Chapter Thirteen
Hallie
As we reach our rooms, we stop, and I look up at Fraser.
His blue eyes study me with concern. “Are you okay now?”
I nod. “I’m fine, thank you. I’m really sorry about that.”
“Ah, come on. I think we’re good enough friends that you don’t have to apologize for opening up a little. I’m glad you did. And I’m always here if you want to talk.”
I nod again, although I have no intention of telling him any more than I already have. I still can’t believe I revealed as much as I did. I managed to make it through a ten-year relationship without telling Ian anything about my father. I guess it might have been harder if he’d shown some interest…
“What time do you want to leave?” I ask.
He gives a small, resigned sigh that I obviously don’t want to confess anything further. “Two forty-five,” he says.
“Okay. Have a nice rest.” I go inside and close the door behind me.
I wait there for a moment, my heart racing. Will he knock on my door? Say it’s ridiculous fighting what’s between us, and ask to come in?
But he doesn’t. After a short pause, I hear his door open and then close.
I stare at the door for a moment, then walk slowly into the room.
After tossing my hat onto the bed, I go over and flop unceremoniously onto the sofa. Then I turn so I’m lying back, lift my legs up, and stare at the ceiling.
Maybe I imagined it—the connection between us. The magic, the chemistry, the electricity that shot through me when he kissed me.
But I remember his reply when I asked him why he lay awake last night. That he was thinking about me. That our time together was magical and amazing. And that he’s wanted me since the moment he met me, and all he can think about is tasting me and watching me come.
I shiver. I didn’t imagine it. He does feel the same way I do. The thought hurts my brain. It’s like advanced algebra, or quantum theory, or the stock exchange—I have real problems understanding it. Me? He likes me ? Seriously? Why? I’m nothing special. But I guess there’s no accounting for why one person loves another.
Ooh, no, no, no, Hallie. I sit up hurriedly and shake my head as if I can dislodge the thought from it, the way a wet dog shakes himself to get rid of water droplets.
Love is not part of the equation here. I’m very clear on that. I don’t love Fraser, and he doesn’t love me—no more than one good friend loves another, anyway. I’m not even in love with him. I don’t think I am, anyway.
Am I?
I pick up my phone, open an AI app, and type in, “What’s the difference between loving someone and being in love with them?”
“The difference between loving someone and being in love with them often comes down to the depth and nature of the connection,” the app replies. “You can love someone deeply without being in love with them, such as with a best friend or a partner you’ve grown apart from romantically. Conversely, being in love carries that unique spark of romantic desire and emotional intimacy that sets it apart.”
Thoughtfully, I ask another question, “Can you give me a short definition of being in love with someone?”
“Of course,” it replies. “Being in love with someone can be described as a deep, passionate connection that combines emotional intimacy, romantic desire, and a longing to share your life with that person. It often involves intense feelings of affection, admiration, and attachment, alongside a sense of excitement and joy in their presence.”
I read it twice, then lie back again and think about it. A deep, passionate connection. Do we have that? I don’t know. We don’t really have emotional intimacy, because despite me blabbing to him today, we haven’t really opened up to one another about our hopes and dreams or emotions. I’m not even sure we have ‘romantic desire’. I think I do. Does he? My heart races a little when I think about him. I definitely feel affection for him, and admiration. I feel excited when I see him, and I’m happy when he’s around. Does that mean I’m in love with him?
How about ‘a longing to share your life with that person’? This thing between us is so new, I haven’t thought about what it could mean for the future. Would I be interested in a relationship with him? In dating him, getting to know him better, having emotional as well as physical intimacy? Being his girlfriend, telling everyone we were dating? Holding his hand while we were out and about, and sharing a bed with him when we returned home? Being his confidante, sharing his dreams?
Maybe marrying him… and having his children…
I pull the cushion down and hug it. OMG. Yes, I’d be interested. BIG time. Oh my. I think I’m in love with him.
I inhale as my heart swells… and then exhale as the cold, harsh light of reality banishes the misty dream. It doesn’t matter. He’s made it clear that despite our lapse last night, it’s never going to happen.
Tears sting my eyes. God, I’ve been so foolish. I’ve fallen for and now slept with the one guy who’s out of my reach. My chest heaves as I fight against crying again. I only have myself to blame. It’s not as if he seduced me with the promise of a relationship. Last night, I knew nothing would come of it, and I did it anyway. It doesn’t matter that I’d had a few drinks, or that he kissed me first. It was my own fault.
I sit up again, wipe my eyes, and lift my chin. My father… Ian… and now Fraser… I’m not going to wallow in self-pity over a man anymore. These men only have control over me if I give it to them. And I’m not going to.
I have a few hours now before it’ll be time to leave for the ball. I’m in a beautiful room and it’s a gorgeous day, so I’m going to make the most of it.
