Page 25 of Denying Davis
She gave me a sad smile. “Don’t be. It’s just the way my life turned out.”
We fell silent. I took a moment to admire the way the city street lights and the hub of activity fanned out around her, illuminating her features and causing her chestnut hair to shimmer. Even in the drab uniform of Haute Holidays, she looked beautiful. She was just as soft as she’d always been; the old Samantha was still there. And wow, howrefreshingthis all was. Normal. Real.
She might have been through a lot but thank God the kindness in her eyes hasn’t faded.
“We won’t drink bad tequila tonight,” I finally said, trying to lighten the mood. “Only the best kind they have. It does make a different, I promise you.”
“I wouldn’t have taken you for a tequila connoisseur.”
“I got more into it after I went to a tasting last year. We had an expert come in and explain the finer points, along with how to pair it with various dishes, etc.”
She raised her eyebrow. “And where was the tasting?”
I blanched. “The Hamptons.”
She chuckled. “Of course, it was. Wouldn’t have expected any less from you, Davis Armstrong.”
“Well, in my defense, the host did bring in one of the best tequila sommeliers in the world. And, I mean—” I suddenly felt embarrassed about how it all sounded, how privileged and out of touch I must have seemed. “It’s not my fault I was in the Hamptons.”
“No, but that’s your life. Your whole life, Davis. You don’t know anything about what regular people do, or how life really is for people who aren’t able to access millions at the snap of a finger. It’s not your fault, but it’s how it is.”
The served arrived to take our drink orders.
I welcomed the break in what was fast becoming an awkward conversation. Yes, I came from a rich family. No, I’d never wanted for anything. Yes, I vacationed at the world’s best resorts and most prestigious destinations. No, I wasn’t sure what it meant to have a regular life. But it all wasn’t my fault.
Right?
We ordered two margaritas with the best tequila at the bar, and I insisted they come with a large heaping of salt. When the server left our table, I tried switching the conversation to the two dozen or so taco offerings on the left side of the menu.
“Oh, no.” She grinned. “You’re not getting away from this so easily, Mr. Richie Rich.”
“Talking about money makes me uncomfortable,” I admitted. “It’s not something I can change. It’s a means to an end.”
“Hmm.” She cocked her head. “But that’s the best part about it. With your money, you can do a lot of good. It’s not about conquering the world or making the next billion. It’s about being altruistic. And making a difference with the resources you have.”
I grunted. “True.”
It wasn’t like I hadn’t seen it before. Ainsley, for example, had outright sponsored a rec center in Belle Glade shethoughtpeople didn’t know about—even though most everyone in Palm Beach did. And a few others we knew well spent a good chunk of their time and money volunteering and giving to causes they cared about.
“I just haven’t found something I really want to rally around,” I added. “But maybe you can help me with that.”
“Maybe.” She chewed on her bottom lip. “I can think of a few dozen good ways to spend it.”
“I’d like that. One other thing I remember about you is how you always seemed to have great ideas. I could probably use them.”’
The server arrived with our drinks. “Have you all decided on your food order?”
“No.” Samantha let out a nervous laugh. “We’ve been spending too much time catching up.”
I scanned the listing. “Whatever you’d like, but I do suggest we get a variety.”
She also looked at her menu. “How about a plate with steak, avocado, chicken, and fish? One of each?”
It sounded fine to me, and we also ordered a round of chips and queso to complement our late-night munchies. When we were alone again, I studied her for a moment.
“Okay.” She raised her glass. “Let’s toast.”
I raised mine. “No day but today.”
