Mr. Hale’s adult children from his first marriage have thus far taken no legal role in the proceedings nor made public comment.
Beneath the article are the usual comments by the dregs of society, complete with one person convinced the situation is Obama’s fault. This is of less interest to me than the photos tucked in beside the text. The first one shows Carter and Lorena Hale in happier days, the two of them standing together at some museum gala—him in a tux, her in a richly embroidered evening jacket, his arm around her shoulders and a glass of champagne in her hand.
The second one includes Jonah.
This shot isn’t posed. Jonah is walking out of the courthouse, resolutely not looking at the phalanx of reporters clustered around the steps. Next to him are two other people—a woman with long dark hair that I instantly recognize as his sister, and a man with fair hair and broad shoulders who looks nothing like Jonah, yet seems to be part of the family. To judge by the coats and scarves they all wear, this picture must have been taken not long after “the alleged February incident.”
Kip says, “You can’t tell me that’s not intriguing.”
“You can’t tell me it’s any of our business,” I say. Yet I’m already turning this sordid situation over in my head, spinning the facets as if Jonah’s psyche is a Rubik’s Cube I could solve.
I’ve wondered what could have led to Jonah’s fantasy. He insists he would never, ever rape a woman for real, and I believe him. He’s been fiercely protective of me, and of all women. Yet still, he’s fixated on the idea of rape, forcing himself on a woman despite all her protests. I’ve watched his eyes darken as he tore off my clothes. I’ve seen him come inside me while he held me down.
Maybe . . . maybe he grew up with a violent mother. My mom dropped the ball, and I know it, but she never hit me. I never thought she would, even for a second. How much worse would it have been if she’d waved a gun around and actually threatened to kill me? I can hardly imagine the terror, or the sorrow. After something like that, you’d feel as if there were no safe place in the world.
So maybe, deep inside, Jonah has this anger at women. But instead of turning out to be a misogynistic shithead, he sublimated his rage into a fucked-up sexual fantasy. Made up for his powerlessness as a boy by imagining having total control over the object of his desire.
“You’re interested,” Kip said. “Knew you would be. Why don’t I get us another round?” He’s on his feet walking toward the bar before I can even tell him no.
As long as I’m already neck-deep in this, I might as well dive in. So I leaf through the other stories in Kip’s folder. However, relatively few of them are about Jonah’s immediate family, and those that are mostly date from before the legal battle about Mrs. Hale’s sanity, or control of the company, whichever is really in dispute. Instead I see glossy, society-magazine stuff about the Hales’ charitable giving, an Architectural Digest story about the renovation of Redgrave House, that kind of thing. One article mentions Jonah as a “track star,” which I wouldn’t have guessed. Runners always seem so skinny. Jonah’s body would better suit a swimmer or a diver—lean but powerful.
The older articles focus on Redgrave House and what appear to be a centuries’ worth of screwed-up people who have lived inside it. Suicide pacts, sex scandals, an alleged haunting: You name it, it happened there. This is probably the most famous house in the world that no one would ever want to live in.
Enough, I decide. This comes too close to prying for me to be comfortable with it. The CNN stuff, okay, whatever—but the rest of this is Google overkill gone bad. Jonah has respected my privacy, and I’m ashamed not to have respected his.
Now I’d like to leave, never mind the second round, but Kip is by now deep in flirtation with the bartender. As I learn when my Corona is presented to me, this sexy bartender turns out to be named Ryan, and he’s the most interesting person Kip has met in forever so I have to stay to give Kip an excuse to hang around. I give Kip a look, but what the hell. I sigh, and drink my beer—slowly. Their mating dance continues for another half hour before Kip finally manages to get the guy’s digits.
The way he carries on as we walk out onto the street, you’d think Kip had won the Olympic decathlon. “Come on, Ryan’s hot. Scorching. Radioactive. And now he’s in my phone. Normally it would take any amount of sexy groveling on Grindr to get that far.”
“Sure. Ryan’s gorgeous.” Not my type, really—short, muscled, like lots of bodybuilders—but that hardly matters, since I’m not Ryan’s type either.
Kip pouts. “Why aren’t you celebrating my moment of glory?”
And there’s the opening I was looking for. “Because I try not to meddle in my friends’ love lives. Unlike some people.”
“I wasn’t meddling. Simply making sure you were informed.”
“How did you even know about—that I’d gone out with Jonah Marks? Whatever your barista source saw, it wasn’t even about that, so . . .”
“I have other connections, as you should know.” Kip’s omniscience is one of the great campus mysteries. “In this case, one of the earth science grad students mentioned that she’d seen the two of you standing rather close at Carmen’s last wingding.”
Somebody witnessed my kiss with Jonah after all. “Kip—”
“No denials, Vivienne, please. They’re so tiresome. Just tell me why you’re trying to defrost that particular block of ice.”
Ice? Maybe on the surface. Underneath, Jonah is pure fire. Not that I’m ever going to explain to Kip. “It’s not serious, okay? Can you leave it at that? With Shay and I being so close, and Jonah sort of being one of her bosses—we’d rather not advertise it. Could be awkward, you know?”
He doesn’t entirely believe me, I can tell, but he doesn’t ask any more questions. “Fine, fine. This fling of yours with Jonah Marks will be but one of the many secrets I keep. At least you’ve finally discovered the joys of casual sex.”
I shrug noncommittally. Jonah and I aren’t in a relationship—but I wouldn’t call our arrangement casual. “Why did you go digging up all this stuff anyway? Just for the sake of gossip?” Kip’s all-encompassing curiosity has led him to snoop where he shouldn’t, but never before did I feel like he was being judgmental about someone. Yet he seems wary of my connection to Jonah.
“Because,” Kip says, “Jonah Marks is a cold man. And a hard man. He doesn’t make friends easily, if at all. Not exactly the right type for you.”
“Since when do you know what my ‘type’ is or isn’t?” I ask.
“All I know is that you need someone who can be gentle with you.” He sighs. “Because you have serious problems with conflict.”
“No, I don’t—”
“Liar!” Kip looks triumphant. “You can’t bear it whenever people argue in department meetings; it’s like you want to slither under the table. You’re no pushover, but when you have to stand up for yourself? You always do it via e-mail if you can. Rarely on the phone, and never in person. When Professor Prasanna starts shouting about whatever’s ticked her off recently, you flinch. You physically flinch as if you thought a five-foot-tall woman in her sixties was going to hurt you.”
. . . I hadn’t realized I did all that, but it’s true. Kip sees even more than I thought he did.
He continues speaking, his tone gentler. “Geordie Hilton might be a lush, but at least he was always kind. You’re someone who needs kindness, I think. And I don’t know that Jonah Marks is the man to give it to you.”
What I need from Jonah has nothing to do with kindness. The only cruelty he shows me is the type I desire.
I simply repeat, “It’s not serious.”
“Fine, fine.”
Downtown Austin is quieter than usual tonight. Maybe it’s the first chilly evening driving people indoors, to dig through the back of their closets for sweaters and jackets. Or maybe there’s a more exciting place to be just a few blocks away. Whatever it is, Kip and I have this stretch of the street to ourselves, our footsteps echoing slightly from the tall buildings surrounding us. The setting sun paints the mud-colored capitol building a soft russet.