Chapter Fourteen
Fraser
“Adam,” I say to Sebastian’s son, shaking his hand, “I’m very sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you.” Adam smiles. “I’m glad you could make it. I know my father was fond of you.” He glances at his sister, who stiffens. Her light-blue eyes are like ice.
“Isabel,” I say as warmly as I can, moving on to her, “how great to meet you at last.”
It’s a common Kiwi practice to use first names, but Isabel bristles. She shakes my hand stiffly, not smiling. “I didn’t know you’d been invited,” she says.
“I invited them,” Adam states. He gives Hallie a warm smile and shakes her hand. “Welcome, Hallie.”
“Thank you so much,” she says. “You have such a beautiful home.”
“Hallie is a conservationist,” Adam tells his sister. “I suggested she accompany Fraser because I wanted an expert to take a look at the letters and give us some advice on their care.”
Isabel lowers her hand, her eyes widening. “You should have discussed that with me.” She glares at me. “I’m afraid you’ve had a wasted journey. The letters aren’t for public consumption.”
“Izzy,” Adam scolds, “don’t be so rude.”
“They belong to the family,” she says. “They’re not to be pawed over by all and sundry.”
To my surprise, her eyes shine with unshed tears. Ohhh… maybe I’ve read her wrongly. I assumed her resistance was monetary—that she resented the donation her father wanted to make, and that maybe she was hoping to sell the letters. I never considered she might have an emotional connection to them.
“I completely understand,” Hallie says. “Letters are such personal things, aren’t they? As if the person who wrote them is standing right in front of you, talking to you. I’ve read them in Rudolph Hemingway’s book and they’re so passionate and full of life. Richard loved Pania very much.”
“Yes, he did,” Isabel says, looking a little mollified.
“And it was amazing to see the painting in the dining room,” I add, silently thanking Hallie for her astuteness. “I hadn’t realized Richard painted portraits.”
“He didn’t, as a rule,” Isabel says. “Pania was the only person he ever painted.”
“How many paintings exist of her?” I ask.
“Just the one,” she says. “Well, I hope you enjoy the ball. You must excuse us. I’m afraid we have other guests to greet.”
“Of course. Perhaps we can catch up later and discuss this a little further?”
“Perhaps,” she says, although she obviously has no intention of doing so.
Hallie slides her hand onto my elbow, and we walk to the end of the veranda and down the steps onto the lawn.
A waiter stands there, holding a tray of champagne flutes, and we both take one before wandering along the path that leads past the flower beds. A string quartet is playing, the music drifting across the grass along with the light sound of conversation and the smell of the roses.
“I love the music,” Hallie says, “I wonder what it is.”
“It’s Beethoven’s Romance Number Two in F Major.”
She looks at me and laughs. “Why am I not surprised that you know?”
“I like classical music.”
“Again, why am I not surprised? You’re such a gentleman.”
I smile. “That’s possibly the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.”
She chuckles. Then she leans closer conspiratorially and murmurs, “So… Isabel’s motivation for keeping the letters doesn’t appear to be greed?”
“Yes, I’m glad you picked up on that. She actually seemed upset at the thought of losing them.”
“I suppose if her family has a long history, things like the paintings and letters become much more personal to you. It would be like, when I’m older, finding letters my mum wrote after she died—the last thing I would want would be to have strangers pawing through them, as Isabel put it.”
I nod slowly. “I forget sometimes that artifacts have such personal connections.”
Hallie glances at me. I look at her and see a touch of color in her cheeks, and she gives me a shy smile. I’m about to ask why when I realize I’ve dropped my arm, and I’m now holding her hand. I did it automatically, without thinking.
“Sorry,” I say. I give her hand a light squeeze and release it.
She just smiles and looks at the hydrangea bushes growing by the side of the path.
“Fraser!”
I turn as someone calls my name and smile as I realize it’s Wiremu from the Bay of Plenty Archaeology Group. “Kia ora,” I say.
I give him a hongi, pressing my nose solemnly to his, and then we shake hands. Some Māori men do give women a hongi, but Wiremu chooses to give Hallie a kiss on the cheek.
“I didn’t know you were coming to the ball,” I say.
“I knew Sebastian well,” he says. “He was a member of the group.”
“I didn’t realize that!”
“Yes, he had a lifelong passion for local history and archaeology. Look, there are a few people here who are interested in meeting you, if you’re up for it.”
“Of course.”
