Page 83 of Audacity

I ground her, and she elevates me.

I understand people, and she understands business.

I tell her I want to use my wealth to effect real change, and she transforms that mission beyond all belief.

We are the perfect partners. She understands innately the things that drive me at my most profound level, but it feels as though she sees my purpose more clearly than I do.

Non est ad astra mollis e terris via.

There is no easy way from the earth to the stars.

Maybe there is.

Maybe there fucking is.

CHAPTER 43

Athena

Pledging to give away the majority of your ten-figure fortune may be a worthy sentiment, but I’m sure it’ll take some serious cajoling on Gabe’s part to even remotely get his family on board. That said, to use startup jargon, it’s the kind of Big, Hairy, Audacious Goal that’s exciting enough, inspiring enough, to give both of us a kick up the arse. Committing to giving as thestarting pointof his estate planning feels intentional in a way the foundation has been lacking so far, and pulling a completely fresh idea from a blank canvas is the ultimate rush.

We mainline coffee and kick ideas around for a few more hours before Gabe suggests that if we wander up Marylebone High Street in search of provisions, then he will cook us supper. I find myself agreeing readily. I have plans to see Marlowe and Tabby tomorrow—Tabs isn’t doing great—but have a free evening ahead, and for reasons that feel complicated I’m in no rush to go back to my lovely, lonely flat.

Usually, the office is our bubble, but this bubble, with Weekend Gabe in his grey cashmere sweater and jeans and easy smile, in his beautiful, palatial home, is even more sparkly and lustrous and intoxicating.

We visit a gourmet deli, the kind of place so brimming with delicacies that you can’t help but get instant decision paralysis. That probably explains how we come away with everything from fresh ravioli and a block of truffled raclette to smoked salmon mousse and far too many variations on dark chocolate. And when we’re back at Gabe’s place, I find myself perched on a bar stool with a chilled glass of Provençal rosé, watching my boss potter competently around his kitchen.

This man moves me so much.

He moves me when he speaks and when he smiles. His agile brain and his beautiful soul move me as much as his undeniable physical blessings. He is the most serene person I’ve ever met, his confidence stemming not from an inflated sense of self, but from a quiet trust that everything is unfolding as it is. His mastery of the art of surrender is Zen-like, just as his energy is intoxicating.

We dine together at the island, glasses filled and thighs brushing and this afternoon’s handiwork laid out before us in a host of neon sticky notes. I watch him eat, and he watches me eat, and I suddenly understand that silence and eye contact and proximity can be richer, more nourishing, than any conversation.

It terrifies me, and it enthrals me.

‘I bet you were an amazing priest,’ I say eventually. It’s a statement, something I know viscerally to be true.

He smiles, and it’s a little sad. ‘I wasn’t amazing by any means. But I’d like to think I was decent. I’d like to think I helped some people.’

‘And you’ll help more now. So many more.’

He’s silent before he speaks, his blue eyes fixed on the far wall. ‘I hope so.’

‘Will it be enough for you, do you think?’

I know he understands what I’m asking. I know he worries that deploying vast, unthinkable sums of money is somehow less worthy than the noble toil of a priest in his parish. I know he believes, deep down, that no matter how hard he works on this foundation, it’s some form of cop-out.

His gaze flicks back to me, and it’s raw, and it’s honest.

‘I don’t know. I understand intellectually that I don’t have to be the one ladling out bowls of soup to make a difference, that what we’re proposing is the kind of scale I would have found impossible to comprehend when I was working at the parish level. Still do, as you’ve seen. But understanding it intellectually and feeling it in my heart are two very different things.’

I nod. He hasn’t embodied this yet, hasn’t allowed himself to.

‘You could argue that Jesus had far more impact after his death than when he was on the ground hanging out with lepers and washing feet.’Even if Christianity is a total crock of shit from where I’m standing.

That gets me a rueful smile. ‘Good point well made, Miss Davenport. Not sure I’m ready to offer myself up for martyrdom just yet, though.’

Feeling brave, I take the hand resting on his thigh and clasp it, running my thumb over his knuckles. ‘Why did you leave?’ I whisper.

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