Chapter Six
Vivian
Vivian is drenched. Her hands are sore. There’s a smudge of grease on her cheek. And despite it all, when she steps into the shower, lukewarm water is still waiting for her; she hadn’t fixed anything. Her dad didn’t need to pinch pennies. He could’ve easily replaced the boiler years ago, but he didn’t, so here she is, playing plumber to bump the house’s value up a notch and getting rescued by her half-sister like a damsel in DIY distress. It’s yet another sign that Vivian doesn’t belong here.
Once she’s clean and dry, she crashes on the twin bed she’s been exiled to and plays a voicemail from her mother.
“Hi.” Celeste clears her throat. “I want to discuss how our conversation ended the other day. I hear that you’re upset, and I’m sorry if I’ve made you feel that way.”
Her intonation is clean, almost mechanical, like she wrote herself a script.
“I was hurt by your accusations that I’m distant and cold, but I understand that it was a heated moment. I know you don’t really mean it. As for the situation with that other girl, well…” Celeste sighs.
Even this part—trailing off into a dramatic huff—sounds rehearsed.
“That wasn’t my secret to share. You’ll understand when you’re married someday.”
Vivian’s eyes ache from rolling too hard.
“Being a parent isn’t easy, and if I’ve made some mistakes along the way, so be it.” With a little laugh, she adds, “But I can’t have messed up too terribly because you’ve turned out so well. I hope you know how proud I am of you. Your dad was, too.”
Vivian is surprised to find herself tearing up at that.
“If you’d like me to be more attentive, I’ll do my best. I’ll call you more often, and you should call me, too.” Then she seems to veer off script. “Though not between eleven and five—you know I’m working. And I’m doing the nine a.m. class at Tracy Anderson on Tuesdays and Thursdays now. But that’s it.” There’s another sigh, a real one this time. “I love you, Vivian. Let’s talk soon, okay?”
Vivian plays it again, stunned. It’s a stretch to call this an apology—Celeste didn’t fully admit that she was wrong—but her little speech was at least apology-shaped, and it’s more than Vivian ever expected. It would’ve been more likely for her mother to keep her distance for a while, then call about something unrelated—“Do you ever see anyone from Hollywood at work? A director, maybe? Would you slip him my name?”—and forget that their fight ever happened. For her mother, this was generous, her version of kind. Vivian should just shut up and be grateful, but she’s fairly certain Celeste’s behavior will slip back into place by next week. She wishes she had more faith in their relationship.
She will call her mother back. At some point.
For now, she rereads her recent text history with Oscar. For every one of his short gray texts, there are five of her long blue ones. Sometimes, he simply didn’t respond. Frustrated, Vivian dials him. The call goes to his too-familiar voicemail message. Anger pools deep in her chest, in her fist, in her jaw.
“Hi. It’s me,” she says sharply. “It really sucks for me to be sitting here alone, thinking about you, missing you, planning out this business we both desperately want—or at least I thought we wanted—and getting nothing from you in return. I’m struggling here. You can’t ignore me, especially not now that my life is falling apart. I don’t get what’s going on with you.” She takes a shaky breath. “I’ve been so strong for you for so long. I don’t think it’d kill you to talk to me.”
After she hangs up, she collapses bitterly on the bed and stews in her own misery. She stays like that, waiting for Oscar’s response and fantasizing about his apology, until her phone lights up. She rockets upright and grabs the device, only to find an email from Della’s publicist celebrating a New York Times story on “The New Class of Young Restaurateurs Demolishing Fine Dining’s Stuffy Reputation.” She knew this was coming. Vivian clicks on the link and waits for the story to load.
Vivian first met Oscar Delgado, owner of Della, two years ago during her job interview. She’d been referred by an old mentor, even though she’d never been director of anything before and twenty-eight was young for this type of role. After she applied, there was an unusually long stretch of time before she heard anything back at all. She wanted the position desperately; if she landed it, she’d say yes no matter the salary or circumstances. She was bored by her current job’s fussy older clientele and barely scraping by on the insulting excuse for a salary. She was also exhausted by her boss’s needlessly punishing comments every time she so much as took a bathroom break. “What are you here for if not to work?” he’d sneer. Vivian wanted to be treated like a human.
