DAISY TWISTED HER PONYTAIL and strolled along the cobblestone street in Firostefani. She gazed at boutique windows filled with bright cotton dresses and leather espadrilles and thought wouldn’t it be wonderful to see her designs in a store window.
Daisy had gone up to Brigit’s bedroom and discovered she’d left without having breakfast. She wasn’t upset that Brigit slipped out without telling her. She must have so much on her mind: lengthening the flower girl’s dress because she had a sudden growth spurt and making sure the three-year-old ring bearer could balance the ring on the satin pillow.
She remembered the events of the last couple of days and thought Brigit looked gorgeous in her pink Dior dress and turquoise Givenchy gown. Her hair was glossy and her skin was creamy like a fashion spread in a magazine.
She pictured Brigit and Blake twirling across the dance floor and felt a small twinge. She wasn’t jealous Brigit was getting married. She didn’t want to be responsible for taking her husband’s shirts to the dry cleaners and making sure they used enough starch. She enjoyed eating Life cereal and an apple for dinner and watching reruns of Sex and the City.
But then she pictured the way Blake put his hand on the small of Brigit’s back and thought they looked so in love. She remembered the summer after Nathaniel proposed and she’d helped Brigit pick out linens and place cards. The oak kitchen table at Summerhill was scattered with fabric swatches and card stock.
* * *
“How do you know what you want?” Daisy fingered an emerald silk tablecloth.
“I’ve always wanted to get married at Summerhill.” Brigit scribbled on a notepad. “The reception will be outside so everything should be emerald and pink and yellow.”
“I don’t mean the wedding colors,” Daisy corrected. “I mean how did you know you wanted to get married?”
Brigit put down her pencil and looked at Daisy. “You know when you discover a signed copy of Catch-22 at the Strand and can’t wait to give it to him,” she mused. “Or you suddenly have an interest in the Spanish Civil War and reread The Sun Also Rises. You buy the crunchy peanut butter at Whole Foods even though you’ve always eaten the creamy. Suddenly the checkout line seems to take forever because it’s almost eight p.m. and you haven’t seen him since you snuck out of the office for a tuna sandwich at Carnegie Deli.”
“But how do you know it will last forever?” Daisy demanded.
Brigit gazed at the silk fabric swatches and lace bags of Jordan almonds. Her mouth trembled and she looked like a small child about to jump in a swimming pool. Then she smoothed her hair and turned the page of her notebook.
“You just do.” She smiled. “You don’t even have to think about it.”
* * *
Daisy reached the cliff and gazed at white stone churches and beds of pink bougainvillea. Firostefani was a ten-minute hike from Fira and had one of the most spectacular views in Santorini. She watched tall sailboats glide over the Aegean and thought Brigit and Nathaniel knew each other their whole lives and still didn’t stay together.
Daisy was perfectly happy with Edgar, her French bulldog and her one-bedroom apartment on East Seventy-Third Street. She liked being on a first-name basis with Steve, the barista at Starbucks and occasionally eating donut holes for breakfast.
But she suddenly pictured Robbie’s dark hair and brown eyes. It was crazy, but she couldn’t stop thinking about him. She remembered seeing him at the welcome dinner in a white dinner jacket and tan slacks and black shiny shoes. His cheeks glistened with aftershave and she’d longed to ask him to dance.
What if she accepted his offer to travel to Mykonos and Crete? Bergdorf’s and Bloomingdale’s would be there when she returned. She so enjoyed being with him, what if she never felt this way again?
Then she pictured the twinkling lights strung over the castle’s courtyard and thought maybe she was swept up by the romance of the weekend. She would feel differently sharing a seat on a sweaty tour bus or sleeping on a lumpy mattress in a hostel in Crete.
She wished she could ask Brigit’s advice but she still didn’t know what had happened last night. Now wasn’t the time to mention Robbie.
She suddenly saw a familiar figure stride up the steep path. He wore a short-sleeved shirt and navy shorts and leather sandals.
