Chapter Six Find Joy in the Little Things
Chapter Six
Find Joy in the Little Things
“We need to get a meeting scheduled with the village council. And make sure you invite Reverend Bernard.”
“Oh, good idea,” Joslyn says.
I’ve taken myself out to an early breakfast, since despite my best intentions, I hadn’t been able to sleep in after all. London is two hours behind Kenya, and my body clock hasn’t adjusted. Not that it will—I’ll be leaving tomorrow.
There’s a lot of politics involved in what I do.
More so than I ever imagined. So, over my traditional English breakfast of poached eggs, grilled tomatoes, and buttered toast, I called Joslyn to strategize about how to spend our new massive donation.
We already had a plan in place, but now that the money will be in our account in a matter of days, it’s all the more real.
I feel the familiar buzz of excitement and the adrenaline of changes to come for a place I love dearly.
I can imagine the school building when it’s finally complete, walking through the doors the first time, seeing students sitting at the desks.
The idea of it makes me emotional. But if the school doesn’t have the necessary buy-in from locals, it won’t succeed.
No matter how much money we throw at it.
“And David should run point,” I add, thinking out loud.
I’m still distracted from last night. Not that I can let Joslyn know the reason why.
“Perfect. I’ll get it all arranged,” she says, sounding chipper. “When will you be back in Nairobi?”
I release a slow sigh and set my teacup to rest on the saucer.
“That is a very good question. I’m thinking most likely about six weeks.
That should give us enough time to grease the wheels on the village-infrastructure proposal to support the school.
Plus, I promised my best friend I would go home for her baby shower. ”
While I’m there I’ll do all my usual maintenance—teeth cleaning, haircut, Botox appointment—that would last me a while.
It will be nice to recharge at home for a little while.
See my parents. Maybe I’ll learn pickleball.
I think of Murphy and the idea that I’ll likely have to say goodbye. My stomach twists.
“Okey dokey,” Joslyn says. “If I can arrange any travel for you, just let me know.”
“I will. Thanks, Jos.”
“Oh, one more thing,” she says.
I signal to my server that I’d like my check. “What is it?”
She hesitates, and I’m not sure how, but I can tell that she’s smiling. “Have you heard from Hart?”
I chuckle and can feel my cheeks heating. Remembering the smoldering look he gave me. I have a you fetish. “I plead the fifth.”
Joslyn squeals in excitement. “That’s a yes if I’ve ever heard one.”
“I am not gossiping about this with you,” I chastise, still laughing nervously.
“Fine. Fine. Just tell me one thing.”
“What?” I hear myself say.
“If ... no, when you kiss him ... tell me if he’s a good kisser.”
The memory of his mouth pressing to mine is shockingly erotic. The sweep of his tongue. The feeling of his firm chest pressed against mine, my back pinned against the wall.
“You’ll be the first to know,” I lie.
After breakfast, I hail a cab and head to Harrods. On the way, I send a text message to Sean.
Alessia: How’s Murphy?
I do some mental math and realize he won’t see my text until morning; it’s the middle of the night in California. Maybe that’s better. I can only panic about so many things at once. And since an affair with a younger man was never on my radar, I’m a bit thrown off.
It’s been unseasonably warm for London in August, and I remove my jacket. Or maybe thoughts of Hart are making me warm. The black cab lets me out right at the corner of Brompton Road and Lancelot Place.
Harrods is London’s largest and most iconic department store.
It’s actually so much more than a store.
They offer guided tours for visitors and have an afternoon tea that’s to die for.
The first floor is busy and noisy, but I bypass all the noise and tourists milling around in search of the children’s boutique.
It takes me a while to select something for Scarlet’s baby-to-be, but I find an adorable gray cashmere one-piece. It’s incredibly soft with snaps for easy diapering. It’s perfect. They even wrap it for me with pale-blue paper adorned with little stars.
After, I take the escalator to my favorite women’s clothing department. I pass by Louis Vuitton, Chanel, Burberry ... and pause when I spot a black lacy top that’s open in the back.
I could use something cute to wear tonight. The back dips very low, and I realize I may have to get creative with my undergarments, but I imagine how it will look on me. I take it off the hanger and head to the checkout desk.
I shouldn’t have googled him.
When I left Harrods, I picked up lunch for myself—a sandwich, which is still sitting untouched on the desk in my hotel room, from one of my favorite cafés—and lay across the bed. I typed Hart Winthrop into Google and spent the next hour cyberstalking him like a maniac.