When Oscar called her in for an interview, she nearly screamed. His name was synonymous with rave reviews and sold-out seating. The bar to impress him would be high. When they met, he scanned her résumé like he was seeing it for the first time. In person, he was even more striking than she’d expected from photos she’d seen online: dark, blazing eyes; thick, expressive brows; cheekbones like cut glass; a glint of silver running through the dark hair at his temples.
“So, you have no actual experience as a wine director?”
“Not yet, but I passed the CMS’s Master Sommelier Diploma exam at the top of my class, and I’ve worked in the industry for six years, and—”
“Then why’d Gio recommend you?” Oscar didn’t seem annoyed, just puzzled.
She launched into the response she had prepared for this very question. “I think I could do a great job here,” she said, explaining that she’s a fast learner and a hard worker with plenty of ideas for pushing Della’s wine list even further.
He studied her for a moment. She tried to meet his cool, steady eye contact. When he leaned forward and clasped his hands in front of him, his wedding band gleamed in the light.
“All right, let’s do this. So, Vivian, tell me about your career so far.”
She was sailing through his questions when he mentioned that the fridges in the climate-controlled basement cellar were set to sixty degrees.
“Fifty-five,” she corrected automatically.
He paused mid-sentence. “I’m sorry, what?”
She didn’t want to embarrass him, but explained, “Cellars should be set to fifty-five degrees. Anything above that, and you risk losing acidity and flavor.”
He took her in, then grinned. “So you really know your stuff, huh?”
She sat up an inch straighter. “Like Gio said.”
After a half hour of questions and answers, he glanced at his watch. “Do we have time? What the hell, let’s go. I’m taking you for a tour of the place.”
He showed her around the cellar, asking for her thoughts on different vintages. He knew quite a bit, as it turned out, but Vivian could teach him a thing or two. He hung on her every word. Vivian was shocked by this—the industry is a toxic cesspool of fragile male egos—but didn’t dare let him see that. No, let him think she regularly schooled award-winning restaurateurs on the contents of their own cellars. She was pretty sure she was nailing the interview.
They had made their way from reds to whites to sparklings.
“So, one last question for you,” he said, leaning against a fridge and casually crossing one ankle over the other.
“Yes?”
Her pulse thumped in her ears. This was it. Her final chance to impress him.
“Pretend I’m a customer. I’m coming in to sit at the bar—no dinner—and I tell you I’d like something bubbly to celebrate a special occasion.”
“What kind?”
Most celebrations are more or less the same, but this attention to detail is what makes Vivian so good.
He grinned. “A job offer,” Oscar said in that smooth, steady voice she would come to know so well.
Giddy, she recommended a bottle. He pulled it out and popped the cork. (She had notes on his technique—it’s easiest to twist the bottle, not the cork itself—but recognized it wasn’t the right time to give them.) He poured two flutes and she accepted one. It fizzed with promise.
Working at Della was sublime. For the first month, she didn’t tweak the menu; she wanted to see what diners gravitated toward. From pinot noirs to pét-nats, they were mostly trusting enough to try anything Vivian recommended. So, she crafted the wine program of her dreams, made possible by the generous budget Oscar gave her. She made regular trips to wineries, which told her everything she needed to know about stocking and selling her wares. With soil in her shoes and a third-generation winemaker walking her through his vineyard, a bottle meant so much more than it did in a catalog: It was about people and place. The rest of Della’s staff seemed less downtrodden than her previous coworkers ever did. Even the Byredo hand lotion in the restroom was luxurious (and nobody ever reprimanded her for bathroom breaks).
Running a restaurant is nothing but a string of unpleasant surprises. Oscar seemed to handle them all with ease. The shipment of tuna accidentally got left out on the counter overnight; Table Five skipped out on their bill; a waiter mistakenly sent complimentary flutes of Champagne over to a couple mere minutes before the future groom planned to propose. In every situation, Oscar swallowed the news stoically. Then he’d calmly explain what to do: defrost the spare salmon fillets to put a twist on the tuna carpaccio appetizer; personally cover the table’s tip so the staff still gets paid; apologize profusely to the couple, deliver an extra bottle on the house, and promise a discount if they’d like to have an engagement party at Della. He always knew what to say.
More than once, Vivian caught herself staring at Oscar. She was drawn to his gregarious charm, his innovative talent, and something mysterious she couldn’t quite name—an It factor that made him the most compelling person in any room. During family dinner, the communal staff meal before service began, waiters and cooks would always draw him into conversation, but when it came time to actually sit down, he wound up in the seat next to Vivian a smidge more often than could be explained by random chance.
