On the Brink (Vol. 1) (The On the Brink Series) (8 page)

Chapter
Fourteen

Over
the next few weeks, Craig and I spent every free evening together. Sometimes,
we saw a movie or went out for dinner. Other evenings, we hung out at his place
or mine, sharing conversation over a bottle of wine. As I got to know Craig, I
realized how right Duncan had been about him. Craig’s business acumen and hard
work had made him a billionaire, but he was unpretentious and down to earth.

I
learned that Craig had grown up in Woods Hole, a little town best known for
being the home of the ferry to Martha’s Vineyard, as well as a number of marine
science labs. He shared with me that his father had died in the first Gulf war
when he was very young, and that he’d lost his mother to cancer when he was
eighteen. After that, Craig spent a year at M.I.T., before dropping out to
start Manning Biotech.

But
neither one of us were inclined to talk much about the past. Mostly, we talked
for hours about everything in our day-to-day lives. His business, my painting.
Books and movies that we both loved.

I
made him laugh with stories featuring the colorful, eccentric world of the
arts, and he turned out to have a deadpan sense of humor, describing people and
situations from the business world in comic relief, while somehow keeping a
straight face, something that I’d never been able to pull off. Time flew by
when we were together.

Meanwhile,
my physical attraction to him—strong from the outset—only continued
to grow. One Friday night, after dinner and several glasses of wine, I started
unbuttoning his shirt, kissing my way down his neck, but he stopped me gently.

“We’ve
both had a few drinks. The first time we make love, I want both of us to be
more sober than we are right now. Don’t get me wrong, I like a drink as much as
the next person, just not for our first time together.”

The
next day, we drove along the North Shore, stopping for lunch in a little
restaurant by the ocean in Rockport. Between the savory lobster risotto and the
homemade apple pie, Craig made a suggestion.

“How
about spending next weekend together? We can go to my house on the Cape, and
enjoy a couple of peaceful, uninterrupted days together. You could even bring
your painting things. The house has an enclosed porch that overlooks the ocean,
and has great natural light. You can paint there.”

“You
must love going to the Cape, especially in the summer. It feels so far from the
city, though it isn’t really.”

“Unfortunately,
I don’t get there often enough. Work tends to keep me in the city. But the
Warrens look after the place for me. There’s a caretaker’s cottage where they
live year-round. Bill Warren is retired military and can fix just about
anything, and his wife Mary is an amazing cook.”

It
sounded wonderful, and I knew what this meant. We would finally be intimate,
and I was ready to take that next step with Craig. “I’m in. When would we
leave?”

“Saturday
morning, maybe? We can take the company helicopter and be on the Cape in time
for lunch. You can paint in the afternoon. I’ll have my driver pick you up at
10 a.m.—we’ll meet at the airport.” He smiled irresistibly, his eyes
bright with enthusiasm.

I
agreed. “That sounds perfect.”

After
we drove back to the city and Craig dropped me at my doorstep, I danced up the
stairs to my apartment, full of the realization, now sinking in, that for the
first time in years, I truly wanted a man with my whole being. Enough to push
my fears aside and go forward, enough to feel excited about the prospect of
intimacy. Over the past few weeks, I had come to trust Craig, and spending the
next weekend together felt right. I felt ready to take our relationship to the
next level.

Chapter
Fifteen

The
week dragged by, as I waited impatiently for Saturday. I packed and repacked
several times, dithering over what to bring. As usual, Duncan was my sole
confidante. I wasn’t ready to face the bevy of questions that would descend on
me if Moxie and Sara knew I was spending the weekend with Craig.

Finally,
Saturday arrived with a bright blue autumn sky that matched my optimism. The
doorbell rang, and I hurried down the stairs with my two bags, one filled with
clothing, the other with brushes, paint, and several small canvases.

A
man in a chauffeur’s uniform stood outside. “Good morning, Ms. West. I’m
Reilly, Craig Manning’s chauffeur. Here, let me take your bags. Craig will meet
us at the airport in Bedford.”

Reilly
deposited my bags in the trunk, and then opened the door. I stepped inside and
eased myself into a luxurious leather seat. As we drove away from Davis Square,
the reality of what I was doing set in. I felt excited, but fearful. I hoped I
wasn’t making a huge mistake.

As
we reached the airport, I spotted Craig, standing next to a white helicopter
with an orange swirl on its side. He wore faded jeans, loafers without socks,
and a thick cable-knit sweater, a traditional look that he made ultra-sexy.
Reilly pulled the car alongside and Craig opened the door for me.

“We’re
all set to go,” he said. “Come with me. Reilly will get your bags.” He helped
me into the helicopter, which turned out to be every bit as luxurious as the
car. Two pairs of spacious leather seats faced each other.

Craig
guided me to a seat, made sure I was buckled in, and handed me a headset that
resembled heavy-duty headphones with an attached mic. “To cancel the noise,” he
explained. “You’ll be able to hear me, as well as Jack—the
pilot—and we can hear you.”

