At the wheel, I start the car and pull into the traffic. There’s a Van Morrison song playing over the sound system and I hum along as we head toward the on-ramp for I-5. “You know, if we had gotten a ticket, the title of this car is in your name,” I tell her.
“Well, good thing I’ve been promoted. I can afford the fine.”
And I hide my amusement as we head north on I-5.
“Where are we going?” she asks.
“It’s a surprise. What else did Flynn say?”
“He talked about FFFSTB or something.”
“SFBT. The latest therapy option.”
“You’ve tried others?”
“Baby, I’ve been subjected to them all. Cognitivism, Freud, functionalism, Gestalt, behaviorism. You name it, over the years I’ve done it.”
“Do you think this latest approach will help?”
“What did Flynn say?”
“He said not to dwell on your past. Focus on the future—on where you want to be.”
I nod, but I don’t understand why she hasn’t accepted my proposal.
That’s where I want to be.
Married.
Perhaps he said something to discourage her. “What else?” I ask, trying to get an inkling of what he might have said to dissuade her.
“He talked about your fear of being touched, although he called it something else. And about your nightmares and your self-abhorrence.” I turn to meet her gaze.
“Eyes on the road, Mr. Grey,” she scolds.
“You were talking forever, Anastasia. What else did he say?”
“He doesn’t think you’re a sadist.”
“Really?” Flynn and I have differing views on this. He cannot step into my shoes. He doesn’t really understand.
Ana continues. “He says that that term’s not recognized in psychiatry. Not since the nineties.”
“Flynn and I have differing opinions on this.”
“He said you always think the worst of yourself. I know that’s true. He also mentioned sexual sadism—but he said that was a lifestyle choice, not a psychiatric condition. Maybe that’s what you’re thinking about.”
Ana, you have no idea.
You will never know the depths of my depravity.
“So, one talk with the good doctor and you’re an expert.”
She sighs. “Look, if you don’t want to hear what he said, don’t ask me,” she says.
Fair point, Miss Steele.
Grey. Stop hounding the girl.
She turns her attention to the passing cars.
Damn.
“I want to know what you discussed,” I say in a tone that I hope sounds conciliatory. I leave I-5 and head west on Northwest Eighty-fifth Street.
“He called me your lover.”
“Did he, now? Well, he’s nothing if not fastidious about his terms. I think that’s an accurate description. Don’t you?”
“Did you think of your subs as lovers?”
Lovers? Leila? Susannah? Madison? Each of my submissives comes to mind.
“No. They were sexual partners. You’re my only lover. And I want you to be more.”
“I know. I just need some time, Christian. To get my head around these last few days.”
I look over at her.
Why didn’t she say that earlier?
I can live with that.
Of course I can give her some time.
I’d wait until time stands still, for her.
I RELAX AND ENJOY the drive. We’re in the suburbs of Seattle, but heading west toward the Sound. I think I’ve timed this appointment just right and we’ll catch the sunset over Puget Sound.
“Where are we going?” she asks.
“Surprise.”
She gives me a curious smile and turns to take in our surroundings through the window.
Ten minutes later I spy the corroded white metal gates that I recognize from the photograph I’ve seen online. I pull in at the bottom of an impressive driveway and punch the security code into the keypad. With a creaky groan, the heavy gates swing open.
I glance at Ana.
Will she like this place?
“What is it?” she asks.
“An idea.” I steer the Saab through the gates.
The driveway is longer than I thought. To one side there’s an overgrown meadow. It’s big enough to install a tennis court or basketball court—or both.
“Hey bro, let’s shoot some hoops.”
“Elliot, I’m reading.”
“Reading is not going to get you laid.”
“Fuck off.”
“Hoops. Come on, man,” he whines.
Reluctantly, I abandon my tattered copy of Oliver Twist and follow him out to the yard.
ANA LOOKS STUNNED AS we arrive at the grand entrance portico and I park beside a BMW sedan. The house is sprawling and actually quite imposing from the outside.
I cut the engine, and Ana’s baffled.
“Will you keep an open mind?” I ask.
She arches a brow. “Christian, I’ve needed an open mind since the day I met you.”
And I can’t disagree. She’s right. As ever.
The realtor is waiting inside the large vestibule. “Mr. Grey.” She greets me warmly and we shake hands.
“Miss Kelly.”
“Olga Kelly,” she announces to Ana.
“Ana Steele,” she responds.
The realtor steps aside. The house smells a little musty from what must be months of disuse. But I’m not here to look at the interior. “Come.” I direct Ana and take her hand. Having studied the floor plans at length I know where I want to go and how to get there. I lead her from the vestibule through an archway into an inner hallway, past a grand staircase, and into what was once the main living room.
There are several open French doors on the far side, which is great because the place needs airing. Tightening my hold on Ana’s hand, I take her through the nearest door, onto the terrace outside.
The view is every bit as arresting and dramatic as the photographs suggested: the Sound in all its glory at dusk. Already there are lights twinkling from the distant shores of Bainbridge Island, where we sailed last weekend, and beyond that, the Olympic Peninsula.
There is so much sky and the sunset is astounding.
Ana and I stand hand in hand and stare, enjoying the spectacular view. Her face is radiant. She loves it.
She turns to look at me. “You brought me here to admire the view?”
I nod.
“It’s staggering, Christian. Thank you,” she says, and stares once more at the opal sky.
“How would you like to look at it for the rest of your life?” My heart starts hammering.
This is one hell of a pitch, Grey.
Her face whips to mine. She’s startled.
“I’ve always wanted to live on the coast,” I explain. “I sail up and down the Sound, coveting these houses. This place hasn’t been on the market long. I want to buy it, demolish it, and build a new house—for us.”
Her eyes grow impossibly large.
“It’s just an idea,” I whisper.
She looks over her shoulder into the old living room. “Why do you want to demolish it?” she asks.
“I’d like to make a more sustainable home, using the latest ecological techniques. Elliot could build it.”