Page 37

“Are you looking forward to seeing the letters?” I ask, desperate to keep the conversation on business matters.
“Oh, I can’t wait. I mean, I’ve read about them in Rudolph Hemingway’s book on conservation of documents, but it’s not the same as getting your hands on them.”
“I haven’t read that,” I say with some surprise. “What did you think of them?”
“They’re beautiful. Richard’s are very lyrical, and full of long and drawn out declarations of love. Hers are less poetic, and she talks a lot about her family and her everyday life, but it’s clear she has feelings for him. They’re very romantic.” She wrinkles her nose at me. “It’s an alien concept for me.”
“Ian wasn’t romantic?”
“God, no. We would never have won an award for the most romantic couple, even in the beginning.” She sighs, as if resigned to the fact that the conversation was always going to turn to this. “Ian had four brothers, and his parents were very much into the whole ‘tough love’ thing. His parents—his father, especially—believed that showing affection was a sign of weakness, and brought the boys up to be the strong, silent type. And his mother was a cold woman, maybe because of the way his father was. Iannever talked about his emotions or his feelings. And if I tried to show him affection, he would just stiffen or walk away.”
I frown, still baffled that a modern woman would stay in a relationship where she didn’t feel valued.
“What?” she asks.
I don’t say anything for a moment, not wanting to sound judgmental, but she raises her eyebrows.
Are we really going to talk about this?
I gesture at her drink. “Want another?”
“I thought we were just going to have the one?”
“Yeah, well. I think this is a two-cocktail conversation.”
She giggles. “Okay.”
I go up to the bar and order the drinks and a bowl of potato wedges with sour cream and sweet chili sauce, because I’m feeling peckish.
While the bartender prepares the cocktails, I glance over at Hallie, who’s staring out of the window at the view, chin propped on a hand. She looks thoughtful, a little wistful. I think of the fact that she’s never had a man go down on her, and close my eyes, finding the thought almost painful.
“Here you go.”
I open my eyes to find our cocktails before me, and I thank the bartender, then take them back to our table. I place Hallie’s before her, then sit and lean on the table, studying her.
I’m going to ask, because I have a burning desire to know. “I still don’t understand why you stayed with him for so long. Was it really because you ‘thought it was what you did’?”
She sighs. “No… There were reasons he was like he was, and I kept hoping he’d change if I showed him love and affection.”
“What kind of reasons? Because I can’t imagine anything good enough to excuse the way he’s treated you.”
She leans on the table, studying her drink. “I didn’t tell you about his religion. His family belonged to a religious group called the Order of Sanctified Purpose—have you heard of it?”
“A cult?” I say flatly.
She gives me a wry look. “I wasn’t allowed to use that word.”
“Did they follow a leader?”
“Yes. His name was Jacob Adams.”
“Then it’s a cult.”
She scratches her nose. “I guess. They view pleasure as a test from God, a temptation to be resisted at all costs. They even consider laughter indulgent. And sex is a duty, never a joy.”
“That explains a lot,” I say mildly, although inside I’m filled with something akin to horror. I’m a believer in personal freedom, and that people should be able to do what they want with their lives. But how can you bring children up to believe that sex is something to be endured, not enjoyed?
Hallie sips her drink. “When you’re continually told that sex is disgusting and evil, eventually it’s going to pervade everything and tarnish all your relationships. His mum once walked in on one of his brothers… you know…” She gives me a shy look.