Hallie and I follow him across the lawn, and we spend the next half an hour being introduced to various people. Some are members of the group who we didn’t get a chance to talk to last night. Others are prominent people in the community who obviously have an interest in the local culture and history—a couple of politician friends of Sebastian’s, some members of the Rotary Club, the organizer of a local history group, and the rangatira or leaders of the Tauranga Moana—which means the seas of Tauranga—a group of different iwi or tribes: Waitaha-a-Hei, Ngāti Ranginui, Ngāi Te Rangi, and Ngāti Pūkenga.
Hallie stays by my side as we circulate, and it occurs to me what a cool companion she is in this situation. She’s beautiful, elegant, and sophisticated, respectful to everyone, and also a great conversationalist, making everyone feel at ease, asking appropriate questions, and impressing me and everyone else with her knowledge as she joins in any historical or cultural discussions.
The two of us work well together, bouncing off each other, teasing each other a little to make people laugh. By the time the quartet stops playing and a gong sounds from the veranda for everyone to take their seats, I’m thoroughly enjoying myself.
But of course this is, first and foremost, a memorial service, and the mood becomes a little more somber as people move to the tables and begin seating themselves.
Wiremu suggests we sit with him, and so we join him at his table, where he’s sitting with his wife, his daughter and her girlfriend, both of whom are history graduates, and the president of the Rotary Club in the area and his partner.
A microphone on a stand has been set up on the veranda, and Isabel steps up to it and greets everyone, first in faultless Māori.
“ Tēnā koutou, tēnā koutou, tēnā koutou katoa. Nau mai, haere mai ki tēnei hui motuhake e whakanui ana i tō mātou pāpā aroha, a Sebastian Williams. Ko tōna aroha, ko tōna koha, me tōna whakapono ki a tātou katoa, kua rongo mātou i āna mahi. Nō reira, e te whānau, e te hunga manuhiri, me whakanuia ia i tēnei pō. Tēnā koutou, tēnā koutou, tēnā koutou katoa .”
I can understand it as I speak Te Reo Māori, but she repeats it all in English for those who don’t. “Greetings, greetings, greetings to you all. Welcome to this special gathering to honor our beloved father, Sebastian Williams. His love, his generosity, and his belief in us all have left a lasting impact. So, family and guests, let us celebrate him this evening. Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
Everyone claps politely, and she gives a brief smile, then retires to sit on a chair behind her, as Adam rises and takes the stand.
“I’d like to begin with a brief summary of my father’s life and accomplishments,” he says.
He talks for about fifteen minutes, telling us about Sebastian’s political achievements, his passion for New Zealand history and archaeology, and a little about his personal life. He interjects enough jokes to stop the mood from becoming too mournful, while being respectful enough to his father’s memory, and he’s obviously comfortable with speaking in public and interesting to listen to, but I find my attention drawn to Isabel. Even though it feels as if I’m intruding, I can’t help but watch her as she listens to her brother’s speech. She’s trying hard to remain impassive, but her emotions play across her face like the clouds across the summer sky. When Adam finally talks about Sebastian’s personal life, and how much he loved his children and grandchildren, Isabel breaks a little and fights against tears, lifting a hand to cover her trembling bottom lip. A guy who is presumably her husband leans across and offers her his pocket square, and she takes it and dabs beneath her eyes.
I feel a stab of guilt. She clearly loved her father, and it suggests once again that her motivation for wanting to keep the letters is personal rather than financial. I still don’t agree with her decision, as the letters are ultimately of historical importance and deserve to be in a museum where they can be treated properly and accessible for everyone, but I do now understand her reluctance.
I glance at Hallie, who’s watching Adam as he talks with open affection about his father. Is she thinking about her dad? Earlier today, after I returned to my room following our conversation at the beach, I tried to find any mention of Hallie’s father and his crime on Google, but was unsuccessful. That surprised me, as I would have thought that if he’d murdered someone it would have been mentioned in some news outlet, but even a search of Dunedin newspapers hadn’t revealed anything.
It makes me think about my own father, a man of God, whose only fault—if you can call it that—is being a tad prideful and superior where his own faith is concerned. He is a good man, though, who is struggling to understand and adapt to the challenges life has thrown at him, including his sister’s suicide, his daughter’s assault, his wife’s illness, and the reappearance of Linc, the young man he thought of as a son who—as he saw it—betrayed him by kissing his precious daughter. Through it all, his faith has remained strong.