The bar closed later than the kitchen, so it wasn’t uncommon for Vivian and Oscar to be among the last to leave. They fell into a routine: him dreaming up a request—“something delicious enough to make me forget what a pain in the ass Table Twelve was tonight”—simply for the fun of seeing what she’d pick. She’d choose a bottle, and they’d split it as they closed up shop, recapping that night’s wildest moments, trading industry gossip, and, every once in a while, talking about their own lives. They became friends.
Oscar rarely mentioned Carla, his wife. The little Vivian knew about her came from the internet (she was curious). They’d married six years ago. She worked at a marketing firm nearby, yet never dropped by Della. On Instagram, she and Oscar posed for a picture in Hudson, the kind of town New Yorkers visit on long weekends to shop for $300 alpaca wool sweaters and antique brass candlesticks. Vivian wondered if their relationship was anything like her parents’: pretty on the outside, empty inside.
One night, emboldened by her third glass of wine (or was it her fourth? Like a gentleman, he always noticed when she was running low), she asked Oscar about Carla.
“What about her?” he asked, stiffening slightly.
“I never see her around. What’s she like?”
“She’s busy. She’s fine.”
“Oh.” Vivian didn’t know what else to say.
She had begun to forget that Oscar was her boss instead of her late-night drinking buddy. In the silence, that knowledge roared back, painfully clear.
Oscar exhaled. “Things have been tough between us for a couple of years now.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
And she was. Despite her crush—she had finally admitted to herself that the charged energy she felt around Oscar very much qualified as such—she didn’t want him to be unhappy.
He told her more. Carla resented him for not having a “normal” nine-to-five, something he had warned her about when they met. (That was something that Vivian struggled with, too; nobody ever wanted to schedule dates around her regular four p.m.–to–one a.m. shifts.) Carla wanted a homebody husband, somebody to curl up with on Sunday nights to watch Succession live. She saw Della as her competition when it came to his time and energy, and he was frustrated by her lack of support for his career. They’d been in couple’s counseling for months, but recently decided to take a break from it. They lived under the same roof; that was about it. Emotionally, romantically, they were nearly estranged.
This was the glummest she’d ever seen Oscar. She missed his smile. He had a great one—it always started in the glimmering depths of his eyes before cracking wide open across his face.
So, Vivian leaned in and kissed him. One hand lightly rested on his jaw, and the other steadied herself on his knee. She felt a giddy shock when her lips found his—she hadn’t known for sure that she was going to do it until it happened. Oscar didn’t flinch. He tasted like citrus, peaches, and honey, thanks to the northern Italian white they’d been sharing. It reminded Vivian of everything they had in common that Carla didn’t seem to care about.
Carla. Vivian pulled away.
“I’m so sorry,” she said. “I don’t know why I did that.”
Vivian knew the pain of being cheated on firsthand—how it had ignited a sinking fear that she wasn’t lovable enough to deserve loyalty, one that never quite went away. At twenty-two, she’d fallen in love for the first time with Noah Moskovitz, an investment banker a few years older than her who she’d met at a club. After three thrilling years, they were on the verge of moving in together. His thirtieth birthday fell a week into their apartment hunt. That morning, she surprised him by arriving at his place with a box of chocolate fudge cupcakes. A woman opened his door in a towel. Vivian was shattered. She didn’t want to pry open her heart for anyone else after that.
Vivian pulled away from Oscar, horrified. Her last meal was a cup of mint-dusted gazpacho several hours ago—the wine had gone to her head, yes, but that was no excuse. She’d crossed a hard line. There’s no way to undo something like that. He’d have to fire her.
Oscar’s jaw hung open an inch. The man who always knew what to say was rendered speechless.
Vivian got up. “I should go, I’m sorry, I—”
He swiveled to face her. Hoarse, he said, “You have nothing to apologize for.”
They stared at each other for a moment. Heat rose to her cheeks. His gaze dropped to her lips, but he didn’t move any closer, and she understood that he wouldn’t—not unless she did. So she took an exhilarating step toward him, slid her fingers from his cheek to his hair, and kissed him. His soft mouth loosened the tension from her shoulders. She pulled him off the bar stool and led him around the corner, into the kitchen, so they were hidden from view of the street. As she melted against the wall, he gently cupped the back of her head so it didn’t hit the brick. She pinched the placket of his white button-down shirt and pulled him toward her. His hands found her waist; her sides tingled under his touch.
