The Many Daughters of Afong Moy(57)

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At work the next day, Greta tried to think of a reason to back out of her dinner with Carter. But a part of her was surprised he was as approachable as he was, less ego-driven than she’d expected. He didn’t seem like a misogynistic playboy. More of an awkward geek with newly developed social skills and the confidence that comes from having massive, generational wealth at his disposal. She was wary, but curious.

She’d emailed him: Where are we going for dinner?

She was astounded that he quickly replied: Someplace you’ve been before.

That made her feel better. She worried that his driver might take her directly to his home in Laurelhurst, or to a private yacht on Lake Union, or even to some penthouse hotel room where he would answer the door wearing only a plush bathrobe, coyly inviting her in for room service. She stopped worrying and accepted that there was something thrilling about the notion of going out to dinner with a billionaire. It felt like being strapped into a carnival ride. She could climb out, but that was dangerous. Instead she would hold on, bracing herself for an arranged marriage with gravity as she spun into the perilous unknown.

That’s when Sam texted her: I signed up for an account.

She smiled. Then frowned.

Despite Sam’s tragic history, her heart sank at the notion of him casually dating his way through Seattle’s array of single women.

She responded: Bored of me already?

Quite the contrary. I just wanted to appreciate your work. Don’t worry, I’m not looking for another picnic partner. Speaking of, would you like to get together again? Perhaps go for a walk around Green Lake?

Greta left him on read, stood up, and walked around her desk. She stared out at the calm waters of Puget Sound, the ribbon of traffic flowing through the Alaskan Way Viaduct. She hadn’t dated anyone in almost a year. She hardly made time for coffee, let alone lunch or dinner, or anything beyond that, casual or otherwise. She’d thrown herself into her work, letting that be her excuse for going home to no one and waking up alone.

Anjalee knocked and popped her head in, smiling. “I hear you have big plans.”



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After work, Greta waited for her ride to dinner with Carter, and right on time, a silver Escalade glided to the curb. A driver stepped out, greeted her, and opened the rear passenger door. Greta half expected Carter would be in the back holding a near-empty bottle of Cristal, a girl draped on each arm. But the vehicle was empty.

Greta climbed in and took a seat.

There were today’s newspapers, the Seattle Times, San Francisco Chronicle, New York Times, Washington Post, and a pair of magazines—tech journals—each with Greta’s photo on the cover. Greta turned the magazines facedown.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

The driver smiled back in the rearview mirror. “Mr. Branson has instructed me to drop you off at the Space Needle. Sit tight, Ms. Moy, and I’ll have you there in a few minutes. Would you like the radio on, news, some music, perhaps?”

“No thank you.” Greta looked out the window and saw the iconic tower lighting up the night sky. She’d been there numerous times, for dinner, doing the tourist thing with friends on the observation deck, she’d even spent an afternoon on the lower level for a wedding. If Carter was trying to impress her, he’d have to try a bit harder. Then as the car pulled up, Greta noticed there were no other vehicles in the porte cochere.

She stepped out before the driver could assist her. She expected to find a hostess or a line of people queued up for the elevator, but there was no one else but her.

The doors of the golden elevator opened.

“Have a lovely dinner,” the driver said as he wandered off, taking a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and lighting one as moths swarmed beneath a streetlight.

Greta drew a deep breath and stepped inside the elevator capsule. The doors closed and she watched the car, the driver, all of Seattle Center shrink from view. When the elevator slowed and she arrived at the top of the Space Needle, the doors parted and she stepped out into an empty restaurant, where some sort of lo-fi hip-hop was playing on the sound system, a gentle beat, the kind of music she liked to listen to while working late at night. She didn’t see any staff or other patrons, not even a manager. She peeked around the corner and found Carter sitting at the bar, on his phone. He looked up and smiled.

“Are we the only people here?” Greta asked.

“Oh no. My chef is in the kitchen with his sous chef and two assistants. The food here is a bit… pedestrian, but I’ve made generous donations to the Space Needle Foundation, so they indulge me once in a while. Besides, it gets quite noisy in here at times.” He pointed to the empty dining room. “This way we don’t have to shout.”

Greta followed him to a table near the large, wraparound window. She’d been here enough times to know that the restaurant made a complete rotation every forty-five minutes and that diners sometimes put Post-it notes on the glass, drawings, messages, knowing they would appear to someone else later in the evening. Greta watched a note that read I love Alyce slowly drift by.

Greta looked around, searching for a waiter or a bartender. She felt uncomfortable in the emptiness of the restaurant. “What are we doing here?”

Carter glanced to the left, to the right, then whispered as though he were divulging a closely guarded secret, “We’re… having dinner.”