Having a father like that has been difficult, as he has always set his expectations extremely high, and it’s been a struggle to live up to them. Joel gave up years ago and follows his own path, but I’ve always attempted to be the man my father hoped I’d be. Now, though, I wonder how different my own life would have been if he’d been not a preacher with the intention of dedicating his life to helping young people, but instead a man who’d taken another’s life. Hallie said, “He killed someone,” but that doesn’t necessarily mean he murdered someone; it could have been manslaughter. Maybe he was a drunk driver or something. How would that affect his children as they grew up? I’ve always tried to model myself on my father—to be strong, capable, honorable, and forgiving. I can’t imagine how hard it would have been if he hadn’t been the man he is.
It must have had a lasting impact on her, and perhaps goes some way to explaining why she stayed with Ian so long. Loneliness might have played a part, as would just the general lack of a father figure. It doesn’t look as if she’s ever known the true love of a dad for his baby girl, or the genuine adoration of a man for the woman of his dreams.
She glances at me then, sees me looking at her, and gives me a bashful smile. I hold her gaze, thinking about last night, and how I gradually disassembled her shyness and fear piece by piece, until all that was left was the passionate, abandoned girl I knew existed underneath. When she cried out my name, I felt exultant at being able to set her free, just as if she’d been kept in a gilded cage, and I’d been the one to unlock the door.
And, all of a sudden, I want her again.
She looks away, toward Adam, as he begins to talk about the children’s charity that the profits from the ball will go toward, but my gaze seems glued to her. The fine arch of her eyebrows. The slight tilt up at the end of her nose. The gentle flush of her cheeks. The tiny mole on her cheekbone. Her hair is swept up and pinned, revealing the tempting curve of her neck and the soft, sensitive skin behind her ear. I love the way she’s curled the tendrils that hang down so they look like whorls of chocolate sauce. The angle of her cheekbones and jawbones. The enticing curve of her Cupid’s bow.
There’s a round of applause, and I tear my gaze away from her and join in as Adam steps down from the microphone. Isabel takes his place and announces that the food stations are open and we should help ourselves. After we’ve eaten, she says, there will be music and dancing. We’re welcome to investigate the native tree walks and the path through the rose garden, and to explore the house, although the bedrooms are private.
Hallie smiles at me and says, “What are you in the mood for?”
You, I think. But she’s referring to the food, so we rise and wander over to the laden tables.
“I don’t know how I can be hungry after that breakfast this morning,” Hallie complains, “and I had a salad for lunch, but I’m still ravenous.”
“Me too.” We begin to wander along the tables to see what’s on offer.
There’s a seafood station with fresh oysters, which you can have served with lemon wedges, mignonette sauce, or Tabasco, as well as prawns, mussels, smoked salmon, and crab claws, all displayed on crushed ice and decorated with seashells and citrus slices.
A carving station offers herb-crusted beef fillet, roast lamb with mint sauce, and glazed ham with pineapple relish, served with freshly baked rolls and a variety of condiments.
The charcuterie and cheese station looks mouthwatering with its range of cured meats, artisan cheeses, crackers and fresh baguette slices, dried fruits and nuts, all served with honeycomb, olives, and fig jam.
There’s also a salad and greens station, a gourmet pasta station, and a sushi and sashimi station, and everything offers seafood, vegetarian, and vegan options.
Hallie stops in front of the dessert station, stares at the lemon curd, chocolate ganache, and berry tarts, the mountain of profiteroles oozing with cream and chocolate sauce, and the small glasses of panna cotta with gleaming cherry compote, and says, “I suppose it wouldn’t be acceptable to start here.”
I chuckle, take her hand, and draw her away. “Correct. Come on. I thought the carving station looked good.”
“That’s because you’re a man. I might have some pasta and salad, then I can eat dessert without feeling guilty.”
“You should eat whatever you want without feeling guilty,” I scold. “You should never punish yourself for enjoying food.”
She doesn’t say anything, and I remember then she told me that during their last argument, Ian said one reason he was breaking up with her was because she’d put on weight. Yet again, I feel a flare of resentment and anger at the thought of what that guy has done to her self-confidence. I love her beautiful curves. They make me want to sketch them. And kiss them. But that’s a whole other story.
I turn her to face me. Her eyes gleam, and I know she’s thinking about that idiot and how much he hurt her.
“Come with me.” I take her hand again and lead her across the lawn.
“Where are we going?”
I don’t reply, mounting the steps onto the veranda, and then leading her into the house.
“Fraser… everyone’s sitting down to eat… We can check out the letters later.”
I hesitate, wondering whether the members of staff who guided guests in are still going to be in place, but although I can see one guy outside to welcome any late arrivals, the others have moved into the garden.
