Page 6 of A Beginner's Guide to Forever
I read quite a bit about the Winthrop family, courtesy of Wikipedia andForbes,Newsweek, andFortunemagazines. 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.”
“I hardly think that will be necessary.” Mrs. Winthrop’s dour expression says it all. She’d much rather sit in a comfortable, air-conditioned boardroom and view the abject poverty from a well-curated PowerPoint presentation than be faced with the actual living conditions of the slums of Nairobi.
And I get it. I really do. I wish I could pretend places like Kibera didn’t exist.
“I’d love to see it,” Hart interjects.
It takes me a moment to recover from my surprise. “Very well. I’ll arrange a tour.”
After the meeting, Joslyn follows me into my office, and I sink down into the chair. “That went well, I think.”
She nods. “You did great.” Then she deftly crosses the room and shuts the door, like she doesn’t want to be overheard. “Their son couldn’t stop staring at you,” she whispers.
Interesting.So it wasn’t just me being weird. “You noticed that, too, huh?” I run my index finger over the front of my teeth. “I probably had lipstick on my teeth.”
“He was staring because you’re gorgeous, Al.”
“Stop.” I wave her off. Joslyn works for me, and though she’s also become one of my closest friends, especially when we’re in country for months at a time together, I don’t tell her about meeting him in Italy. I’m not sure why, but it feels like a secret I want to protect.
“I think he has a crush.” She grins.
Two hours later, I’ve changed into jeans and a white button-down top and replaced my Valentino heels with a pair of beat-up Converse sneakers.
Hart is standing near the elevators, exactly where I asked him to meet me. I told myself he would most likely be late—people in his tax bracket are usually the center of their own universe—and certainly not focused on keeping someone else’s schedule.
I half expected him to flake out altogether. But there he stands, wearing slim charcoal pants and a black T-shirt that stretches across his lanky, sculpted frame. His hair appealingly messy. Sensing my approach, he looks up from his phone, his dark gaze lingering as I take the last few steps and stop in front of him.
“Hello, Miss Moore.” His voice is deep, confident.
