Authors: Anita Hughes
Lake Como
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To my mother
contents
chapter one
For Hallie Elliot, it was the summer of weddings. The first was a three-day affair at a private estate in Napa Valley. The pool was filled with calla lilies, the cake was decorated with pearls, and the dance floor was the tennis court covered in Carrara marble. Hallie and Peter drank Veuve Clicquot, ate shrimp cocktails, and marveled at the ice sculpture that was a bust of the bride and groom.
Every weekend in June and July, Hallie slipped into a silk Pucci dress or a Diane von Furstenberg wrap and strapped on Bottega Veneta sandals. Peter donned black tie for receptions at the Ritz and the Fairmont. He put on a sport coat to wear in tiny stone churches in Sonoma and ceremonies under the redwood trees in Muir Woods.
Hallie and Peter had stood under starry skies, admiring the bride and groom’s first dance. They had listened to the best man tell stories that should have remained private. They drove home after the bouquet had been tossed and the rice had been thrown, running commentary like sports announcers post game.
* * *
“I loved their vows,” Hallie mused, returning from a wedding at a private home in Los Altos. “Katy promised to respect Hank’s career choices, and Hank vowed to always put his laundry in the washing machine.”
“That’s fine until Hank decides to throw in his partnership and buy a hot dog stand at AT&T Park,” Peter said, grinning. “Then he’ll find himself doing his own laundry.”
“Her dress was gorgeous.” Hallie sighed. “The train was longer than Kate Middleton’s.”
“Did you see the grounds?” Peter whistled. “There were three swimming pools, as if two swimming pools mated and had a baby.”
“I would love to get my hands on their guest house.” Hallie looked out the window at the approaching lights of San Francisco. “It should be done in blues and greens, with shag carpet and a saltwater aquarium.”
“Did you give Katy your card?” Peter asked, putting the car in first gear as they climbed Russian Hill.
“That would be rude,” Hallie said, frowning. “But I might send her a thank-you, and mention I’m working at Kendra Larsen’s.”
“You can use me as a reference.” Peter grinned. “I got a beautifully designed apartment and a beautiful designer in one package.”
“That was a one-time deal.” Hallie giggled and saw Coit Tower appear at the crest of the hill. Hallie always thought it was like a lighthouse perched above the city, beckoning her home.
* * *
Peter was already in bed when Hallie slipped out of her dress, putting on one of Peter’s old Stanford T-shirts and white boxer shorts. She loved their bed. It had a high suede headboard and cream satin sheets. When she sat against the pillows, she could see whitewashed houses cascading down to the bay. At night, the ships bleated in the dark like sheep finding their way home.
Hallie had lived in San Francisco her entire life, but moving in with Peter made the city seem brand new. Flowers bloomed in sidewalk cracks; trees burst with cherry blossoms. She had never noticed so many bistros with colored awnings and cramped round tables. Hallie and Peter ate focaccia with olive oil, sipped cold Chardonnay, and entwined their fingers over flickering candles.
“I wrote you something,” Peter said as she slid under the comforter. “I promise to always make eggs sunny-side up, and never let the coffeepot grow cold.”
“I thought you were working on an exposé of Frank Marshall.” Hallie glanced at Peter’s open laptop.
“I am.” Peter closed the laptop and ran his fingers over Hallie’s mouth. “But writing about a guy who sold his dad’s
Playboy
collection on eBay to fund his company seems a little sleazy after eating chocolate mousse wedding cake.”
“When exactly do you plan on making those promises?” Hallie looked at Peter. After every wedding, he dropped some sort of hint: he couldn’t imagine making his groomsmen wear purple shirts under their tuxedos; he would never invite old girlfriends to his wedding. Hallie would feel her heart leap into her throat, wondering if his next words would be a proposal. But he always stroked her straight blond hair, kissed her lips, and turned the conversation to something else.
“Every day.” Peter grinned, putting the laptop on the bedside table. He pulled Hallie down and covered her with his body. Peter was built like a runner: long legs, narrow hips, thin, angular shoulders. But when he made love he was like a wrestler, pinning her to the bed. She loved the feel of his chest rubbing against hers, his tongue exploring her mouth.
Hallie felt Peter’s breath hot against her cheek. He opened her legs and slid deep inside her. She felt their bodies push and pull as if they were playing a child’s game of tug-of-war. She came first, clinging to his back, his sweat sticking to her fingers. Peter mumbled sleepily and draped his arm over her chest. Hallie closed her eyes and dreamed about weddings and sunny-side-up eggs and oval diamond rings.
* * *
Hallie glanced at the engraved invitation on the bedside table. Next weekend’s wedding would be the most extravagant of the season. Four hundred people under the rotunda at City Hall. A carpet made of pink and red roses imported from Japan. Oysters served on the half shell and live fish as centerpieces.
The bride was Patsy Mane, one of Kendra’s newest clients. Patsy had been popping into the store daily, fretting over linen swatches. Hallie listened to her moan and wondered if next summer she would be in her shoes.
Sometimes Hallie thought her friends were marking time until they walked down the aisle. They studied feng shui and Cordon Bleu cooking. They prowled the bridal registries at Gump’s and Fenton’s. They researched beach resorts for their honeymoon.
Hallie’s friends thought Peter was perfect. He was bright and handsome and treated her like a princess. They admired his green eyes, the cleft on his chin, the way he caressed her hair in public. Hallie turned the invitation over, imagining her name entwined with Peter’s in gold embossed letters.