“Nathaniel,” she exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”
“I had breakfast with Brigit and thought I’d walk off fried eggs and bacon.” He sat beside her on the stone bench. “I don’t know how old Greek men trudge up and down these hills. I hiked two miles and I’m ready for a nap.”
“You had breakfast with Brigit?” Daisy asked.
“Technically we were both at Café Classico and I sat down at her table.” Nathaniel shrugged. “But she did offer to share her feta cheese omelet and fruit salad. She’s much more generous than when we were children. Do you remember she never gave me a bite of her Carvel chocolate drumstick?”
“That’s because you ate the whole thing and left her with the nuts,” Daisy replied.
“Nuts don’t belong in ice cream.” Nathaniel picked a purple daisy. “I actually apologized to Brigit, I told her I won’t cause any more trouble.”
“You did?” Daisy raised her eyebrow.
“You think I’m here to spoil the wedding, but landing this assignment is like getting an interview with Philip Roth. I couldn’t pass it up,” he replied.
“I don’t quite believe you,” Daisy said slowly. “You must be here for another reason.”
“Marriage is hard enough without doing it twice. I just wanted to make sure she’s happy.” He stopped and looked at Daisy. “Even though at the end I would have happily switched places with a Benedictine monk, I don’t regret a minute of it.”
“If you’re trying to win Brigit back—”
“I’d rather watch a Star Trek marathon than have Brigit color coordinate my dress shoes and socks,” Nathaniel cut in. “I’m worried about you.”
“Me?” Daisy gulped.
“Do you remember the summer you and Brigit were supposed to go to sleepaway camp and at the last minute she got allergies and canceled?” Nathaniel rubbed his chin. “I heard Sydney talking to my mother. Brigit refused to go because she was afraid she would get homesick.
“And remember when you started participating in gymkhanas and you suggested Brigit compete? She said she was too busy with tennis and cross country.” Nathaniel looked up. “She was terrified of horses.”
“Why are you telling me this now?” Daisy asked.
“Brigit isn’t as perfect as you think she is,” Nathaniel explained. “You’ve been so busy keeping up with her, you haven’t stopped to enjoy being Daisy.”
“I’m perfectly happy,” Daisy insisted. “I have a lovely apartment and a wonderful dog, and I’m going to launch my clothing line in the top department stores in Manhattan.”
“Then why don’t you let yourself fall in love?” Nathaniel asked. “Robbie said he’s falling in love with you but you want nothing to do with him.”
“He said that?” Daisy felt something pressing on her chest.
“He asked you to go to Mykonos and Crete and you said no.” Nathaniel pointed to the silver sailboats and dark outline of the caldera. “Are you really in a hurry to leave all this and go back to Manhattan?”
“You had a book of short stories reviewed in the New York Times and Brigit was an associate in a law firm and is about to head an international foundation.” Daisy fiddled with her hair ribbon. “The only thing I’ve accomplished in the last four years is training Edgar not to jump on the sofa and knowing the best use of cinnamon.” She paused and gazed at the shimmering ocean. “If I don’t go back now, the buyers will be booked until Christmas. How can I traipse around the Greek islands with a British photographer I just met, when I finally have a chance for a career?”
Nathaniel stood up and dusted his shorts. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and looked at Daisy. “If you’re in love, how can you do anything else?”
* * *
Daisy entered a newsagent and gazed at the glossy postcards of Oia and Perissa. Glass cases were filled with sweets and she thought Robbie might like a Cadbury Flake bar.
She selected a packet of Life Savers and glanced at the clock behind the counter. It was almost noon and she had to dress for the cruise to Therasia.
She remembered what Nathaniel had said and felt a sharp jolt. If Robbie was falling in love with her, she couldn’t go back to New York without seeing if they had a future.
She gathered a guidebook to Mykonos and a bag of English toffees and handed them to the man at the cash register. She walked into the street and gazed at the striped awnings and lacquered window boxes and thought she was glad she had come to Santorini.
* * *
Sydney sat on the terrace of Café Mezzo and ate stuffed tomato with rice and seafood pasta. She dipped bread into olive oil and gazed at the wide band of ocean. The sky was pale blue and the clouds were a thin line of white and she thought it would be the perfect place to bring Francis for a romantic dinner.