He
seated himself across from me, buckled in, and slipped on a headset. “Can you
hear me?” His voice was slightly tinny, but clear.

“Yes,
I hear you perfectly.”

“Good.
Jack, we can go now.”

The
helicopter’s rotors built up speed, transitioning from a steady whump-whump to
a dull roar that was fortunately reduced in volume by the headset.
Unconsciously, I gripped the arms of my seat.

“Have
you flown in a helicopter before?” I heard Craig’s altered voice through the
headphones.

“No,
just airplanes.”

“The
takeoff and landing feel different from a plane. You might feel weightless for
a moment here and there, a little like riding a roller coaster. The rest is
about the same.”

I
concealed my relief. Roller coasters never made me queasy, though boats
sometimes did. Takeoff was smoother than I’d anticipated, and during the short
flight to the Cape, Craig pointed out landmarks. Boston Harbor. The Bourne
Bridge. Then, in the distance, the tower of the Provincetown Pilgrim Monument.

“The
house is in Truro, between Provincetown and Wellfleet,” Craig said. “We’ll be
on the ground in a few minutes.”

The
ocean wind buffeted the helicopter a bit during the descent, and I was grateful
when we reached the ground. The rotors thudded to a halt, and following Craig’s
example, I removed my headset and then my seat belt. He helped me out, and led
me from the helipad to the house. Built in a contemporary style with classic
New England materials—weathered gray shingles and white wood
trim—the two-story structure blended attractively into the surrounding
dunes.

A
screened porch surrounded the entire first floor. The spacious combined living
and dining room showcased a large fieldstone fireplace and cathedral ceiling.
Skylights cast rays of light, warming the space from above.

“Let’s
see what Mrs. Warren has left us to eat.” I followed him into a large, modern
kitchen, and watched as he rummaged through the refrigerator. “How about a
lobster roll and a green salad? I make a great vinaigrette.”

“Sounds
good. Can I help?”

“Let’s
see—you can set the table while I finish here. We’ll eat on the front
porch.”

The
front porch turned out to have an elegant wrought iron table-and-chair set, as
well as a matching swing, covered in striped gingham cushions and facing the
ocean. I spread the tablecloth Craig had given me, and then laid out plates,
salad bowls, and silverware. When I returned to the kitchen, he handed me the
salad.

“I’ll
follow with the lobster rolls in a minute.”

I
returned to the porch, and he appeared a minute later, balancing a platter of
lobster rolls in one hand, and a silver bucket containing ice, champagne, and
two flutes in the other. Setting the platter and ice bucket on the table, he
picked up the champagne, popped the cork, and filled our glasses. Veuve
Clicquot.

“To
a beautiful weekend together,” he said, extending his glass toward me.

“To
a beautiful weekend,” I echoed, looking out at the sunlit ocean as blue-green
waves rolled onto the pale sand, and hearing the rhythmic rushing and pounding
of the powerful surf.

“I
can’t wait to paint this. I’ve never tried to paint the ocean before.”

“After
lunch,” Craig smiled. “Try a lobster roll. No one makes a better lobster salad
than Mary Warren, and she’s managed to teach me how to toast the buns just
right.”

Taking
a bite, I agreed. “I haven’t had such a fantastic lobster roll since the last
time I was in Maine.”

“What
was the name of your hometown again? Was it Waterville?”

“That’s
right. Waterville, on the Kennebec River. But I have family in the Bar Harbor
area, so I spent a lot of time on the coast as a kid. Hence my appreciation of
a real lobster roll. The city restaurants get it all wrong, starting with
gourmet bread instead of a hot dog bun.”

“In
the spirit of tradition, do you also prefer your chowder in a Styrofoam cup?”
He grinned teasingly.

Appreciating
his sense of humor, I laughed. “Not necessarily. The best chowder is often
found in little fishing villages and served in Styrofoam, but that’s just about
keeping costs down. Styrofoam and a trashcan cost less than waitstaff and
dishwashers. Although Mainers are more environmentally conscious now then when
I was a kid. Less Styrofoam, more locally sourced tableware.”

“Here,
have some salad.” He handed me the bowl, and I helped myself to a generous
mound of greens. Tasting the salad, I commented, “You weren’t kidding about
your vinaigrette—it’s delicious.”

“You
can’t go wrong with a classic French vinaigrette. And it’s simple. Olive oil,
red wine vinegar, Dijon mustard, and a touch of salt and pepper.”

“What
was it like to grow up in a place like this?” I asked, looking out at the
ocean. “It’s incredibly beautiful, of course, but I can’t imagine there was
much to do during the winter.”

“Another
kid might have been bored, but I really enjoyed hanging around all the marine
scientists. Growing up in Woods Hole gave me a great introduction to science. I
was always fascinated by science. But my focus now is the potential of science
to accomplish human goals. Like curing cancer.”

“One
of my grandparents died from cancer. It’s a horrible death.”