She could have done that forever.
But they shouldn’t have been doing it at all.
“Oscar.” She pressed her fingers into his chest and delicately pushed him two inches away.
His grip on her torso slackened. He looked equal parts awed and afraid.
She knew this was outrageous, but it didn’t feel reckless. Leaving felt crazier than staying.
“We should talk about this,” she said, weak-kneed.
“We should.” His voice was husky with desire.
“Is this a bad idea?”
He braced one hand against the wall. His breath was shallow; his eyes, heavy-lidded.
“We’re professionals,” he said, gaze locked on hers. “We can do this and keep our heads and not let it affect our work tomorrow.”
Keep our heads —it sounded so reasonable when he put it that way. It would be strictly physical, no messy emotions or workplace drama. Neither of them would get hurt.
“Professionals,” she said, nodding. “Of course.” When he kissed her again, she kissed back.
Lucy
The next day, Lucy takes Sandals and Scandals in Santorini down to the waterfront. She climbs into the back of her dad’s boat and stretches her legs across the sun-warmed bench seat. Streaks of clouds drift lazily over a sapphire lake dotted with boats. There are chirping birds, jeweled dragonflies, and serene quartets of loons. Under any other circumstances, it would be heaven. Now, though, its beauty taunts her. Her days here are numbered.
She needs the book to lift her mood. In the headshot on the back, a much younger version of Celeste sits on the steps of a stately brownstone, wearing a burgundy silk blouse and tortoiseshell glasses. She has pale, luminous skin, a strong nose, and dark eyes that match her thick, chocolate brown hair. Even then, she had her signature bob with blunt bangs. Her chin rests in her hand, where a sizable diamond juts out from her finger.
Lucy can’t help but compare Celeste’s rock to the cubic zirconia tennis bracelet Dawn bought herself as a fortieth birthday treat. She had always wanted one—well, one with diamonds, though Lucy could hardly tell hers wasn’t the real deal. Once she actually owned it, she rarely clasped it on. “What, am I supposed to let maple syrup drip all over it?” she’d asked.
Next to the picture, a snippet of text reveals a charmed life: “Celeste Levy is the author of The Mistress in the Mountains . Sandals and Scandals in Santorini is her second novel. A graduate of Columbia University, she lives in New York City with her husband and daughter.” With her husband. Celeste would never think twice about mentioning him in public. Meanwhile, Hank had cautioned Lucy not to speak too openly about their family; it’d cause problems for him if word got out. She’d hated hearing that, but had just said, “Okay, got it.”
Lucy begins to read, though it’s hard to focus. The novel is about Lydia Stein, a ceramicist and art-world darling who follows her boyfriend, Desmond Scott, to Greece, where he’s leading an archaeological dig. On the surface, Desmond has nothing in common with Lucy’s father: He’s as social as her dad was introverted, fascinated by history whereas he had a head for numbers, British-born and ridiculously proper. But with every chapter, Lucy picks up details that are unmistakably borrowed from her dad. Each man wears a hand-me-down gold watch engraved with his father’s initials and had a childhood sailing accident that left a nick of a scar on his ankle.
Desmond isn’t a direct copy of Hank. Even so, the tenderness with which Lydia cares for him is beautiful to read. Celeste loved Hank deeply—that much is clear. She hates that she’s jealous, not on her mom’s behalf but on her own; Hank loved his wife for more than thirty years, whereas Lucy might not ever find that kind of longevity now. Her phone buzzes with a text.
Lucy, nice meeting you yesterday. Any chance you happen to be around tonight?
She stares at Harrison’s message. She is, in fact, technically available, but…for starters, she still loves Patrick. She suspects it might seem pathetic to accept a date with just a few hours’ notice. And she’s too raw with grief to guarantee she can make it through a full conversation without tearing up. Not one part of her week would make for good first-date conversation fodder.
It was so nice to meet you, but—
Delete.
Thank you for the invitation, but tonight’s not—
Delete.
I’m so sorry if I gave you the wrong impression, but I’m actually married.
It’s clumsy, but it’s something. Lucy hovers her thumb over send, reads it one more time, then deletes the whole thing again. Patrick left her. He doesn’t want her back. If she truly needs to start over, she shouldn’t reject handsome men knocking at her door. Lucy is curious about Harrison, and if nothing else, maybe a night out would be fun and exciting. Romantic, even.
Actually, she texts back, I am.