Chapter Twenty-Two Fall in Love with Your Own Story
Chapter Twenty-Two
Fall in Love with Your Own Story
New York, New York
Back in New York I accept a check from the auction company and have a few more meetings before I’m scheduled to fly back to Nairobi, which happens tomorrow afternoon.
Since tonight is my last night in New York for who knows how long, Hart has convinced me to join him at his parents’ house for dinner before I leave. Since I find it very hard to say no to him, I agree.
My mouth lifts at the memory of him holding the baby, whispering tender encouragements. Things are hazy between me and Hart. It’s only been two days since I saw him, and already I miss him, which isn’t great for my resolve.
His family home is like a museum. It’s twenty minutes outside the city. Gated with a long private drive. A fountain out front that’s every bit as impressive as the fountains I admired during my last visit to Italy.
The driver stops in a parking area that contains a Tesla and a Range Rover, and I step out realizing that I don’t know what kind of car Hart drives.
The house is a formidable stone structure, and as I climb the front steps, I can’t help but consider Whit’s warning on the chairlift. About how Hart’s parents would not be accepting of me with their son.
But his father was more than kind to me about the whole media-fallout debacle.
In fact, so was Hart. Maybe things like that didn’t rattle them like they did me.
There had, of course, been countless articles written about the Winthrop family over the years.
They must have learned to develop thick dragon skin or perhaps the art of ignoring the noise.
It’s something I’m clearly still working on.
Needless to say, I’m nervous. But Hart and I aren’t together. I’m here because ... Why am I here? Because I find him very hard to stay away from.
The front doors open, and Hart is standing there with a wide smile. “You’re here.”
“I am.”
He looks incredibly put together in gray slacks and a black button-down shirt. A gleaming watch on his wrist. His eyes dance on mine, and he presses the briefest kiss to my lips before taking my hand and pulling me up the steps and into the foyer.
“Can I take your coat?” he asks.
I shrug out of my black wool jacket, and he takes it, along with my large tote bag, which contains my laptop and various papers and folders since I came directly from work. He sets it all on a nearby bench.
“Is this where you grew up?” I ask, taking in the grand curving staircase that rises gracefully above us. A round marble table is tucked into an alcove with a giant spray of fresh greenery.
“Mostly.”
Everywhere I look is beautiful and richly decorated. From the elegant textured wallpaper, detailed wainscoting, and gold sconces to the exquisite artwork adorning the walls.
“It’s beautiful,” I say.
It’s not the kind of home I could picture a young boy growing up in.
Certainly there were never Legos scattered on the fine Persian rugs or finger paints at the gleaming walnut table.
Somehow it makes me feel a little sad. My heels click across polished Carrara marble floors as he leads me deeper into the estate.
Even with its sophistication, Hart seems decidedly at home, moving through the space with comfort and ease.
There’s an entire wall devoted to family portraits.
Formal ones, where everyone is in a suit or gown, along with casual shots—a teenage Hart smiling broadly aboard a gleaming white sailboat, the family posing at the base of a mountain in the Swiss Alps.
A photo of his father with Barack Obama.
Hart and his mother at a country club, sweaty and holding tennis rackets.
Hart, at what I presume is age sixteen, standing beside a black BMW with a giant bow.
I linger, studying the photos. An entire lifetime of pictures and memories.
There’s one of him and Hayes holding surfboards on a white sugar sand beach.
“Was that taken in the Maldives?” I ask.
He nods. “Two years ago, I think.”
“And where’s this?” I point to a shot of Hart and Vaughn standing near the peak of a mountain.
“Machu Picchu.”
Just then footsteps in the hall signal we’re not alone.
“You couldn’t have worn a tie?” his father asks, stepping into view with a frown.
“You remember Alessia,” Hart says rather than reply to his father’s question.
“Hello.” I extend my hand, which Richard Winthrop takes, giving it an efficient shake. He’s an attractive older man. His hair is threaded with silver, and he has an essence about him that screams of superiority and importance.
“Of course. Hello again.”
“I was just admiring the gallery wall.” I nod toward the photos. “These are great.”
“Oh. Yes.” He looks up, almost like he’s forgotten the wall exists, the dozens of pictures displayed here. “Drinks are in the den. Come join us.”
I walk beside Mr. Winthrop while Hart trails behind us. They’re exceptionally quiet, and I don’t know how to break the silence.
Recalling Hart’s never complain, never explain philosophy, I’m doubtful his father thinks I’m here for anything more than Hart’s hospitality.
We pass a room containing a grand piano and windows that overlook the sprawling yard.
There’s a tennis court off in the distance and rows and rows of trimmed hedges.
The den is a cozy room with wood-paneled walls, two cream-colored sofas with a large coffee table between them. There are vases of fresh-cut flowers and a glass bar cart with four crystal rocks glasses that are filled with fizzy liquid and slices of fresh cucumber.
Gerri, Hart’s mom, sits perched on the edge of one of the sofas, her slender legs artfully crossed at the ankles.
Do I curtsy? Bow? I’ve never been in the home of a billionaire before. Instead I give her a weird little wave. “Hello.”
“Hello there,” she says, smiling tepidly. She seems well versed in fake smiles, but I can tell she’s as sharp as a blade. “It’s nice to see you again. The gala was beautiful, by the way.”
“Thank you. It was a great turnout.”
“So, Alessia, when are you heading back to Nairobi?” Richard asks, handing me one of the cocktails.
“Tomorrow, actually.”
Richard nods. Gerri stirs her drink, seeming uninterested.
