No Apologies and No Regrets
Page 51
On the return trip from Sausalito Sally showed Bart some of the basics of sailing then turned the helm over to him. The young math whiz fast recognized the relationship between steering a sailboat, geometry and physics and soon became addicted.
"Sally, I love it. Let's sail out under the Golden Gate and wander the world." He sounded half serious.
"Whoa, Captain Cook. I promised to return my friend's boat sometime this year."
"We could steal her."
"Eight hours away from the office and you turn into a sailing bum." Sally said with a happy smile, "Yesterday a respected engineer; today a pirate. I seem to bring out the best in people."
Bart frowned realizing he hadn't thought about work all afternoon. "Yeah, I guess Gabe would miss us."
"There is that. My father keeps a boat down at Marina Del Ray. She's a sloop, too, but a lot bigger than this one. We’ve sailed her to Hawaii at least a dozen times. One day soon we’ll go down to LA and take her out.”
“Sounds good.” Bart tried to be nonchalant but he started the day hooked on Sally and now he found himself hooked on her favorite sport as well. He took the invitation as evidence she had longer term intentions for him. At least he wasn’t a “one night stand”. Good to know.
Back in San Francisco, Bart, the sailing newbie, regarded stowing the sails and the mundane clean up effort as fun and made fast work of helping Sally. Soon they retrieved her car and headed back to Menlo Park.
“Do you want to stay at my house again tonight?” She asked in a matter of fact way.
“I hadn’t thought about it.” Bart hid his elation.
“Meaning?”
“Meaning I didn’t know I had the option.”
“Now you know. What’s your answer?”
“Of course I want to stay at your house tonight.”
“Bingo. Right answer, Bart.” Sally's soft fingertips stroked his cheek then she rested her hand strategically on his thigh for the remainder of the ride to her condo.
When they arrived at her building Sally asked, “Are you going to need to pick up some clothes from home?”
“Yeah, I probably should.”
“OK. You go ahead while I clean up.”
“Sure.”
“Do you mind stopping by Tamarine on the way back? I’ll call in a take-out order.”
“No problem.”
Sally gave him a rather chaste kiss on the cheek, all things considered. Bart drove off in the BMW wondering if he should pinch himself again. As soon as the front door closed behind her Sally raced to her laptop and attacked the keys. First, she ordered dinner and then took care of a lingering piece of business.
Bart completed his assigned tasks and returned to find Sally dressed in bright green shorts and a white polo shirt. She sat barefoot and cross-legged on the couch listening to Diana Krall having selected a “romantic” playlist on her iPod before interfacing with a powerful Bose base system.
“While you hang up your bag I’ll take care of the food. I’m starved, how about you?”
“Since all I got for breakfast was preserves, yeah, I’m hungry.” He smirked; she grinned.
“Then go. Stow your stuff and clean up a little. I’ll have our meal on the table by the time you're done.” To Bart's surprise she ignored his remark about ‘preserves’.
Bart followed instructions then headed to the kitchen where he assumed they’d eat at the bar.
“I’m out here.” Sally’s soft voice drifted from a formal dining area perched above the living room on an elevated podium. Candles twinkled and a low gas fire glowed in the big central fireplace. Andrea Bocelli sang in the background and a delicious meal of giant prawns, Empress Rice, fried Calamari and grilled vegetables beckoned.
Bart held Sally’s chair then seated himself across the table. He discovered an ivory colored envelope bearing his name written in Sally's distinct, precise script. He hadn't thought of her as the kind of girl who left mushy cards, but he may have misjudged her in a lot of ways. Sally smiled as Bart opened the envelope with curiosity.
Inside he found a copy of a confirmation of adjustments to his Centurion Card account. The charges for the Lamborghini had been reversed and the statement showed a ‘zero’ balance.
“Sorry, I forgot to take care of this when I promised." She purred, "Seems I found something better to do at the time.”
“Thank you.”
“By way of amends you are now an American Express Centurion cardholder in good standing. Your card will arrive by UPS and, in consideration of your substantial business, the card fees have been waived for the next five years.” She sounded like a call center agent, but Sally’s eyes twinkled and the tiny dimples at the corners of her mouth showed as she shared the information.
“But, Sally.”
“Just put the card in your drawer. You never know when unlimited credit may be useful.” Sally handled her chopsticks like an expert as she popped a piece of fried Calamari into her mouth.
“Sally.” He wanted to protest but her cute pout seduced him.
“Eat your dinner Bart. The food is excellent and you won’t get dessert unless you clean your plate.”
After a tasty meal they stretched out on the couch and listened as a mellow guitar blanketed the room. Bart recognized Sally’s continuous use of background music as an artistic reflection of her moods and, for the first time, noticed a Steinway tucked into the opposite corner of the living room.
"How long have you played piano?"
"A long time." Her voice was soft and dewy with contentment.
"Will you play for me?"
"Yes, some other night." She snuggled into the crook of Bart's arm.
In the firelight and safe refuge of the big, cozy couch they began the inevitable process of sharing more personal details of their lives.
Bart told the story of a suburban kid from Denver where his Dad still practiced oral surgery. Mom stayed at home when not raising money for good causes and Bart described himself as ‘unremarkable’.
"Unremarkable? How old were you when you dropped out of MIT?"
"Eighteen."
"And you were a junior. You should have been planning for high school prom."
"I suppose." Bart sounded uncomfortable.
Sally spoke into his ear in a husky whisper, "You're so smart, baby, and I think brains are hot."
"So do I, Sally. Looks to me like we're both in the right place."
Bart told her that, as a teenager, he wrote a scheduling program for manufacturing, but got cheated out of a fortune by a slick venture capital guy. She already knew the story, but it was the first time he told someone how badly it hurt to be ripped off. After that, he said he’d gone to work for DI and concluded with, "not much else to tell." She knew better, but didn’t press.
Sally described herself as the "unconventional product of a politely and thoroughly dysfunctional home". To Bart it sounded a little like a prepared sound bite. She said her mother carried on a lengthy affair with a South American polo player while her father, a third generation philanthropist and public servant, worked and traveled. From boarding school to Stanford she’d pretty much raised herself with the exception of ‘family’ vacations and visits to her maternal grandparent’s home. The same life described in her vast treasure of photos.
Within the past year word leaked out that the elder Ramsay and his foundation had been robbed of hundreds of millions of dollars by a crooked New York fund manager named Bluestone. Ambassador Ramsay retreated to his condo in Santa Monica where he lived quietly, working on behalf of charities and writing a history of the early US. Sally said he'd been fighting depression and alcohol abuse since the news of his financial situation surfaced and spent time at a private clinic. His physical condition looked bleak, but she refused to sell his sailboat, the one they’d toured the Hawaiian Islands on during happier times. One day, she hoped, they would sail together once again.
After midnight they walked ha
nd in hand to the bedroom, stripped off their clothes and climbed into bed and one another’s arms. Exhilarated but exhausted they closed their eyes with gentle guitar music still serenading them. They would remember the occasion as far more intimate than the prior evening’s sex fest. Bart fell asleep with a smile and a new vision of how their lives might be. Sally allowed herself to share his optimism in her dreams.
52.