by Anita Hughes
“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 l
ips 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.