I sit next to Hart on the sofa, maintaining a little distance between us, and help myself to a large gulp of the fizzy drink. I’m pretty sure it’s a gin and tonic, but I’ve never tasted gin so smooth, so I’m not entirely sure.
“I can’t tell you how much I appreciated the invite to dinner tonight, and I’m also happy to tell you that the plans for the school are moving along nicely.”
Gerri nods, a vacant look in her eyes, and Richard is busy looking at his phone. My eyes stray over to Hart’s, and he gives me a wry look that tells me to relax and not try so hard.
I take another large gulp of my cocktail and hear him lightly chuckle beside me.
Being in possession of the knowledge that Hart’s father is having an affair means it’s impossible to feel comfortable around his parents. This is beyond strange.
I excuse myself to head to the restroom. I just need a minute.
Taking in my appearance, I’m surprised to find that I look relatively normal, not rattled or anxious.
I smooth the front of my dress; it’s been a long time since I was nervous around a boy’s parents.
The last time I spoke to them, I was following a scripted presentation.
I find that easier than sitting in the formal den struggling to make small talk.
Dinner might end up being a chore. I wash my hands and then decide I’ve stalled long enough.
As soon as I open the bathroom door, I take two steps and run into a firm male chest.
I stumble back a step.
“Hayes.” I didn’t know his cousin was here.
“Alessia,” he says coolly, appraising me.
“Excuse me.” I try to move around him, but he sidesteps, blocking my path with his tall frame.
I raise one eyebrow. “What’s going on?”
“I need to speak to you.”
Taking my elbow, he tugs me into the library and closes the door behind us.
I don’t even have a moment to admire the beauty of the room we’re standing in, with its rich wooden floors and darkly paneled walls, rows and rows of bookshelves filled with volumes of classic literature.
“I figured I’d made myself clear with you, yet here you are. Back again.” He makes a tsking sound. “Like a bad penny.”
My stomach tightens, pitching sideways. “What is your problem with me?”
He shrugs, looking almost bored. “I only want what’s best for Hart.” He reaches into the breast pocket of his jacket and retrieves a stack of bills. “Which is why ... this is for you.” He lifts my hand and places a lot of money in my outstretched palm. “Twenty thousand dollars.”
I glance at my hand, struggling to make sense of this.
“Leave him alone for the next few months until he can pick himself up and move on, and I’ll double it.”
At my stunned expression, a wry look overtakes his face. I’m pretty sure I’ve never seen him smile. Where Hart is sunny and open, Hayes is smug, arrogant, and filled with brooding male energy and misplaced hatred.
“And he will move on, you know. This thing between you two—I’ll admit, I don’t understand it, but I do know it won’t last.”
“Wow.” My lips tip up in a smile as I appraise the weight of the cash in my palm. “You’re an even bigger asshole than I thought.”
I shove the money at him and turn to walk away, but Hayes isn’t finished.
“Eventually he’ll tire of you, you know.
Even if it takes years, someday you’ll be old and wrinkled and he’ll still be Hart.
Wealthy and powerful and distinguished. And wealthy men like him, like me, we never end up with someone like you.
You’ll be traded in for a younger model. We both know I’m right.”
I hate that there’s a kernel of truth to his words. Hate that I can feel myself begin to doubt everything I thought I’d felt.
I’m not generally struck speechless, and I’ve negotiated much more complex deals than this one, but I have no idea what to say.
“Tell me I’m wrong.” His eyes flash with an emotion I can’t read.
On the African plains, predator and prey settle their differences by either fight or flight. It’s the same emotion I’m experiencing right now. Part of me wants to flee; the other wants to take him down and drag him through the mud.
“Screw off, Hayes.”
“That’s what I thought.” Finally, he smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “You know this has an expiration date. You might as well take the cash. Use it for your little project.”
I’m not sure which is more insulting. The fact that he thinks he can bribe me or that he’s called the work of the foundation my little project .
“Keep your money. I cannot be bought.”
“Don’t be foolish. Everybody has a price. Name yours.” His tone is demanding.
Done with this conversation, and with him, I turn and storm away, leaving him standing in the library, mumbling a string of curse words under his breath at my dramatic exit.
We dine on blackened swordfish steaks, creamy risotto, and grilled asparagus, which is delicious, but I’m too rattled by my run-in with Hayes to fully enjoy it. Thankfully, he didn’t join us for dinner, and no one mentions his presence here.
Hart’s father seems extraordinarily hard on him, and his mother is completely indifferent.
Their stilted conversation stops and starts with plenty of long pauses. It’s a bit like a car accident you can’t look away from.
Hart finds my hand under the table and gives it a squeeze.
He may come from one of the wealthiest families in the United States, yet in all the ways that I was rich—with loving parents, and a hefty dose of self-acceptance—he was poor.
As far as I can tell, money is the only thing these people have in common.
They don’t share inside jokes with one another or laughs or smiles. Certainly not a hug or kiss.
After dinner, Hart walks me back to the foyer. My tote bag, files, papers, and coat are still resting on the bench where Hart left them two hours before. The foyer is dim now, cast in shadows.
“I guess this is it then,” he says quietly.
“I guess so.”
I don’t know when I’ll see him again, and frankly I’m not brave enough to pose the question. Maybe it’s better this way.
He faces me, meeting my eyes with a sad smile. There’s a steadiness to him. Complete stillness and peace, like he knows what comes next. Like he knows what I’m thinking even though my mind is scattered.
He doesn’t promise me that it will be okay or assure me that everything will work out. He just folds me into his arms and holds me, and I let him. It’s a small comfort that for now is enough.
When I’m seven thousand miles away, I will savor this memory. The feel of his arms around me. His scent surrounding me. And the steady thump of his heart against mine.