Chapter Two Say Yes to the Unexpected
Chapter Two
Say Yes to the Unexpected
Nairobi, Kenya
Six Months Later
You never expect your life to change on a Tuesday.
“Hey, Scarlet,” I say, pressing my phone to my ear.
“Please tell me you’re coming home for the baby shower,” my best friend says. This is her third pregnancy in six years—her last, she’s sworn. I’ve yet to make it to a shower.
“Believe me, I will try.” I tuck a copy of my presentation into my portfolio.
“You work too much, Alessia.”
Scarlet’s right. I’ve missed so many engagement parties, weddings, and baby showers over the years.
But part of that was by design. It’s hard to face the reality that while I’m here in Nairobi, life is going on elsewhere in the world, and seeing my closest friends find happiness and glowing with pregnancy is . .. hard .
I don’t have any firm plans to head back to the States for a few weeks, but before I can let Scarlet down again, the phone alerts me of an incoming call. I check the display and groan.
“What?” she asks.
“Sean’s calling me.”
“Ignore him.” Her tone is filled with venom. One of the greatest things about having a best friend is that they automatically hate your exes by default.
When Sean and I ended our engagement, Scarlet took me to a place called Smash & Go—where you can suit up in protective gear and smash the hell out of dishes, vinyl records, bathroom tiles, and ceramic vases with bats and sledgehammers.
After we’d unleashed our aggression, she took me out for martinis and truffle fries.
It’s really a winning combo in terms of breakup therapy.
I highly recommend it. Then I was impulsive and booked myself a solo trip to Italy . ..
But things between me and Sean are still messy, even after six months.
And the truth is, I’m not mad at Sean. I’m mad at myself for spending most of my thirties with a man who dragged his feet about settling down, who was open about the fact that he didn’t know if he wanted children.
I wanted to believe in the possibility of growth and change.
He was kind and steady, and he said he loved me.
I wanted to believe that was enough. In the end, I knew it wasn’t.
“He’s texted three times this morning saying we need to talk. I better take this, Scar.”
“Okay,” she consents.
“Love you,” I tell her.
“Love you more,” she insists, and I click the button to accept his call.
“I have a presentation starting in four minutes. This better be important, Sean.”
He releases a slow sigh. “It is. It’s Murph.”
Fear tightens in my stomach. Murphy is a terrier mix we adopted from an animal shelter, back when we were still an item. He lives with Sean full time now for obvious reasons, but I still love him like crazy—the dog, not my ex.
“What happened?”
“Nothing happened , but he’s not been himself. Hasn’t been eating well. I took him to the vet last week, and they ran some tests. I don’t have the results back, but now he’s lethargic, and I don’t know. I’m just worried. I wanted to prepare you.”
“Oh.” It’s the only word I can think to say.
We weren’t confident in Murphy’s age when we got him six years ago, but he’d been an adult.
I knew he wouldn’t live forever, but I also knew I wasn’t ready to say goodbye.
Murphy had represented a time in my life when I thought everything was going in the right direction.
I draw a slow inhale. “Keep me updated, okay?”
“I will.” Sean hesitates, clearing his throat. “I just wanted to plant a bug in your ear that you may need to find a time to come home and say goodbye sooner rather than later.”
I’ve said goodbye too many times lately. It wasn’t a thought I wanted to dwell on. I have a meeting starting in ... I check my wristwatch ... two minutes.
I draw a fortifying breath. “I have to go,” I say to Sean. Sliding the phone into the side pocket of my Chanel tote bag, I compartmentalize, just like I do with any inconvenient emotion I don’t have time to feel.
“Joslyn,” I call from my office. My assistant peeks her head in as I’m reapplying my lipstick.
“It’s go time,” she says.
I nod and cap the lipstick before standing to straighten my cream silk blouse and smooth my palms over my black pencil skirt.
I’m preparing to ask an investor I’ve never met for a million dollars.
I have to look the part. My heels click along the tiled hallway as I follow Joslyn, who rattles off pertinent information.
“The presentation’s all loaded and ready. The Winthrops are seated and have been offered coffee, water, and tea, and their team of financial advisors from Boston have already joined the conference line.”
“Great. And the mood of the room?”
“Friendly. Relaxed,” she assures me, opening the door to the conference room that holds a large oval-shaped table and a dozen chairs.
Today’s meeting is crucial, and there’s a lot riding on the outcome.