* * *
Hallie met Peter when he entered the design store last summer. Kendra Larsen’s usual clientele were women carrying Louis Vuitton bags and wearing Prada heels. Peter looked like a boy who had wandered into his mother’s lingerie closet. He wore jeans and tennis shoes and carried a khaki backpack. He stood at an Edwardian rolltop desk and fingered a gold-tipped quill pen.
“William Shakespeare wrote all his plays with one of these,” he said to Hallie. “Six hundred years later we’ve got laptops and tablets and writing software. No one has been able to produce a
Hamlet
or a
Romeo and Juliet
.”
Hallie looked at Peter’s short brown hair brushed to the side, his sharp cheekbones, and his Roman profile. She thought he looked familiar; maybe they had met at a cocktail party or at the bar at PlumpJack’s. Then she realized she had seen his face on a poster in the window of Books Inc.
“You wrote
Paul Johns Unplugged
!” Hallie exclaimed.
Paul Johns had graduated from Stanford, studied in Tibet with the Dalai Lama, and developed an Internet site promising its subscribers the secrets to enlightenment. The book was Paul’s unauthorized biography. It told stories of Paul’s wild college days: jumping naked into the pool during water polo games, creating multiple Facebook profiles and dating several women at the same time.
Peter wrote that in Asia, Paul spent more time in brothels than meditating. He quoted Paul as saying the only things he had learned in Tibet was how to smoke a pipe and avoid contracting herpes. The book became a national bestseller and Peter was lauded on talk shows for exposing Paul as a charlatan.
“I did.” Peter nodded. “And now I’m supposed to use some of the royalties to furnish my apartment like a grown-up.”
“Is this your style?” Hallie frowned, glancing at the Oriental rugs, the French tapestries, the red lacquer Chinese armoires.
“Do you think I should be looking for leather sofas and shag rugs?” Peter grinned.
“Most of our clientele prefer Regency furniture and silk drapes,” Hallie admitted. “I like shag carpeting. But don’t tell Kendra, she’d fire me on the spot.”
“Your secret is safe.” Peter put his hand over his heart. “Maybe we could have lunch, and I can describe what I’m looking for.”
Hallie hesitated. She didn’t usually mix work and dating. But Peter looked sincere. And Hallie had an itch to do something besides furnish another Pacific Heights mansion with authentic Louis XIV chairs and Aubusson wool rugs.
They sat at a table at Café Nicoise. Peter drummed his fingers on the tablecloth and stabbed a Cobb salad with his fork. “I’ve never interviewed a designer before.”
“I thought you interviewed people for a living,” Hallie replied, drizzling raspberry dressing on a spinach salad.
“Internet mavericks with skeletons in their closets.” Peter grinned. “Not blond socialites moonlighting as interior designers.”
“My grandmother may live at the top of Pacific Heights, but I have a studio apartment in the Marina,” Hallie protested. “The hallway reeks of garlic and meatballs—hardly San Francisco high society.”
“According to my sources, your grandmother, Constance Playfair, is on more boards than any other female in the city,” Peter replied.
“How do you know anything about me?” Hallie asked, suddenly wary.
“Kendra and I were in freshman seminar together at Stanford,” Peter said, smiling. “I ran into her at PlumpJack’s and she told me she just hired a brilliant new assistant. I did a quick search on the computer.”
“You Googled me?” Hallie said, jumping up.
“I’m sorry.” Peter grabbed her hand. “I have an empty flat on Russian Hill that’s crying out for furniture. I can’t help being curious about people; it’s like a tic. Can we start over?”
Hallie sat down. She should have been angry. She should have grabbed her purse and run back to the store. But there was something endearing about the way Peter apologized. He was like a foreigner who didn’t know the rules of the country.
“Most clients just ask for a list of references.” She smiled faintly.
“I have complete trust in your abilities.” Peter relaxed. “And I am prepared to live with shag carpet.”
“What are your favorite colors?” Hallie toyed with her napkin. “Do you like to watch television in bed, and do you prefer satin or cotton sheets?”
Peter sat back in his chair and whistled. “Those are some pointed questions.”
Hallie felt a slight shiver, as if someone had run a feather down her spine. “I need to know everything about a new client.”
“I grew up in Atlanta and attended Stanford on a scholarship,” Peter began. “I majored in journalism, was editor of the
Stanford Daily,
wrote an exposé of the vice chancellor that almost got me kicked out of school. After graduation, I bummed around for a couple of years, writing press releases for Internet start-ups. I ran into my old roommate Paul Johns when he launched VisionQuest.com. Paul’s girlfriend had just broken up with him. I spent many nights drinking tequila shots and nursing him through a broken heart.”
“Which you turned into a tell-all book that ruined him,” Hallie broke in, interested despite herself.
“He had an original Rembrandt on his office wall—paid for by subscribers to his site.” Peter shrugged. “I didn’t want him buying a Van Gogh.”
Hallie grinned. “Go on.”
“I wrote the book, sold the rights to Hollywood, and plunged most of the money into my new baby.”
“A yellow Lamborghini or a silver Bentley?”
“A new magazine called
Spilled.
I’m going to write about the human side of techno-celebrities. Sergey Brin’s dark past and Mark Zuckerberg’s relentless pursuit of excellence.”
“Sounds interesting.”
“It better be profitable.” Peter pushed away his salad. “Between buying the apartment and starting the magazine, I’m almost broke.”