Brigit and Daisy had gone out so she’d decided to hike to Imerovigli. The village had whitewashed houses and plaster churches with stained-glass windows. Narrow streets were filled with galleries and views of the Skaros castle.
The waiter brought a platter of prawn moussaka and she had to laugh. Everything on the menu had looked delicious, but now she couldn’t eat half of it. She wrapped spaghetti around her fork and thought of the last few days. Sex improved your appetite and made you feel twenty years younger.
Sydney sipped sparkling water and thought of the all nights she’d waited for Francis to come to bed but he’d fallen asleep on the sofa in his study. She remembered attending elegant dinner parties and feeling the delicious buzz between them. By the time they got home and Francis hung up his tuxedo and she slipped off her gown, it had fizzled like a warm glass of champagne.
She nibbled capers and remembered the early days of their marriage, when Francis would lead her upstairs while the ice was still fresh in their martinis. Sydney would unzip her dress and they would fall onto the king-sized bed. It was only later, when they were both flushed and sweaty that she realized she’d forgotten to put the chicken in the oven.
They would run down to the Second Avenue Deli and buy pastrami sandwiches and egg salad. They carted shopping bags through the art deco lobby and hoped no one was in the elevator. Finally they tossed their purchases onto the kitchen counter and raced back up to the bedroom.
* * *
Maybe all that was disturbing Brigit last night was she hadn’t found time alone with Blake. Sydney would remind Brigit on the cruise to Therasia that their friends could entertain themselves. The only people they should think about were each other.
She scooped up risotto and remembered when Brigit burst into her dressing room a few weeks after she’d started dating Blake. Her blond hair was cut in a new bob and she wore pink lipstick.
* * *
“Darling, there you are.” Sydney looked up from her dressing table. She was meeting Francis at Per Se and still needed to do her hair. “I called your phone all weekend. I wondered if you and Blake would like to join us for dinner tonight.”
“I left it at my apartment,” Brigit explained. “Blake surprised me with a trip to Palm Beach.”
“Palm Beach?” Sydney raised her eyebrow. “Isn’t that a little soon? You’ve only been dating a few weeks.”
“We stayed at the Breakers and had Citroën lemonade and grilled Atlantic salmon at the Beach Club,” Brigit continued. “Blake insisted on buying me a Lilly Pulitzer dress and I got my hair done at Salon Margrit.”
“Your hair is gorgeous, you belong on the cover of Vogue.” Sydney nodded. “I just wonder if you’re rushing things.”
“Blake is handsome and intelligent and we care about the same things.” Brigit fiddled with her gold earrings. “Why shouldn’t I go away with him?”
“I’m glad you’re enjoying each other’s company.” Sydney brushed her hair. “But when you’re nibbling Godiva chocolates in a suite at the Breakers, you might make the wrong decisions.”
“I’m hardly a virgin, I’ve been married,” Brigit said hotly. “I don’t think I’m going to ruin my reputation by sharing a hotel key.”
“I’m not worried about your reputation.” Sydney put down the hairbrush. “The closest my mother and I came to discussing sex was the length of my gloves at my cotillion. But sex can change the way you look at things,” she continued. “Every couple is perfect when they only have to worry about whether to order room service or share a steak at the hotel bar.”
“Every evening I can’t wait for Blake to appear at the office,” Brigit mused. “We can spend hours drinking a bottle of pinot noir and the maître d’ at Gramercy Tavern had to kick us out before we finished our chocolate tiramisu.”
“That’s the thing about sex. You can walk for hours without getting tired and the simplest tomato soup tastes delicious.” Sydney stopped and her eyes clouded over. “It makes you believe everything is wonderful. It’s like sitting at an outdoor café in the glorious countryside, and not looking up at the clouds and realizing it’s about to pour.”
* * *
Sydney nibbled pain au chocolat and turned the pages of her paperback book. She had only been in Gordes for four days, but she couldn’t get over the beauty of the French landscape. Everywhere she looked there were fields of lavender and vineyards and thick forests.
