Chapter Eight
Elise wasn’t sure what annoyed her more: the audacity of Harper dragging her out here, the sheer ridiculousness of the picnic blanket, the wine, the cheese, or the fact that she’d even let herself be lured here like a fool.
She pivoted on her heel, ready to stomp her way back up the vineyard path and give Stanley a very important call, since this was basically all his fault.
But then Harper’s hand shot out and brushed against Elise’s wrist and that was all it took for another memory to slam into her head uninvited and terribly vivid: Harper reaching for her hand as they crawled over a rocky outcrop, her thumb brushing along the edge of Elise’s wrist, the thousands of goosebumps that broke out over her entire body and then the view; the orange-red granite rocks of Spitzkoppe that stretched long across the desert floor while the sun had melted behind the peaks in a slow, syrupy gold.
“Come on,” Harper said, her voice low and husky, which had the ability to shoot straight through Elise’s layers of fat and muscle and into her stomach like a bullet. “You have to stay. Just five minutes. That’s all I’m asking. Maybe ten.”
Elise yanked her hand back so quickly that she hit herself in the chest. “I’m working. You’re working. There’s no drinking on the job.”
“Then we won’t have the wine,” Harper said, plopping down on the picnic blanket and lifting up a plate of dark purple olives that gleamed like fat, polished stones. “We can just snack. I know you probably haven’t eaten anything all morning.”
Elise didn’t just like olives. She loved olives. And Harper was right; Elise’s stomach was as empty as a beer can at a New Orleans Mardi Gras festival. She was famished.
“This is extremely unprofessional,” Elise said, still standing, still deciding whether or not to make a run for it.
If she stayed, did that give Harper some sort of victory?
Was it basically saying I forgive you for leaving me all those years ago?
But if she left, would she have time to eat later, considering how busy things would still get on set?
Her stomach rumbled right at that minute.
“Fine,” she relented. “But only for five minutes. And you can pour me a damn glass of whatever that is.” She swatted a hand toward the wine bottle sweating in the bucket of ice.
One sip wouldn’t hurt. “And I want all the olives,” she added.
It wasn’t so much that she would eat all of them, but rather, it was some sort of power move.
It felt imperative to remind Harper that she sure as hell could not be charmed.
“Of course,” Harper said, handing her the ceramic ramekin. “They’re all yours.”
Elise plopped one in her mouth before she could stop herself. Salty. Briny. Perfect. “What kind of crackers are those?” she asked, pointing stiffly toward the little stack on a seafoam-colored ceramic plate.
“Fig and honey,” Harper replied.
Elise took just one and placed a slice of mozzarella on top.
She then drizzled some of the brine from the olives and bit down.
It tasted heavenly. Infuriatingly heavenly.
The kind of combination that made her want to close her eyes and moan.
But she would rather die than moan in front of Harper.
Which somehow only made Elise angrier. How dare Harper set up something like this.
Especially since she knew Elise loved picnics.
She always had. Whether on a sandy beach at sunset, or at a park close to home on a Sunday.
For as long as she could remember, Elise had a tendency to romanticize picnics.
And it had everything to do with The Notebook.
“Have some pecorino bites,” Harper said, handing her the little bowl with tiny squares of cheese dusted in crushed pepper and glistening with olive oil.
Elise accepted and ate in silence.
For a while, that was all they did. Eat. Chew. Not speak. Which Elise was extremely grateful for. She even considered quickly finishing the three crackers she had just made and rushing back to the production tent before a word could be said.
But then Harper ruined everything.
“So,” she said lightly, like they were old friends out for brunch at Clarke’s around the corner from Elise’s apartment.
She only thought about Clarke’s because one of the servers working there reminded her of Harper.
The straw-colored hair. The almost always suntanned arms, covered with a scattering of freckles.
The way she walked so tall and so confident.
Elise avoided eye contact and then proceeded to stare at her over the rim of her laptop.
“How have you been?” Harper asked.
Elise’s head snapped up from her plate. “Are you seriously joking?” she hissed. “You don’t get to ask me that.”
Harper held up both hands, palms open. “It’s a harmless question, Elise,” she said, only barely masking her own irritation, which Elise somehow found satisfying. “I just want to know how you are doing, what you’ve been up to the last ten years. Forgive me if I’m curious.”
Elise wasn’t as curious about Harper’s life because, truthfully, she’d been following it for years now.
She knew Harper had landed her first job at National Geographic shortly after the whole Namibia tryst. She’d shot a story on the jaguars in the Pantanal and had since racked up accolades that would make a lesser photographer weep: a World Press Photo, two Wildlife Photographer of the Year awards, and a National Geographic Explorer title before she even hit thirty-five.
Then there were the smaller things, like Harper and Harry moving to Costa Rica for seven months, the two of them adopting a senior tabby cat named Marmalade, and their weekly Sunday ritual where they ate scones on their patio overflowing with potted plants.
She knew all this because Harry—bless him—had an entirely open Instagram account, and he documented pretty much everything.
