“I don’t care. Do you?”
“Tacos sound amazing.”
“Perfect.” He loads up the route on the nav system. His phone buzzes three times while he does that. Text messages flash on the console screen, but he ignores them. “To answer your question,” he says, “It all started with Xavier’s castle.”
He turns right. His phone buzzes again. It’s distracting as hell. I don’t know how he ignores it. If it were my phone, I’d have thrown it out of the window by now.
“It was built in the early 1900s by a shipping magnate,” he continues. “He made his money in Detroit and Pittsburgh, and he built the castle when he retired. Xavier’s family bought it in the eighties. It was pretty run down by then. Nobody had lived there for more than thirty years.”
Xavier Leforte must have spent a lot of money on renovations. His castle is pristine. Beautiful and inviting, it’s a luxury resort now, one that just happens to house a sex club in the basement. When Patricia celebrated her fiftieth birthday, the party was at Summit. (At the restaurant, obviously. Not at the sex club.)
“Xavier and I went to college together. We would come here a lot. He was fascinated by abandoned buildings. Still is. We would drive out from Boston, and he would wander through the empty castle. I’ve always liked Highfield, so when the lake house came on the market a couple of years ago, I bought it.”
“Just like that.”
I thought I did a good job at keeping my voice neutral, but whatever else he is, Damien isn’t a fool. “Yes, Sophia,” he bites out. “I bought the lake house on impulse. I bought the Range Rover on impulse too, and most of the time it sits around in my driveway, unused. Feel free to tell me how irresponsible I am.”
I wince. I’m being judgmental, and he has every right to call me on it. “I’m sorry.”
“Okay.” He gives me a sunny, dazzling smile. “I bought the lake house the year after my father died. None of us saw it coming. One day he was alive and well; the next day, he’d been felled by a massive heart attack.” He sighs. “College was a simpler time. I think I wanted to recapture some of that feeling.”
Oh. I didn’t expect him to tell me that. It appears that I’m forgiven. Just like that. I’d forgotten how easy-going Damien was. He didn’t hold onto grudges; he never stayed angry. You always knew where you stood with him.
“I’m sorry,” I say softly.
His phone pings again. He looks stressed. I can’t see his expression—the sunglasses hide his eyes—but every time he gets a message, his shoulders tense. I looked up the Cardenas Group this morning. Damien’s father died three years ago. His mother is the primary shareholder. She remarried, and her new husband is the CEO, but it’s rumored that Damien’s the one who really runs the company.
Is he happy? He doesn’t look it.
We arrive at Taco Gus,order our tacos—Damien orders in Spanish, of course, filling me with envy—and take a seat on the patio. Damien gets a beer, and I stick to water. While we’re waiting for our food to arrive, I get to the point. “Are you serious about the donation? Or is this some bizarre game you're playing?”
His eyes rest on me, a warm caramel pool I could drown in. “Is that what you think?” He pulls out his wallet, extracts a folded piece of paper from it, and hands it to me.
It's a check made out to the Highfield Community Health Center for a million dollars. He even got the name right.
I stare at it, my fingers trembling. Intense relief flows through me. Three weeks ago, the community health center had been facing eviction. I thought we would have to shut down. I was convinced I was going to be unemployed again. There aren’t a lot of outreach and fundraising jobs in this part of the country. I thought I’d be forced to move.
Then Xavier Leforte held a fundraiser for us, ending our eviction woes. And now Damien's given me a check for a million dollars.
Something of what I’m feeling must be visible on my face. Damien’s expression changes. His voice goes soft. “Sophia, hey. Are you okay?”
No. I’m really not. I think I’m going to cry. And I really don’t want to be that vulnerable in front of Damien Cardenas.
I take a deep breath and stuff my emotions back down my throat. “Thank you for your generous gift. Please allow me to express my gratitude on behalf of the Highfield Community Health Center. We appreciate—”
He holds up his hand. “We had a deal, remember? You’re going to teach me how to be a better person.”
“Damien, I have no idea how to do that. I’m not a teacher. I'm not a philosopher. Binge-watching The Good Place isn’t going to magically make me Chidi Anagonye.”
“Good,” he says. “Because I don't want to listen to lectures about Aristotle. I don't learn well in the classroom.” He gives me a wicked smile. “I'm more hands-on.”
Okay, momentary wobble over. “Remember the discussion that we had about double entendres? That was less than an hour ago. You said—”
“That it wouldn’t happen again.” He makes a face. “It’s a bad habit. I’m sorry. Again.”
He wrote my organization a million-dollar check. The least I can do in exchange is humor him about this stupid class. “I will figure out a curriculum.”
“Of course. Since I only have a month, we should meet three times a week. I’m looking for a total transformation.”