I dip my head in acknowledgement. “How do you feel about dessert? I didn’t make it. Chef Luigi did. Tiramisu.”
“Okay. But can we sit outside? I’ve missed the garden.”
“I’ve made sure it’s taken care of. It’s waiting for you like I am.”
She flushes.
She helps me clean up. After, we take our tiramisu and glasses of port out to the back porch.
She sits on the wicker couch. I take my place next to her. I want to be close.
She dips her spoon into the tiramisu and takes a bite. “Wow!”
When I taste it, I agree with her.
“Ihavebeen thinking about what comes next,” Iconfess. “The thing is that I don’t want to work in finance…well, not in the way I have been.”
“What have you been thinking about?” she prods.
“We’re very fortunate to have the resources we do.” I stroke some strands of hair from her face. “What I want is something with purpose. I’ve been looking into a few non-profits—supporting kids, education, and mental health. There’s one in Montpelier that works with trauma-informed child advocacy. Maybe…I can help them.”
She takes a sip of her port, and nods thoughtfully. “You want to do volunteer work.”
“No. I want toworkfor a non-profit, have a job. I just don’t need to get paid a lot.” I watch her to assess her reaction.
“Fair.”
“You know, you could do anything now,” I remind her. “You’ve got as much money as I do. That prenup clause…it made us equals in a way my family never imagined.”
She sets her glass down, rests her chin in her palm. “I have been thinking about it.” She tilts her head and grins at me. “Since I’m going to be able to be a woman of leisure soon…if I wish.”
“Which you don’t.”
She straightens. “I love working with children. Some of the foster kids who come through…. You can tell who comes from chaos and who doesn’t. Then there are the foster parents—angels, so many of them—who love those kids like their own. I want to help them. I don’t know how, but….”
My heart hammered as an idea struck.
“What if we did something together?” I suggest.
“How do you mean?”
“Think of this as loud brainstorming,” I warn her. “How about westarta non-profit. Supporting foster children and the families that care for them. We offer resources. Training. Therapy. School support. Even housing, if we can grow it enough.”
Her lips part, and I see it—the light in her eyes that only comes from dreaming.
“Can we do that?”
“Yeah. I mean, we can’t fund it all ourselves; we don’t havethatkind of money. But we can start it and fundraise, get support from the state even….”
She places a hand on mine. “You know Cristiano works with several non-profits. I’m sure he can help us.”
That’s the guy she was with after she left me on Christmas Eve. I know they’re only friends, but I’m still jealous.
“Let’s talk to him,” I offer.
She smiles, her eyes bright. “This could be really something. Us doing somethinggood. Something that matters.”
I lean and kiss her softly.