I lie on the bed for a while and read, and then at one o’clock, still relatively full from breakfast, I order a grilled lemon-herb chicken salad, which turns out to be tender grilled chicken breast served on a bed of mixed greens, with cherry tomatoes, cucumber ribbons, and avocado slices, and drizzled with a light lemon vinaigrette. I’m tempted to have a glass of wine with it, then think about what happened last night and decide it might be better to keep my wits about me, so instead I order a citrus breeze mocktail with orange, grapefruit, and cranberry juice topped with honey syrup and soda water, which is delicious. I take it all out onto the balcony and eat it looking over the Pacific, while I continue to read my book.
Afterward, I leave the empty plate on the tray outside my room, then fill the spa bath and turn on the jets. I add a spoonful of the supplied bath crystals, which fills the air with the scent of jasmine, then sink into the bubbles and soak for thirty minutes while I listen to an audiobook about Australian archaeology. It’s a little dry, so I have to concentrate extra hard, which is a good thing, as it stops me fantasizing about Fraser, and how amazing last night was. How it felt when he kissed down my body, then slid his tongue inside me… how he brought me to a climax so skillfully, again and again…
Ooh no! I slip beneath the bubbles guiltily. I mustn’t dwell on it. But it’s impossible not to.
In an attempt to force my mind to move on, I think about the letter I left at home, and the upcoming conversation I must have with my mother. Part of me wishes I could confide in Fraser and talk it over with him, but that’s never going to happen. Despite his assurance that he’s no longer religious, his father is a deacon, and he’s been programmed since he was a child with a strict moral code. Once he knows the truth about me, he’s never going to be able to get the toothpaste back in the tube. It doesn’t matter that none of the fault is mine. At the moment, Fraser sees me as if I’m made from bright, shining copper, but my father’s acts are like seawater that’s coated me in the bluish-green crust of verdigris, tarnishing me until it’s impossible to see the original color beneath.
Somewhat gloomily, I get out of the bath, dry myself, and blow dry my hair. Then I go into the other room, take out the item hanging in the wardrobe, and hook it on the front of the door. I unzip the plastic cover and remove it, then step back and study it.
I nibble my thumbnail. I have no idea whether the dress is suitable for the occasion. The woman in the shop assured me it was perfect for a formal black-tie event in the summer. It’s floor length, chiffon, and champagne colored. It has a sweetheart neckline with two straps that cross over the open back that glimmer with beads and sequins. The skirt falls in soft folds from the waist down. It’s absolutely beautiful, and thank God it was on sale so it was within the modest budget that Whina gave me. I then treated myself to a pair of strappy silver sandals and a small clutch to match.
Oh well. Not long now to see whether I’ll be vastly over- or underdressed.
I feel a swell of rebellion. I love the dress, and it makes me feel like a million dollars. I don’t give a damn what anyone else thinks of it.
It’d be nice if Fraser liked it, though.
Sighing, I go back into the bathroom and start playing with my hair.
*
By 2:45, I’m ready and waiting when Fraser knocks on the door.
Nervously, I collect my clutch and cross the room, hoping he doesn’t either laugh or wince when he sees me. I open the door, and the two of us stare at each other across the threshold.
I’d completely forgotten that he’d be wearing a tux.
He looks like James Bond. His black jacket has black satin notch lapels, and it fits him like a dream. His shirt is white and pleated, and he’s wearing a black bow tie. He’s also wearing a waistcoat. My gaze slides down his black trousers to black patent leather shoes polished to within an inch of their life.
“Oh my God,” he says. “Hallie. Look at you.” He holds out a hand, his jacket sleeve drawing back to reveal a cufflink on his shirt in the shape of a trowel.
I lift a hand self-consciously to touch my hair as I see him staring at it. I spent a long time on it, pinning it in a chic updo, then tonging tendrils so they hang in cute curls around my head. I also took my time over my makeup. I’ve used black kohl to draw winged eyeliner, and applied a sparkly champagne-colored eyeshadow with a darker copper at the outer edges. I’ve used false eyelashes on the top lid that are interspersed with tiny rhinestones that give my eyes added sparkle. A shimmer lipstick that’s apparently ‘beige with a champagne frost’ completes the look.
Not too shabby, I thought when I had a final look in the mirror.
I slide my hand into his. “Do I look okay?”
“Okay? You look like a Greek goddess.” His voice is filled with awe.
“It’s not too much?”
“It’s perfect.” He smiles then, and it lights up his whole face. “You’re so incredibly beautiful.”
I flush, covering it by occupying myself with going out and making sure the door is locked. “Nobody’s ever called me beautiful before,” I admit as we walk along the pathway.
Fraser stops for a second, and his eyes blaze. “Don’t tell me that,” he says. “I’m already considering beating the guy to a pulp.”