The village of Gordes had cobblestone streets and a small square built in the shadow of a twelfth-century castle. There was a florist and grocery store that sold French cheeses and Belgian chocolates.
The whole way to the airport, Sydney thought of all the reasons she couldn’t go. Brigit would forget to put sliced apple in the Fourth of July potato salad; Daisy would never remember to wear a hat. But she’d gazed at Brigit’s glossy blond hair and Daisy’s auburn curls and knew she couldn’t spoil their summer.
By the time she arrived in Paris, she knew she had made a terrible mistake. Without Francis’s shirts to pick up and Daisy’s lunches to prepare, she had nothing to do to help her forget. She pictured sitting in the cold kitchen of a French farmhouse and feeling completely alone.
But the minute the yellow taxi pulled up in front of the château, the hard clamp on her chest loosened. She put the key in the lock and entered a stone foyer with yellow plaster walls and a circular wooden staircase. The living room had floral sofas and french doors opening onto a garden.
Each morning she ate muesli on the porch and swam laps in the pool. She spent the afternoon bicycling or exploring Sénanque Abbey. She bought posies at the outdoor market and felt almost happy.
* * *
A raindrop fell on her book and she glanced at the sky. Gray clouds hung over the castle and rain splattered the sidewalk. She grabbed her purse and ran to her bicycle.
She cycled along the lane, hoping to reach the château before it began to pour. She heard a clap of thunder and the sky opened up and sheets of rain drenched the fields.
Sydney leaned her bicycle against the gate and hurried to the front door. She fumbled in her purse and shuddered. She had gone out the back door and left her key on the kitchen counter.
“You’re very wet,” a male voice said.
Sydney looked up and saw a man in his early twenties. His blond hair was stuck to his head and he wore a checkered shirt and denim shorts.
“I’ve done something very silly.” Sydney bit her lip. “I locked myself out.”
The man fiddled with the lock and frowned. He walked around the house and Sydney suddenly heard the sound of glass breaking.
“I had to break a window,” he explained. “I’ll climb inside and let you in.”
“You shouldn’t have done that,” she said when he opened the door. “My landlord will be furious.”
“You couldn’t stay outside, you’d catch cold,” he insisted. “Though it would be wise to carry an extra key.”
“I’m sure the landlord left one somewhere.” Sydney entered the kitchen. She glanced at the oak counters and large silver stove and mosaic backsplash. “I arrived a few days ago and haven’t explored the whole house.”
The man walked to the pantry and grabbed a set of keys from a gold ring. He handed them to Sydney and smiled.
“How did you know where they are?” Sydney gasped.
“I’m Oliver Ford, your landlord.” He held out his hand and his green eyes sparkled. “I’m sopping wet and I’d give anything for a cup of tea.”
* * *
“It doesn’t usually rain in June, but sometimes the mistral noir blows in.” Oliver sat on a chintz sofa in the living room. “Tourists think the mistrals are just strong winds with clear skies but the mistral noir can blanket the whole valley in rain.”
“I hope they don’t blow in this week.” Sydney stirred honey into hot tea. “I love visiting the outdoor markets and strolling through the vineyards.”
She had found a box of English breakfast tea and a packet of madeleines. She added a pitcher of cream and a jar of honey and placed them on a silver tray.
“I rather enjoy them.” Oliver dunked a madeleine into his tea. “All the perfect weather and breathtaking views can get boring.”
“You’re very young to be a landlord,” Sydney mused. She had run upstairs and slipped on a cashmere sweater and pleated skirt. Her hair fell smoothly to her shoulders and she wore beige pumps.
“My father actually owns the château. I stay at a hostel in Gordes and he pays me to look after it,” he explained. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you arrived. I usually bring a basket of fruit and cheeses.”
“You shouldn’t apologize, you saved me from catching pneumonia,” Sydney replied. “Though I must pay for the window.”
“Don’t even think about it.” He stopped and a smile lit up his face. “I spent five hours on a train from Paris with an apple and a bag of chips. Do you think I could get a sandwich?”
