He can enjoy a cloistered retreat where everyone celebrates enlightened ideas and our differences, and there’s no such thing as violence or aggression. Benton feels safe here. It’s one of the few places where he does. But not so safe that he’s not carrying a gun. I can’t see a pistol but I have no doubt he has one in his briefcase, and his backup somewhere on his person. His Glock 27 or concealed-carry Smith & Wesson Model 19 that he won’t leave home without.

We’ve stopped in front of flanking pilasters that are painted white, and there’s a transom over the dark red door. I gaze up at the perfect symmetry of the brick facade, and my attention lingers on the multipaned bay windows of the upstairs guest rooms.

“Maybe another time.” Benton looks up too and knows what I’m thinking.

“Yes, I guess there will be no sleepover tonight, thanks to my sister. But if I had anything to change into I’d rent a room anyway right now and take a shower.” I can almost hear the creaking carpeted old wooden stairs leading up to the second floor.

I remember the sound and feel of the fabric-covered walls, the cozy elegance and most of all the narrow beds where Benton and I don’t get much sleep. Ours is a well-practiced ritual that we engage in regularly and don’t talk about with anyone but each other. It belongs exclusively to the two of us, and I wouldn’t call it a date but consider it more like therapy when we come here once a month, assuming the stars are properly aligned.

So often they’re not, but when they are we get a welcome reminder that decency and humanity still exist in the world. Not everybody lies, steals, rapes, abuses, neglects, tortures, kidnaps and kills. Not everybody wants to ruin us or take what’s ours, and we’re so lucky to have found each other.

We walk into the chilled quiet of formal antiques, fine paintings and Persian rugs. Benton closes the door behind us, and we’re surrounded by sconces and mahogany paneling, dark tufted leather furniture, and wide-board flooring. Fresh flowers are arranged on the entryway table, and tonight’s menu is displayed on a Victorian oak podium.

I detect the layers of familiar scents, the cut lilies and roses, and beeswax with a patina of musty staleness, that are reassuring and part of an old-world charm that makes me think of poetry, cigars and rare leather-bound tomes. I could close my eyes and know where I am. The energy is different in here. There’s a gravitas, a formality that should be expected in a place that’s hosted heads of state and some of the most accomplished people in the world.