I giggle. “Sorry,” I say when he cocks his head at me, “I can’t imagine you in a fight, that’s all. Maybe a war with words. You have a fascination with them.”
“That’s true. I was wondering where the word tuxedo comes from. I can’t imagine the etymology of it.”
“The suit became popular in the late nineteenth century,” I say as we continue walking, “at the Tuxedo Park resort in New York.”
His eyebrows rise. “I didn’t know that.”
“Young rebels began wearing tailcoats without the tails and the fashion caught on. The word tuxedo is Native American, Algonquian I think. Some people think it’s from ‘tucseto’, which means ‘place of the bear’.”
He stops walking again. I stop too, turning to face him in surprise.
We study each other for a moment. Behind his glasses, his eyelids have lowered to half mast, and his lips have curved up slightly. His gaze settles on my mouth.
“If you weren’t wearing lipstick, I’d have k-kissed you right now,” he says.
My heart pings around inside me like a ball bearing in a pinball machine. “I’m very happy to wipe it off.”
He gives a short laugh, but doesn’t move. My God, he’s handsome. I just adore his blend of suave gentleman and bookish scholar.
“I like your cufflinks.” My voice is little more than a squeak. The look in his eyes is unraveling me.
“Thank you,” he murmurs, still looking at my mouth. I think he’s fighting with himself not to kiss me. My lips part automatically as I inhale, and his brows draw together.
“Stop it,” he says.
“I’m only breathing.”
“Well, don’t.”
I press my lips together, trying not to laugh.
He takes a big breath, then huffs it out before taking my hand and leading me forward. “The Uber’s here,” he says. “Come on, we’ve got a ball to go to.”
Excited, I walk as fast as my heels will allow as he strides out, and discover the Prius waiting in front of the hotel at the curbside. Fraser opens the back door for me, and I slide in carefully, scooping up the folds of my long skirt, and making myself comfortable. He closes the door and gets in the other side, and the driver heads into the traffic.
Fraser opens his hand on the seat between us, palm up. I study it for a moment. He wants to touch me; he can’t help himself. It doesn’t mean anything. It’s not an invitation to go to bed with him again. Or to date him. And it’s certainly not a proposal. But for some reason it seems meaningful.
I shouldn’t encourage him. I should push his hand away and do my best to keep some sort of distance between us. I should be the bigger person here.
Who am I kidding? I couldn’t resist him even if my life depended on it.
I slide my hand into his, and his fingers close around mine, and we stay like that for the rest of the journey. We talk about normal things—about the archaeology book I’m reading, a podcast on the Egyptian Pyramids he’s been listening to, about whether Adam will have been able to talk Isabel into letting us see the letters. But even though I seem calm and in control, all the while, my heart is racing, and it’s hard to think about anything else except the way his thumb is brushing my fingers, and the heat from his skin on mine.
“So…” I say, desperately trying to drag my mind away from the thought of him leaning across and kissing me, “the Williams house is an old colonial one, right?”
“Mm. It was originally a mission station, established by the Church Missionary Society back in 1838. The current house was built in 1847, Georgian style. It has a library and extensive gardens, a native tree walk, and a chapel. Various groups have attempted to persuade the family to sell it so it can be opened up to visitors, but it’s still a private property, although I believe they do hire it out for weddings.”
“Oh what a lovely place to get married,” I say with enthusiasm. “I can’t think of any place nicer than an historic site, other than our museum.”
He gives a small smile, then looks out of the window thoughtfully. I’m not sure what I said, but his hand remains curled around mine, so I don’t think I’ve upset him.
The Uber snakes through the suburbs, which look affluent, the houses and gardens well-tended, playgrounds filled with children, as it’s not yet time for them to go back to school after their summer holidays. Eventually the car turns off and snakes along a wide drive with high elms standing protectively on either side. It turns a corner, and the drive opens up in front of a large house.
As Fraser said, it’s Georgian in style, single story, the front door flanked by symmetrical high windows with green shutters. Two dormer windows in the roof bring light into the roof space. In front of the drive is a large lawn circled by a variety of trees and colorful flower beds. It’s beautiful, and I can totally see why someone would want to get married here. Imagine having photographs taken beneath that oak tree with the house as a backdrop.
Our Uber follows the line of cars dropping off guests, and pulls up right out the front of the house. Fraser comes around to offer me his hand, and I let him help me out. We thank the driver, and he pulls away.
Fraser tucks my hand into the crook of his elbow, and together we approach the front door, where a man in a silver waistcoat is waiting with a smile to welcome us. Fraser produces his phone with the invitation on it bearing our names. The guy ticks us off a list, and then we follow the line of guests into the house.
