except us, Oliver.” She walked to the hallway.
“And don’t tell me to sleep in the guest room.” He followed her. “I paid for our down comforter, and I’m going to sleep under it.”
“You’re welcome to the bedroom,” Lily said and smoothed her skirt. “I’ll sleep in the guest room.”
* * *
Lily clutched her champagne glass and glanced around the room. Colored lights dangled from the ceiling, and a Christmas tree was decorated with glass ornaments. Waiters carried trays of profiteroles, and Lily inhaled the scent of nutmeg and cinnamon.
For the first time in weeks, Lily felt slightly hopeful. She and Oliver had finally made up and were sleeping in the same bed. They’d taken Louisa Christmas shopping on Fifth Avenue and spent a romantic weekend at an inn in Vermont.
Now they were at the Spotted Pig’s annual Christmas party. Manhattan’s hottest restaurateurs gathered in the Spotted Pig’s private dining room to nibble scallops and drink Brandy Alexanders. Oliver flitted from group to group, and Lily felt a surge of pride. Oliver was just a boy from Michigan, and now he was the most sought-after food critic in New York.