* * *
They moved to the kitchen and Sydney took out a loaf of bread and a wedge of goat cheese. She added sliced ham and green olives. She poured a glass of milk and placed it in front of Oliver.
“I marvel at how much young people eat.” She perched on a stool. “I have two daughters, and when their friends come over I’m always running out of roast beef and tuna salad.”
“My mother used to say I ate poached eggs faster than the chickens could lay them.” Oliver wiped his mouth with a napkin. “My father is a food writer. He met my mother at a restaurant opening in Avignon and thought it would be romantic to live in a château in a vineyard.” Oliver’s eyes dimmed. “My mother died a few years ago and he hasn’t written another book. He rents the house out during the summer and stays with friends in Paris.”
“You must have had a wonderful childhood.” Sydney nibbled a baguette.
“I collected truffles in the forest and helped my mother make quiche and bouillabaisse.” Oliver nodded. “I thought I might be a chef but every kid who read James Beard thinks he’s going to open a one-star Michelin restaurant.
“My roommate works at a restaurant near Gordes. He spends ten hours a day in a sweaty kitchen and the closest he comes to creating interesting dishes is making sure the china isn’t smudged.” He scooped up aioli. “I took my father’s advice and went to architecture school. People will always need a place to live and you can’t throw up a building because you read a cookbook.”
“My oldest daughter is at Dartmouth and she’s terribly ambitious,” Sydney mused. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she became chief justice or ran for president.”
“And what about you?” Oliver asked.
“Me?” Sydney started.
“What did you want to be?”
“I studied art history at Barnard and wanted to open a gallery in Manhattan.” She sipped her tea. “But then I met my husband and we got married right after graduation.”
“So you never did anything for yourself?” Oliver asked curiously.
Sydney pictured Summerhill with its wide lawn and view of the Long Island Sound. She remembered dinner parties filled with delicious foods and French wines and music filtering through the sound system. She pictured Francis in a black dinner jacket and white bow tie leading her onto the dance floor.
“I have a wonderful husband and two gorgeous daughters.” She placed her cup on the porcelain saucer. “That’s all I ever wanted.”
* * *
Sydney loaded dishes into the sink and stood at the window. Oliver had left and she’d made herself another cup of tea.
What was she doing in Provence when Francis and Brigit and Daisy were at Summerhill? She remembered the long winter in the Park Avenue town house and the constant ache deep inside her.
She folded the dish towel and thought about the last few days of swimming and bicycling and eating crepes. She hadn’t really been happy; it was just an illusion. She watched the rain blanket the vineyards and let the tears run down her cheek.
* * *
Sydney sat in the château’s living room and turned the pages of her paperback book. It was almost noon and rain pounded on the gabled roof.
She heard a knock at the door and stood up to answer it.
“I thought I may have eaten all your bread and cheese yesterday.” Oliver stood outside. He wore a bright yellow raincoat and juggled two paper sacks. “You can’t go to the market in this weather and my father would be furious if his tenant went hungry.”
“You didn’t have to come in the rain.” Sydney glanced at the crusty baguette and wedge of Camembert and realized she hadn’t eaten anything except a pear at breakfast.
“It was either that or sit in my room and study structural engineering.” Oliver took off his raincoat and hung it in the foyer.
Sydney gazed at his blond hair and smooth cheeks and suddenly thought he looked like a young Robert Redford.
She grabbed the bag and blushed. “That’s very kind, I can put them away.”
“The kitchen at the hostel is crowded with Australians eating Marmite sandwiches and Tim Tams. I’d give anything to cook an omelet with avocado and sliced tomatoes.” He gestured to the floral sofa. “Why don’t you sit here and I’ll make lunch.”
“Why not?” She shrugged. “But please don’t use red onions, they always make me cry.”
* * *
They sat at the mahogany table in the dining room and ate mushroom omelets and berries with brown sugar. Sydney spread tapenade on toast and thought she’d never tasted anything so delicious.
“When my mother was alive, she was always in the kitchen crushing garlic and whipping cream.” Oliver ate a roasted potato. “My father grumbled he gained five pounds when he walked in the door. But he ate everything she prepared and always asked for more.”
