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Authors: Richard Paul Evans
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downhill. I felt as if my mountain had only grown steeper.
I rubbed my legs, wondering how my body would hold up on the road. When I was ten, I broke my left arm playing dodgeball at school. When my cast came off, I was surprised at how much smaller my arm looked than the other one and how quickly my muscles had atrophied. As I looked at my calves, I realized how the weeks in Pasadena had taken their toll. Even with my practice walks at home, I doubted I’d make twenty miles my first day. I wondered if I would even make ten. No matter. I wasn’t in a race. I closed my eyes and took a nap.
CHAPTER
Fourteen
Everybody needs love. Everybody. Those who don’t believe that frighten me a little.
Alan Christoffersen’s diary
My room was dark when I woke. I glanced over at the digital clock: 8:27 P.M . I got out of bed and washed my face with cold water, then took the elevator downstairs to the Ruth’s Chris Steak House, which was off the hotel lobby. The restaurant is one of the reasons I had picked the hotel. McKale and I had celebrated our first year of the agency at a Ruth’s Chris, along with Kyle Craig and his girlfriend du jour. It was a good time and one I would never forget—an evening of triumph and confidence and gratitude. I remember that McKale looked so incredibly beautiful that night. Indescribably beautiful.
Seeing couples around me in the lobby intensified my memories and my loneliness.
In this setting I understood something. I didn’t want to live without McKale. But I also didn’t want to live alone. I wasn’t born to be celibate. Refusing Analise in Iowa had taken all the strength I had. Everyone needs love. Everyone. And, as my dad was fond of saying, “If you build a fence between a cow and its water, it’s going to take down the fence.”
Nearly four years ago McKale and I had talked about this very thing on our vacation to Italy. We were on atour of the Roman Forum, standing near the ruins of the Temple of Vesta, when our guide told us about the three vows made by the Vestal Virgins. First was complete allegiance to the goddess Vesta. Second was a vow to keep the sacred fire of her temple burning. The third was a vow of chastity.
The punishment for breaking the third vow was the most severe. If caught, the male lover would be whipped to death in front of the woman, then she would be wrapped in linen, given a loaf of bread and an oil lantern, then be buried alive.
I asked our guide if, given the extremity of the punishment, any of the Vestal Virgins had ever broken their vow.
“Oh yes,” she said solemnly. “Eighteen of them.”
“Eighteen!” McKale exclaimed.
“Does this surprise you?” the guide asked in her strong Italian accent. She shook her head. “It does not surprise me. Everyone must have love.”
Later that evening, as we stood in front of the Trevi Fountain, McKale asked me something peculiar. “If I were to die, would you remarry?”
I looked at her quizzically. “You’re not going to die.”
“But if I did, would you remarry?”
“I’ve never thought about it,” I finally said. “I’ve always assumed I’ll die first. Would you?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “I think I’d probably die of a broken heart.”
I smiled and squeezed her hand. A minute later, after we’d started walking again, she said seriously, “If something happens to me, I want you to remarry. I don’t want you to live without love.”
“Enough of this,” I said. “Nothing’s going to happen to you.”
She stopped and looked up into my eyes with a curious gaze I’ll never forget. “You never know,” she said.
I wondered what McKale would think of me with Falene. I knew that she liked her, which, frankly, was unusual. Most women took an immediate dislike to Falene just because of the way she looked, or, often, because of the way their men looked at her.
McKale wasn’t intimidated by Falene—at least she never expressed it. I guess she was just confident in herself
I rubbed my legs, wondering how my body would hold up on the road. When I was ten, I broke my left arm playing dodgeball at school. When my cast came off, I was surprised at how much smaller my arm looked than the other one and how quickly my muscles had atrophied. As I looked at my calves, I realized how the weeks in Pasadena had taken their toll. Even with my practice walks at home, I doubted I’d make twenty miles my first day. I wondered if I would even make ten. No matter. I wasn’t in a race. I closed my eyes and took a nap.
CHAPTER
Fourteen
Everybody needs love. Everybody. Those who don’t believe that frighten me a little.
Alan Christoffersen’s diary
My room was dark when I woke. I glanced over at the digital clock: 8:27 P.M . I got out of bed and washed my face with cold water, then took the elevator downstairs to the Ruth’s Chris Steak House, which was off the hotel lobby. The restaurant is one of the reasons I had picked the hotel. McKale and I had celebrated our first year of the agency at a Ruth’s Chris, along with Kyle Craig and his girlfriend du jour. It was a good time and one I would never forget—an evening of triumph and confidence and gratitude. I remember that McKale looked so incredibly beautiful that night. Indescribably beautiful.
Seeing couples around me in the lobby intensified my memories and my loneliness.
In this setting I understood something. I didn’t want to live without McKale. But I also didn’t want to live alone. I wasn’t born to be celibate. Refusing Analise in Iowa had taken all the strength I had. Everyone needs love. Everyone. And, as my dad was fond of saying, “If you build a fence between a cow and its water, it’s going to take down the fence.”
Nearly four years ago McKale and I had talked about this very thing on our vacation to Italy. We were on atour of the Roman Forum, standing near the ruins of the Temple of Vesta, when our guide told us about the three vows made by the Vestal Virgins. First was complete allegiance to the goddess Vesta. Second was a vow to keep the sacred fire of her temple burning. The third was a vow of chastity.
The punishment for breaking the third vow was the most severe. If caught, the male lover would be whipped to death in front of the woman, then she would be wrapped in linen, given a loaf of bread and an oil lantern, then be buried alive.
I asked our guide if, given the extremity of the punishment, any of the Vestal Virgins had ever broken their vow.
“Oh yes,” she said solemnly. “Eighteen of them.”
“Eighteen!” McKale exclaimed.
“Does this surprise you?” the guide asked in her strong Italian accent. She shook her head. “It does not surprise me. Everyone must have love.”
Later that evening, as we stood in front of the Trevi Fountain, McKale asked me something peculiar. “If I were to die, would you remarry?”
I looked at her quizzically. “You’re not going to die.”
“But if I did, would you remarry?”
“I’ve never thought about it,” I finally said. “I’ve always assumed I’ll die first. Would you?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “I think I’d probably die of a broken heart.”
I smiled and squeezed her hand. A minute later, after we’d started walking again, she said seriously, “If something happens to me, I want you to remarry. I don’t want you to live without love.”
“Enough of this,” I said. “Nothing’s going to happen to you.”
She stopped and looked up into my eyes with a curious gaze I’ll never forget. “You never know,” she said.
I wondered what McKale would think of me with Falene. I knew that she liked her, which, frankly, was unusual. Most women took an immediate dislike to Falene just because of the way she looked, or, often, because of the way their men looked at her.
McKale wasn’t intimidated by Falene—at least she never expressed it. I guess she was just confident in herself
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