There’s a bathroom just off the hallway, but it’s too obvious, too public. I lead the way into the dining room, glancing up at Pania’s portrait as we pass. She looks amused, and I remember that she and Richard did something similar at a ball in their day.
The other door from the dining room leads into a hallway with several doors on either side. A rope extends from one door handle to another, with a sign that declares the bedrooms are off limits.
Ignoring it, I remove the rope, then replace it once we’ve passed through. Opening the door to the right, I peer in.
“Fraser!” Hallie sounds horrified.
I lead her in and close the door behind us. We’re in a guest bedroom, I think—beautiful and clean with pristine white bedding, lace curtains, and light-blue wallpaper with dark-blue flowers. We cross the plush carpet to the door on the other side, and I open it and lead her into the ensuite bathroom.
I close the door behind her. Then I turn her and push her up against the wall.
“Fraser!” Her face flames.
Taking her face in my hands, I crush my lips to hers.
“Mmph!” She mumbles something, pressing her hands against my chest. Then, almost immediately, she opens her mouth to me, and her fingers clutch at my lapels, then she lifts her arms around my neck as I move up against her, pinning her to the wall.
“Hallie,” I murmur against her lips with a groan. “I’m sorry… I can’t help it… I want you…”
“Oh God…”
“All I’ve been able to think about is kissing you, and feeling your body beneath mine.” I kiss her face—her cheeks, her brows, her nose, and back to her mouth, and I plunge my tongue inside. I feel feverish and out of control. If she’d pushed me away; if she’d slapped me or continued to scold me, I would probably have come to my senses. But she returns my kiss passionately, sliding her hand into my hair, arching her back against me to push her breasts into my hands, and I’m a weak, weak man, and there’s no hope for me at all.
As I kiss her, I slide my hand into her bodice and cup her breast, then tease the nipple, and her resulting moan turns me to lava inside.
I tug the straps off her shoulders and peel the bodice down. She’s not wearing a bra, and the sight of her creamy skin with the swollen light-brown nipples makes me hard immediately. I lift a breast in my palm and bend my head to suck the nipple to a bead, and she cries out loud, tipping her head back on the wall.
“I want to taste you,” I tell her, my voice hoarse, and I lower onto my knees before her.
“What! Here?” She inhales with shock as I gather the hem of her dress in my hands and push it up her legs.
“Don’t stop me, Hallie. You’ve bewitched me. You’re like Helen of Troy. I’d launch a thousand ships and sail them across the seas to have you.”
“Oh God, Fraser…”
I kiss her calves and up her silky thighs, and there’s so much material in the skirt of her dress that I pull it over my head and disappear underneath. In the cave it’s semi-dark, and I can smell her body lotion, and as I brush my lips up her thighs I can smell the beautiful aroma that’s all her, sweet and warm and musky. I lift her right leg and hook it over my shoulder, then I trace the tip of my tongue across her lower belly, and it quivers. I kiss over her hip to her underwear, which is just a skimpy piece of lace. I pull it to one side and kiss the silky skin of her mound. Ahhh… man… she’s so soft… I nuzzle her, hearing her sigh, and smile.
I kiss down between her legs and discover that she’s already on the way to being aroused, her flesh swollen and slightly moist, and I exhale a warm breath across her before sliding my tongue deep into the heart of her.
“Ah, Fraser…” She shudders and twitches.
“Mmm…” I let her know how much I’m enjoying this, bringing up a hand to join in the fun. Oh yeah, she’s wet underneath, and my fingers slide easily through her tender skin. I slip two inside her, then tease her clit with my thumb before replacing it with my tongue.
“Oh God, oh God, oh God oh God oh God,” Hallie says, shivering, and blood thunders through my veins as I think about her coming on my tongue, and I promise myself I’m never going to wash again—I want to smell her and taste her on my fingers until my dying day.
I suck her clit while I slide my fingers in and out of her, and tease her folds with my thumb, and it’s not long before her breaths are coming in deep, ragged gasps. There’s a bang as she knocks something over on the sink, and she curses, but I don’t stop, turned on by the thought of her losing control. I lick and suck and stroke, listening to her exclamations with joy, until finally she holds her breath, and then her orgasm claims her, and she cries out loud, clenching around my fingers repeatedly, soaking my hand with her moisture.
I wait until she’s finished, then kiss her gently and withdraw my fingers. I move out from under her skirts and get to my feet, take her face in my hands, and crush my lips to hers.
I’m just about to lift her skirts again, lower my zip, and thrust into her when there’s a loud knock at the door.
Oh no.