I need to secure this funding if I have any hope of continuing my work in Nairobi. No pressure, right?
I take a deep breath and enter with Joslyn trailing right behind me.
“Mr. and Mrs. Winthrop, it’s very nice to meet you, and thank you so much for coming today. I’m Alessia Moore, the founder and director of Renewed Promise.”
“Our pleasure,” Richard Winthrop says, pocketing his smartphone. “And this is our son, Hartford.”
My gaze is pulled toward an incredibly handsome man with dark, tousled hair and a strong jaw. I know that smile. Those eyes. My stomach drops like I’m on a roller coaster.
“Hart,” he says, standing to offer me his hand. I place my palm in his, and he gives it a firm shake. He treats me to a lopsided grin and shakes my hand as though we’ve never met.
Okay, so we’re going to lie. Cool.
I stand there for a moment too long. He’s beautiful. And he’s smiling at me.
Thankfully, I snap out of it and find my seat—directly across the table from Hart. His gaze follows me as I slide out the rolling chair and slip into it, opening my leather portfolio.
“All right then, and we have Peter Cho and associates on the line, I believe,” Joslyn says.
Oops. I should have greeted their financial-planning team as well. A faux pas. But I’m distracted by the Winthrops’ boyishly sexy and very off-limits son, whom I once spent an evening flirting with in Florence. Dear God, why do these things happen to me? I’m flustered and suddenly much too warm.
I read quite a bit about the Winthrop family, courtesy of Wikipedia and Forbes , Newsweek , and Fortune magazines.
But I don’t recall seeing any mention of the youngest heir to the Winthrop family fortune, and even if I had, I never would have connected him with the man I met in Italy. And he certainly hadn’t offered it up.
For the son of a billionaire, I would have expected arrogance, privilege. The guy I met that night in Italy was none of those things. He was sweet and funny, and he made me smile despite my broken heart.
Richard and Geraldine “Gerri” Winthrop are in their midfifties and publicly made a pledge to invest millions in philanthropic pursuits.
Their fortune was made in the petroleum industry during the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries by brothers Cornelius and Fitzgerald Winthrop, though their descendants have diversified into banking and real estate since then.
The family has a charitable foundation, and they donate millions every year, not just because it’s the right thing to do, but because it eases their corporate tax burden.
They are an icon of American generational wealth. And now they are here and hopefully feeling generous enough to invest in my upstart charity foundation. Getting a meeting with them was a small miracle.
Don’t blow it.
“How was your flight into Kenya?” I ask Mrs. Winthrop, trying to build rapport.
“It was fine. We were in Seychelles for a holiday and came straight in yesterday.”
I pause. “I didn’t know they had direct flights from Seychelles.”
She smiles as though she’s letting me in on a secret, and I suppose she is. “We fly private, dear.”
I nod. “Sounds lovely. Well, let’s get started. I know your time is valuable.”
As I’ve done countless times, I launch into my presentation, which is part sales pitch—I want them to invest their money—and part tugging on the heartstrings.
Joslyn clicks through the PowerPoint slides, which contain images of the desolation, the poverty that surrounds us—just a few miles outside the border of the modern city we currently sit in.
Children in muddy streets dressed in fragments of clothing.
Lean-to homes made of scraps of sheet metal and discarded pieces of wood.
“My goal is to build a school right here.” I point to the map of Kibera on the screen. “A tuition-free school for girls, grades kindergarten through eighth. The idea being to create the next generation of leaders, who can pull themselves and their future families from the grasp of poverty.”
I explain that we’ll need help with everything—building supplies, curriculum, uniforms, books, toys, food, teachers’ salaries. Throughout my presentation, I can feel Hart’s eyes on me, watching me intently. His gaze drops to my lips. Why is he staring at me? Maybe I have lipstick on my teeth.
I plow ahead, refusing to be rattled. I explain that women in developing countries have less access to education, technology, health care, land ownership, and paid work.
They are more likely to have many children and live in poverty.
“The needs are immense. The food-distribution center opened last May, and a small clinic is planned. But we haven’t been able to break ground yet on the primary school, which I believe will make all the difference. These girls need us.”
“And that’s where we come in,” Mr. Winthrop says, his expression unreadable.
“That’s where you come in,” I agree gently. There’s always a delicate dance to these situations. “I can show you the village if you like.”