Free Santorini Sunsets by Anita Hughes

falling in long curls and tied loosely with a silk ribbon. Sydney bit her lip and hoped her designs would be a success.
    She remembered Francis catching her eye while he gave his toast and for a moment the odd tenseness of the last ten months was erased. The whole night was perfect: dancing with him to Frank Sinatra, the constant sound of laughter and glasses clinking, Brigit’s flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes.
    It had been so long since she’d seen Brigit with her customary bounce to her step. She pictured her at three years old on the stone porch at Summerhill. She remembered her skipping down the steps until she reached the pond. She’d wobbled on the grassy banks and clapped wildly at the ducks.
    She thought about the tennis trophies she won as a teenager and the gold diplomas with the honors tassels from Dartmouth and Columbia. She pictured the afternoon she and Nathaniel burst into the Park Avenue town house flashing the diamond-and-sapphire ring and Sydney thought Brigit looked so in love.
    Sydney folded her silk nightie and remembered the time two years ago when Brigit pulled up the driveway at Summerhill. It was a Friday afternoon and Sydney stood on a ladder, trimming the trellises.
    *   *   *
    â€œDarling, I wasn’t expecting you and Nathaniel until tonight.” Sydney climbed down from the ladder. “I’ve collected vegetables from the garden. We’re going to have tomato soup and zucchini lasagna and blackberry tarts for dessert.”
    â€œNathaniel isn’t coming.” Brigit approached the porch. She wore a beige linen suit and narrow pumps and carried a Tory Burch clutch.
    â€œI know he’s been working odd hours on the novel, but I was hoping you’d both join us this weekend. The Whites’ daughter is getting married next week and we’re invited tomorrow for steak and oysters.” She fiddled with a rose. “I thought being married to a stockbroker was difficult. Francis is always getting up with Tokyo and going to bed with Zürich. I can count on one hand the number of breakfasts that haven’t been interrupted by a frantic client because the market was closing somewhere and the stocks were plummeting.”
    â€œNathaniel isn’t coming at all,” Brigit said slowly. “He walked out of the apartment, he’s not coming back.”
    Sydney glanced at Brigit and noticed her cheeks were pale and her blond hair had escaped its clip. She took her arm and led her into the living room.
    â€œSit down and tell me everything.”
    â€œI come home at night and never know his mood.” Brigit sat on the paisley love seat. “Sometimes he says his fingertips are on fire and he’s going to be the next Faulkner. Lately he’s slumped on the sofa with a bottle of whiskey and a comic book.
    â€œYesterday I suggested he bring his laptop to Summerhill so I could read his new chapters,” Brigit continued. “He said there were never going to be any new chapters if I kept hovering over his shoulder like the evil witch in Snow White .”
    â€œHe probably spent the night at his parents’ apartment,” Sydney replied. “Call him and tell him he can drive out with your father tonight.”
    â€œWhen I came home from work this afternoon his duffel bag was gone and his drawers were empty.” Brigit twisted her hands. “He left a note that he was wrong, he’d never be Steinbeck or Thomas Wolfe. He couldn’t even write a decent James Patterson thriller.”
    â€œNathaniel has always been temperamental,” Sydney mused. “Do you remember when you were children and you got the part of toad in The Wind in the Willows ? He refused to participate if he wasn’t the lead. You finally told the camp counselor you didn’t want to wear a costume with warts. The day before the performance he came down with a mysterious stomachache and you ended up playing the