The entrance hall is narrow and cool. The walls are white, and the floorboards are dark kauri wood that creak underfoot. An old-fashioned hat stand guards the front door like a butler, while a vase of hydrangeas sits on a side table, the aroma of their pale-blue and pink blooms mingling with the smell of beeswax polish.
Walking slowly, we pass a door into a drawing room. Soft light filters through lace curtains, falling across a well-loved Persian rug and elegant armchairs arranged around a fireplace. The mantle is decorated with silver candlesticks, while a grandfather clock ticks steadily in the corner.
Next is a dining room, which feels formal and a touch austere, high-backed chairs surrounding a long, polished table like soldiers lined up for inspection. A collection of crystal decanters and silver serving trays on a sideboard gleam in the artificial light.
On the wall hangs a large oil painting of a young Māori woman, standing in a garden, with what is unmistakably this house behind her. Her dress, with its tight bodice and full skirt, suggests it was painted in the late nineteenth century, but her hair is long and loose, and she has a moko kauae —a Māori tattoo on her chin. Her lips are slightly curved up, Mona Lisa style, as if she’s exchanging a secret smile with the painter. She’s quite beautiful.
We both stare at it. “Oh my God,” I whisper. “Is that Pania?”
Fraser leads me into the room. I follow him, and we circle the dining table and look up at the painting.
“I don’t know Richard’s work well enough,” I say. “Do you think he painted it?”
“I’ve only seen his landscapes,” Fraser replies. “But the lighting, and the brushwork… yes, I think it’s his.”
“She’s very young, and very beautiful.”
We look at it for a few more seconds, then turn to leave. It’s only then that we see a display cabinet on the inner wall. Two slanted glass panels reveal its precious contents: a bundle of letters, tied together with a red ribbon.
Excitement flows through me as we walk over and peer at the glass. “That’s them?”
He points to the label at the bottom that clarifies that yes, these are the love letters written by Richard Williams and Pania Te Hira.
I rest my hand on the wooden frame, my fingers itching to touch them. I try to open the panels, but they’re locked, of course. They’re not going to let just anyone take them out and handle them.
“They shouldn’t be on display like this, should they?” Fraser says.
“No… but there has to be a balance between conservation and display. We want to preserve our heritage for future generations, but equally we don’t want to lock everything away. Think about Monet’s Water Lilies, or Michelangelo’s La Pietà. It would be easy to remove them from display because they’re so precious, but everyone should be able to appreciate their beauty, don’t you think?” He told me that in the speech that Sebastian Williams witnessed, he argued that history should be available to everyone, rather than kept in private collections.
His lips twist. “Yes, I agree.”
“To be fair, they’re not in direct sunlight. It’s fairly dark here.” My fingers linger on the glass reluctantly, and then I continue walking with him out of the room and along the passageway. “It’s exciting to see them, though.”
He gives me a smile that suggests he likes my enthusiasm. “What do you think of the house?”
“It’s gorgeous.” I inhale, smelling baked bread and fresh herbs that suggest the kitchen is somewhere nearby.
But now we’re at the end of the house, and we walk out onto a wide veranda that overlooks the expansive back lawn. Wow. It’s been transformed into a glittering party venue. A white marquee stretches across most of the lawn. Beneath it sit tables dressed in crisp white linen. Strings of fairy lights are looped between the trees. Men in suits and women in beautiful gowns are drinking champagne from tall glasses, and the sound of laughter and soft music drifts through the air. The air smells of the sweet aroma of freshly cut grass and the scent of the rose bushes surrounding the veranda.
Two people—a man and a woman—are standing at the top of the steps leading down onto the lawn. “Adam and Isabel,” Fraser murmurs as we near them—Sebastian’s son and daughter, and my pulse picks up speed as we approach them. They’re being introduced to the guests as they arrive, and we wait behind another couple as we wait to be announced.
Adam is in his fifties, medium height, with silver hair that’s thinning on top. He looks tired and a little uncomfortable in his tux, and I get the feeling he’d rather be anywhere else but here right now.
Isabel, on the other hand, looks as if she was born for this life—as tall as her brother, slender, and elegant, her silver hair cut in a bob so sharp she could cut herself on it. She’s beautiful in a cold, haughty kind of way, and even though we don’t have an English-style class system in New Zealand, her posture and manner illustrate that she considers herself above most people at this party.
It doesn’t surprise me at all that even though Adam wants to honor his father’s offer of a donation and the letters, Isabel is contesting it, and winning. We’re not going to be able to convince her, I think suddenly. There’s no way this woman is going to do anything she doesn’t want to do.
But it’s too late to back out; Fraser is showing our invitation to the guy standing next to them, who’s also in a silver waistcoat, and he announces, “Mr. Fraser Bell and Ms. Hallie Woodford, from the National Museum of New Zealand in Wellington.”
Oh well. Here goes nothing.