“Agreed.
Watching my mother wither away from cancer when I was a teenager had a profound
effect on me. No one should die that way.” His eyes darkened, and his chiseled
features shifted into a stern expression. “Or watch someone they love die that
way.” He took a deep breath. “But the war against cancer can be won, and I
believe that we’ll win it in the near future.”

“I
admire your commitment. Your passion for your work, and the potential of that
work to help people.” I paused. “I love my own work—painting—but it
doesn’t help people in any substantive way.”

His
eyebrows lifted. “You’re wrong,” he said quietly. “The importance of the arts
may not be quantifiable, but it’s real. Science may heal the body, but art
heals the soul. When I buy a painting, it’s because that particular painting
speaks to my deepest self. Acts as a mirror of sorts, I guess, in the sense
that looking at it connects me with some vital part of myself.”

I
was completely floored, and more than a little shaken. He had just voiced what
I felt in my strongest moments as a painter. The moments when the boundaries
between me and my work dissolved, and my work and I merged, becoming one. In
such moments, I recognized my painting as the best, truest part of me. And
Craig got it. Really got it. I’d been so wrong to ever think that he couldn’t
possibly understand me, or me him.

Feeling
lightheaded, I scrambled for the right words. After a long silence, I spoke
from my heart. “You’re right. So right. I’m ashamed to admit it, but sometimes
I get lost in trying to make painting work as a career. Sometimes I forget why
I do what I do.”

He
nodded. “It’s easy to get caught up in the day-to-day. In everything that just
needs to get done. Happens to me, too. That’s why I keep a photo of my
mother—from before she got sick—on my desk. And another in my
wallet. To remind me why I do what I do.” He leaned back in his chair. “Over
the years, I’ve collected other images and objects to keep around me.
Touchstones that remind me of what’s most important. But my mother was and is
the first.”

“I’m
so sorry you lost her,” I said. As the words left my lips, I couldn’t help but
feel how inadequate they were. “She must have been a remarkable woman to raise
a son like you. Do you have brothers or sisters?”

He
shook his head. “Mom was all the family I had. She probably would have liked
another child—she loved kids—but after my father died in the first
Gulf War, she focused most of her energy on raising me. I guess technically I
have a stepbrother—Mom remarried when I was thirteen, and my stepfather,
Tom, had a son from his previous marriage—but Jonathan was six years
older, and already in college when they married. We never got along.” His
expression shifted briefly, and I glimpsed a flash of strong emotion, but it
vanished almost immediately.

“Enough
about me,” he said. “What was it like to grow up in Maine?”

I
had many memories of Maine. Both good and bad. “As you already know, I’m an
only child. But my parents both came from large families, so there were lots of
aunts, uncles and cousins around. When my cousins and I were young, and our
parents still got along, we had a lot of great times together as a family.
Sailing and swimming all day, followed by enough lobster for an army cooked in
seaweed on the beach. Hiking and camping in the woods. Learning the art of
roasting marshmallows on a stick. Later on, the family gradually fell apart,
but I’ll always cherish those early memories.”

“What
changed? I mean, if you don’t mind talking about it.”

“My
parents and their siblings stopped getting along, I guess. It happened
gradually, over five or six years, and it wasn’t any one incident, more of a
gradual downhill trend over time. There were several divorces, including my
parents’. Plus a couple marriages that turned so toxic that divorce might have
been better. Not to mention fighting over my grandparents’ almost nonexistent
estates.”

“How
old were you when your parents split up?” Craig asked.

“They
separated when I was sixteen. They hadn’t been getting along well for several
years, and then my mother caught my father screwing a twenty-year-old waitress,
which was the last straw.”

“That
must have been terrible,” he said quietly.

“It
was. But on some level I knew he’d been cheating on Mom for years. The waitress
wasn’t the first. I don’t even know how I knew, but I did. So the divorce
wasn’t a complete shock. I thought they might do better apart, which in fact
turned out to be the case. Neither has remarried, but they’ve both found
relationships that appear to work better for them.”

His
eyebrows raised slightly. “Still, it couldn’t have been easy.”

“It
wasn’t. But it was a long time ago. Life happens, many people have it a lot
worse than me, and I’d rather focus on everything that’s good in my life.
Painting. My friendship with Duncan, who’s like the brother I always wished I
had. An apartment I love. Earning enough money to feel secure. Days like
today.” I met his eyes, letting him see my appreciation.

He
got up from his chair and held out his hand. “Speaking of today and good
things, how about this unseasonably balmy weather? Let’s take a walk on the
beach. Soak in a little sun. Then we’ll get to work. The second floor porch is
all set up as your painting studio.”

“Sounds
good to me.” I was moved that he had set up a painting studio for me, and
decided, once and for all, that I could love him. Was already beginning to love
him. I took his hand, and we left the porch for the beach.

As
we moved past the dunes onto the beach, the strong, salty wind whipped my hair.
As we walked hand in hand, along the water’s edge, I continued to process all
that he’d told me about himself. Suddenly, he stopped and bent down, picking up
a rock that he handed to me.”