“We have a cottage in East Hampton and the family spends the summer there.” Sydney sipped creamy coffee. “My favorite moment of the day is before everyone comes down to breakfast. The kitchen is completely quiet and smells of butter and syrup.
“Then my husband wants to know who took the business section of the New York Times and the girls start arguing over who gets the first waffle and I complain I’ll never get any peace.” She smiled. “But I wouldn’t want it any other way.”
“Why did you come alone?”
“Excuse me?” Sydney asked.
“My mother wasn’t happy unless the porch overflowed with friends nibbling canapés and my father kept the door of his study open so he wouldn’t miss a funny story,” Oliver said.
“Since my mother died, he has a steady flow of visitors. I have to wear earplugs because they stay up all night playing chess and drinking Pastis.” He ate the last bite of eggs. “Why didn’t your family join you?”
“East Hampton has quaint shops and it’s only two hours from Manhattan,” Sydney replied. “Brigit and Daisy adore the beach and my husband loves being close to the office.”
Oliver put his napkin on his plate and leaned back in his chair. “If it’s perfect, why did you come to Provence?”
Sydney gazed at the platter of sliced capers and soft cheeses. There was a plate of fig tarts and white nougat.
“I had a craving for ratatouille and nougat.”
* * *
Sydney strolled through the outdoor market in Gordes and ate a juicy plum. She was going home in two days and wanted to buy a silk scarf for Brigit and hoop earrings for Daisy and a bottle of burgundy for Francis. She tossed the plum pit in her basket and thought she would miss the Tuesday market with its jars of preserves and slices of pork.
The mistral had lasted two days and then the Luberon valley was bathed in sunshine. She spent the week swimming and riding her bicycle. Sometimes she gazed at the fields of purple lavender and felt a pleasant warmth. Then she would remember losing the baby and double over in pain.
She selected a patterned scarf and handed it to the vendor. She heard a male voice behind her and turned around.
“There you are,” Oliver said. “I haven’t seen you in days, you’re all brown.”
“I did a lot of walking.” Sydney smiled. She reached into her purse and took out a fifty-euro note. “I’m leaving in a couple of days and wanted to pay for the window.”
“It’s been fixed but you can do something for me,” Oliver replied. “My roommate is the line cook at Hotel Les Bories, it has one Michelin star and overlooks the whole valley.
“It usually takes months to get a reservation but he got a table for tonight. If I go alone, I won’t be able to sample all the dishes. Will you join me?”
“I’m sure you can find a more suitable dinner partner,” Sydney mused.
“All my friends are in Nice or Paris for the summer,” Oliver pleaded. “You can’t leave Provence without eating at Les Bories. The guinea fowl with amandine mashed potatoes is delicious.”
“I’ll go if you let me pay for dinner.” Sydney put the euro note back in her purse. “It’s the least I can do for breaking the window.”
“It’s a deal.” Oliver grinned. “I’ll pick you up at seven p.m.”
* * *
They sat at a table on the terrace overlooking the rolling hills. It was almost sunset and the sky was a muted orange. Sydney saw stone farmhouses and green hedges and felt like she was in a Monet painting.
The restaurant had wood floors and plaster walls and a long marble fireplace. The booths were covered in white damask and littered with purple silk pillows.
The waiter brought duck liver pâte and stuffed artichoke with yellow egg. There was lamb in honey and mustard and summer vegetables. Sydney sipped a Château Sainte Marguerite and thought it was the best rosé she’d ever tasted.
“This is delicious but you should have brought a date,” Sydney said, after they’d ordered lemon meringue for dessert. “You must have a girlfriend.”
“All the girls in Provence either get married when they’re twenty or go to Paris and never return.” Oliver shrugged.
“Why do you come back?” Sydney asked.
“When I started university, I couldn’t wait for the train to leave Gordes,” he replied. “My mother had just died and I never wanted to return. But I sat in my flat in Paris and knew being away wasn’t the cure. It sounds silly but Provence is like a warm blanket.”
“It doesn’t sound silly at all.” She ate a bite of meringue. “I know exactly what you mean.”