There were photos of Harper knee-deep in mangroves, Harper dangling off the side of a research boat, Harper laughing as a baby sloth crawled up her arm.
And Harry’s captions were always glowingly proud, borderline poetic, and painfully sincere.
“I got married,” Elise said, grabbing another handful of pecorino bites and stuffing them into her mouth. “And then divorced. And then married again and divorced. A vicious cycle, really, but not that interesting.”
“I already know that.”
Elise looked at Harper for a moment. How did she know that? Was Elise’s personal life that easy to come by? She hadn’t Googled herself in years. Not since she and Daniel had separated. Maybe she should. “Then I guess you probably know that I live in Los Angeles.”
“I do.”
“Well then, what do you want to know?” Elise blurted. “You seem to know everything about me already.”
Harper made a face. Elise nearly snapped her head away because she couldn’t stand to look at that beautiful face.
Harper had barely aged. Her lips were still as full and pink as ever, her nose just slightly askew, and her warm brown eyes were ridiculously bright, like they caught and trapped the sun.
“Fine,” Elise relented, though she wasn’t sure why she was amusing Harper when it would be just as easy not to.
She could get up right now and leave. But she didn’t.
Instead, she reached for her wineglass resting on a patch of hard earth and said, “I’ve been working in some form or another for The Sapphic Match for a few seasons.
Before that, I worked on a series following extreme chefs across America.
I spent the first two years after Namibia working my butt off to get to where I am and the last two years wishing I could take some time off.
” She took a quick breath in. “I don’t have any pets because I don’t have time for them.
And I don’t have a garden for the same reason.
I haven’t been on a real vacation in years.
I haven’t learned to surf despite living so close to the beach and promising myself I would.
I started yoga four years ago after a mild back injury.
I tore the ligaments in my left ankle stepping on a large crack in a sidewalk, and in the last year I started eating meat again.
Which I probably should’ve done ages ago because my iron levels were crap. ”
Harper took a beat to process the information and glanced down at the few crumbs left on the cracker. “Are you dating anyone?” she asked, meeting Elise’s gaze.
Elise nearly swallowed the olive whole. She coughed and spluttered, “That’s none of your business.
” The truth was Elise hadn’t dated anyone in over two years.
Not since a quick fling with a guy called Emile, who had briefly worked as a drone tech two seasons ago.
She was going through an incredibly dry spell—drier than the Sahara—and didn’t want Harper to know.
So she deflected. “What happened between you and Harry?”
“He asked for a divorce,” Harper said matter-of-factly. She touched the edge of her camera, which she had resting next to her. “He said he was tired of being in a lavender marriage.”
“Lavender marriage?” Elise asked, frowning slightly. Was that some new-age slang? Then she remembered a TikTok she’d scrolled past a few weeks ago about a man and woman in a relationship where only one of them was straight. “Oh,” she added.
“It was the first time I had heard of it,” Harper said.
“I would never have referred to our marriage as a lavender marriage, but neither would Harry until one of his colleagues brought it up.” She sighed so heavily that Elise felt it vibrate through the blanket between them.
“I guess he started connecting the dots.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” Harper said. “It was about time, I think. I was always traveling and in the beginning, Harry came with me a lot of times. But he stopped in the last few years. I should’ve seen it coming.”
Elise wanted to know why Harper was here, in Positano, working on this show, but she had a feeling she knew the answer already. An answer she didn’t want to hear.
“What happened with National Geographic?” Elise asked instead.
Obviously, she hadn’t been following Harper that closely in the last year because she had no idea Harper had left National Geographic.
She was far too busy working and, most recently, trying to make absolutely sure no one ever called the show The Never Rose Show again.
“It’s a long story,” Harper said, quieter than before. In fact, she looked entirely distracted. “You probably don’t have time for it.”
This was true. Elise didn’t have time for a long story. She had to get back to work. But the very nature of her being leaned toward curiosity. She was so curious, she even leaned a little forward, like she was trying to yank the story from Harper’s throat. “Just give me the summary. What happened?”
But Harper didn’t answer her; she just changed the topic. “Do you really believe these dating shows actually lead people to finding love? Or is it all just smoke and mirrors?”
Elise shrugged and pretended she wasn’t bothered by the change in subject.
“Honestly?” she said, glancing down at her crossed legs.
It was a miracle she’d managed to sit down on the ground considering how stiff her jeans were.
Now she wondered how she was going to stand up without either making a fool of herself or needing Harper’s help.
“I guess it depends on who you ask,” she said.
“Technically, the bachelorette has found love.”
“ELISE! ELISE!” someone called from the terrace. “WHERE ARE YOU!?”
It was Monica.
Elise shot up so quickly she nearly kicked over all three ceramic plates.
It seemed her jeans weren’t as tight as she thought.
“I have to go,” she said just as quickly.
“Thanks for the picnic.” Then she bolted before Harper could even say something or do something to keep her there.
And frankly, Elise shouldn’t have been there in the first place.