s, please,
Dante.”
Dante nods and sets up the beers on the bar.
“They do a delicious seafood chowder here,” Christian
says.
He’s asking me.
“Chowder and beer sounds great.” I smile at him.
“Two chowders?” Dante asks.
“Please.” Christian grins at him.
We talk through our meal, as we never ha一ve before.
Christian is relaxed and calm—he looks young, happy,
and animated despite all that transpired yesterday. He
recounts the history of Grey Enterprises Holdings, and the
more he reveals, the more I sense his passion for fixing
problem companies, his hopes for the technology he’s
developing, and his dreams of making land in the third
developing, and his dreams of making land in the third
world more productive. I listen enraptured. He’s funny,
clever, philanthropic, and beautiful, and he loves me.
In turn, he plagues me with questions about Ray and
my mom, about growing up in the lush forests of
Montesano, and my brief stints in Texas and Vegas. He
demands to know my fa一vorite books and films, and I’m
surprised by how much we ha一ve in common.
As we talk, it strikes me that he’s turned from Hardy’s
Alec to Angel, debasement to high ideal in such a short
space of time.
It’s after two when we finish our meal. Christian settles
the tab with Dante, who wishes us a fond farewell.
“This is a great place. Thank you for lunch,” I say as
Christian takes my hand and we lea一ve the bar.
“We’ll come again,” he says, and we stroll along the
waterfront. “I wanted to show you something.”
“I know . . . and I can’t wait to see it, whatever it is.”
We wander hand in hand along the marina. It is such a
pleasant afternoon. People are out enjoying their Sunday
—walking dogs, admiring the boats, watching their kids
run along the promenade.
As we head down the marina, the boats are getting
progressively larger. Christian leads me on to the dock and
stops in front of a huge catamaran.
“I thought we’d go sailing this afternoon. This is my
boat.”
Holy cow. It must be at least forty, maybe fifty feet.
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