* * *
They drank shots of Pastis and talked about Oliver’s plans and Brigit and Daisy. Sydney opened her purse to pay the bill and realized she’d left her credit card at the château.
“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it.” Oliver reached into his pocket and took out two fifty-euro notes.
“I’m terribly embarrassed.” Sydney flushed. “I’ll pay you when we reach the château.”
Oliver went to pay the check and a young man approached the table. He couldn’t have been more than twenty and wore a white linen apron.
“I’m not usually allowed to leave the kitchen but I wanted to make sure you enjoyed your meal,” he said.
“You must be Oliver’s roommate.” Sydney held out her hand. “It was delicious, I’ve never tasted such sweet vegetables.”
“I’m glad you like it,” he replied. He had dark hair and a British accent. “Oliver said he had a very important date and the ratatouille had to be perfect.”
* * *
Sydney opened the door of the château and entered the kitchen. She took two fifty-euro notes out of a drawer and heard footsteps behind her.
Oliver crossed the stone floor and touched her shoulder. He pulled her toward him and kissed her on the mouth.
“What are you doing?” Sydney spluttered.
“You’re like a photo in a fashion magazine but you’re completely real,” Oliver said. “I can’t stop thinking about you and I’ve never wanted a woman more in my life.”
“I’m married,” Sydney exclaimed. “I’ve never cheated on my husband.”
“But you forgot your credit card.” Oliver ran his hands through his hair. “I thought you did it on purpose, you wanted me to come here.”
“I had a wonderful time.” Sydney smoothed her skirt. “But you have to go.”
“Could I have a cup of coffee?” Oliver asked.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Sydney held out her hand. “Thank you for everything, I had a lovely stay in Provence.”
Sydney waited until the front door closed and sat in the living room. She heard a door open and looked up. Oliver stood in the entry, clutching a bouquet of lilies.
“I forgot to give these to you.” He entered the living room. “They would have wilted in my car.”
She tried to stand but suddenly her legs were unsteady. Oliver sat beside her and took her face in his hands. He kissed her slowly, tasting of sugar and liqueur.
He took her hand and led her up the wooden staircase. She glanced at the canopied bed and was seized by a terrible panic. She started to say something but his hand reached under her dress. His fingers brush her thighs and she gasped.
“Come here,” he moaned. “I’ve wanted this since the first moment I saw you.”
She unzipped her dress and slipped off her sandals. He drew her onto the bed and she opened her legs and guided him inside her. She clung to his back and suddenly thought of everything she was giving up. Then her whole body opened and she thought she would die of pleasure.
Oliver clasped her shoulders and buried his mouth in her hair. He pushed faster until he came with a terrible force. He groaned and collapsed against her breasts.
“I knew you were beautiful,” he whispered, pulling the sheet over them. “But I never thought anything could be so exquisite.”
“Neither did I.” Sydney felt his slick thigh on top of hers. “It was almost too good.”
She waited until he fell asleep and then she pulled on a cotton robe and sat at the dressing table. She glanced at her pale cheeks and tousled hair and shuddered. Losing the baby had been an accident and Francis had already forgiven her.
She picked up a wooden hairbrush and brushed her hair. He could never forgive what she’d done now. If he found out she would lose everything.
* * *
Sydney pushed away the plate of risotto and gazed at the whitewashed houses and deep blue Aegean. Of course she recognized Robbie, he was Oliver’s roommate! She pictured him standing at the table of the restaurant in Gordes and could barely swallow.
It had been ten years; she must look different. Her hair wasn’t as blond and she had new wrinkles on her forehead. Why would he remember an American tourist he’d met for a few moments?
Then she thought of Oliver saying he couldn’t stop thinking about her. Oliver was like an eager puppy; he wouldn’t keep secrets from his roommate.
She’d spent the last two days around Robbie and he hadn’t said a word. He probably didn’t remember anything about it and she had nothing to worry about.
She put a twenty-euro note on the table and stood up. Her legs were shaky and she felt almost dizzy. What if Robbie thought he recognized her but couldn’t quite place her? If he suddenly remembered, everything she loved would be taken away.