He doesn’t post often, but his social media is filled with images of a very carefree lifestyle.
Through the glossy filter of Instagram, there is a carousel of wealth and privilege on display—dinners with congressmen, family ski trips to Aspen, yachting in Thailand, and a parade of models.
All while I was grinding away in countries ravaged by wars, natural disasters, and famine.
He looks so young. And obviously handsome, but the pertinent adjective is young .
There’s an image on a news outlet site of Hart at the Australian Open last year with his arm around a Brazilian supermodel, his long fingers resting comfortably against her exposed hip bone. They look very happy together.
I close out of everything and set the phone down. It’s really quite simple, and I don’t know why I’m complicating it. He’s too young for me. He’s just the cute, wildly inappropriate guy whom I flirted with in Italy and was never supposed to see again.
Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe if I had indulged in a fling, one night of fun, I would have worked him out of my system already, and this weird electric energy wouldn’t exist between us.
It would have been completely out of character for me, since I’ve never done the whole casual-hookup thing, but perhaps I should have. He certainly seemed willing.
After deciding that I’m really not hungry, I settle on a hot shower. It does little to relax me. I’m dressed in the hotel robe with a towel on my head wrapped like a turban when my phone dings with an incoming message.
It’s Hart. He’s finished earlier than expected, and he wants to know when I’m free for the private museum tour. I unwrap my hair and fling the towel into the bathroom. My fingers fly over the keys.
Alessia: I’m sorry, something’s come up. Enjoy the exhibit.
Hart: ??
Alessia: I’m headed back to California tomorrow. Take care, Hart, and thank you tremendously for the very generous donation to Renewed Promise.
There. Professional, courteous, but clear. There’s really nothing more to say.
My phone begins to ring.
I sigh deeply and answer. “Hello?”
“I want to see you.” His voice is steady, commanding.
I pause, and nothing comes out.
“What’s come up? Is it work?” he asks.
Just lie, Alessia, I say to myself.
“Not exactly.”
I wince. So much for lying.
“Let’s talk in person. I can pick you up in front of your hotel in”—he hesitates—“thirty minutes.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
Boundaries. Good.
I brace my hand on the desk for support. Doesn’t he get that my life is complicated enough? That the last thing I have time for is some illicit flirtation that’s going nowhere.
“Please.” His voice is low, deep. Something inside me stirs.
“Okay,” I hear myself say.
When we hang up, I get to work blow-drying my hair and applying my makeup. Fitted jeans, strappy heels, and the lace top I bought at Harrods today complete my look.
I grab my handbag, phone, and key card for the hotel, still wondering what it is I’m doing.
Outside, a black car is parked on the curb. Hart steps out.
As soon as his eyes find mine, his entire expression changes.
He looks genuinely happy to see me. I take a few steps until I’m standing on the curb right in front of him.
He’s dressed in dark jeans and a charcoal cashmere sweater, black boots.
The look is casual yet expensive. He’s eye candy, tempting, but also bad for me.
“Is everything okay?” he asks.
“Yes, it’s ... everything is fine.”
My gaze drops to his full lips, and I’m ambushed by the memory of what this man’s mouth can do.
“Are you sure you don’t have time to visit the exhibit?” His eyes search mine. “I really think you’d enjoy it.”
Apparently, I have a hard time saying no to him.
Twenty minutes later, we’re pulling into a private entrance for the museum. The driver lets us out, and Hart guides me toward the staircase with his large hand brushing lightly against my lower back.
“We had a ribbon-cutting ceremony today and then a press interview, but the exhibit doesn’t open to the public until tomorrow.”
“A private tour. I feel so honored,” I say as we climb the final few steps.
We head inside, and he leads me toward the wing of the building where the collection is displayed, and while we walk, he asks me about my day.
I fill him in on some of the details about my strategy session with Joslyn.
“The work you do is incredible. I’m very impressed,” he says, smiling, watching me, listening intently to everything I say.
“My father always said you could get your hands dirty or you could get your soul dirty. I guess I chose my hands ...” I’m still talking when he presses my back to the wall and kisses me. It’s a surprise—the press of his full mouth to mine.
Footsteps of a gallery attendant interrupt the moment, and I pull away.
“Behave,” I whisper.
“I’ll try.”