Chapter 20
A little after noon, I headed up to the kitchen and, after I found the salad and one of Edna’s homemade dressings, I put them on the counter so I could begin assembling lunch. I’d barely pulled the loaf of bread she’d made the day before out of the breadbox when Sinclair showed up, a newspaper in hand.
“Great minds think alike,” he said, putting the paper on the table before joining me at the counter. “Salad?”
“Yes.”
He opened the refrigerator and said, “She usually makes more than that.” I thought the salad was beautiful—a selection of greens interspersed with slivers of red cabbage and carrot, decorated with bright red cherry tomatoes. But he began placing a few other bowls on the table and, when he opened them, I saw the chopped ham and turkey, cubed cheddar cheese, and sliced hard-boiled eggs. Obviously, he liked chef salad. “If you add some protein to your salad, you won’t feel hungry in an hour.”
“Is that so?”
“Try it.”
I’d already tried it with Edna the week before and I had to admit I managed to feel satisfied till dinner. Still, I hated letting him know he was right…but maybe this was part of gaining his trust. “Okay. I will.”
It wasn’t long before we were both seated at the table with salads, bread, and glasses of water. But once again he had his nose in something else—this time, he was reading the paper instead of his phone. I said, “Do you ever eat without something distracting you?”
He looked up. “At dinner. But, obviously, it bothers you. Do you need attention?”
My cheeks grew warm. “No, that’s not it.”
“Ms. Miller, you need to understand that, until a week ago, I usually ate alone here at the house unless I invited someone for dinner. And, as much as I appreciate your philosophy of appreciating your food, I’m a busy man. I want to get as much done in a day as I possibly can, and one way I can do that is by reading at the table.”
“I suppose that’s fair. During finals week, I would read my notes during lunch.” In answer, he shot me a smirk. “So what are you reading?”
“ The Wall Street Journal . Are you familiar with it?”
“I’ve heard of it.”
He folded the paper closed. “It keeps me abreast of news in finance and business.”
That sounded boring—but it was a reminder again that we came from very different worlds. Perhaps if I had billions of dollars to my name, I’d read it too. “You know, you could probably read it online.”
“I definitely could—but I prefer it this way. Maybe it’s because my father always got it this way and I grew accustomed to it.”
“I have to admit I agree with you there. I have a reading app on my phone, but it’s not the same as reading a physical book.” And something I wouldn’t tell him was it was probably for the same reason he preferred the hard copy of the paper. My dad couldn’t afford to get me a reading device or even a fancy phone, so I wound up going to the library a lot. Even though I scrolled online book sellers once in a while, there was something about running my finger across the spines of books as I perused their titles until one caught my attention. Sometimes it was like a feeling—and not like an advertisement on an online bookstore. Instead, it was like the story was calling me to it, and I’d pull it out to examine it further. I’d read the description on the back and, if it intrigued me, I’d add it to the stack I’d already planned to check out that week.
“Exactly. There’s some satisfaction to turning the page and seeing the progress right in front of your eyes.”
For a few seconds, I forgot who I was talking to. Once again, I was under the spell of Sinclair Whittier…a captive audience and, in some regards, captive in many other ways. This captivity right now was almost voluntary. Finally, I managed to get some words out of my mouth. “You read books too, right?”
“Yes.”
“Any fiction?”
He picked up his glass. “On occasion. But mostly nonfiction and, as boring as I’m sure you’d find it, lots of books on finance, business, economics…things that help me improve my game.”
“But…didn’t you say you ran the philanthropic part of your company?”
Again, he smirked, apparently amused that I’d remembered. “I do. But I’m responsible for investments in my division and I also need to keep my finger on the pulse. What I read and what I retain have helped me more times in this business that I can count.”
“I get that…but don’t you ever read for fun?”
The shadow that crossed over his eyes struck me in my heart, filling me with overwhelming sadness. It was as if he’d said it aloud—that he either didn’t ever do anything for fun or didn’t know what that was. Even I, bullied and ostracized most of my life, had memories of fun times: Dad taking me fishing and, when we didn’t catch anything, having a picnic. Playing dolls with my one or two friends who were as low on the social rung as I was. And, of course, reading books was a biggie. Some of my fondest memories were of books.
And, like the melancholy I felt for Sinclair, I felt some for me as well—because, even though those stories were important and I’d never want to not have read anything I had, my real-life experiences were few and far between.
And I hated that, once again, I was empathizing with my enemy.
He said, “What would you recommend?”
That took me by surprise. “Um…what kind of fiction do you like?”
Cocking an eyebrow, he said, “Would you believe I don’t know?”
“Do you watch movies?”
“On occasion.”
“What kind of movies do you like?”
He focused on some spot across the kitchen but then looked around a bit as if trying to access a database in his head. I was surprised that he really hadn’t had much exposure to stories in any of their forms. Finally, though, he said, “I know documentaries don’t count.” After I laughed, he said, “I suppose I like…” He shook his head. “I guess I really don’t know.”
“I don’t think I can make a recommendation if I have the entire world of books to choose from.” So I decided to take a different tack, narrowing down the list. “What about romance?”
“As in Shakespearean—”
“Just good old-fashioned romance. Like Jane Eyre , Gone with the Wind , Outlander , Twilight , Fifty Shades of —”
“No,” he said, chuckling, “I don’t think so.”
“What about sci-fi?”
“Uh…maybe.”
I picked a tiny corner off the piece of bread on my plate, planning to pop it in my mouth after I spoke. “Fantasy?”
“No.”
“Mystery? Like Agatha Christie, Arthur Conan Doyle, Rex Stout, to name a few, but—”
“I don’t think I’d hate it.”
“Good,” I said, picking up my fork again. “I think we agree on that. What about drama?”
“I doubt I’d like that. I’m not one much for drama.”
“Fictional drama is way better than in reality.”
“Still, I’ll pass.”
I stabbed a piece of lettuce before using one of his lines against him. “Suit yourself.” When he looked up from his plate, obviously catching my homage to his way of speaking, I intercepted him. “Literary fiction?”
“I do know what that is. I’m sure there is much out there worthy of praise but what little I had to read while earning my degree came off as pretentious. Maybe that’s why I got a C in my literature class.”
Another comment I’d keep to myself was that what he termed pretentious literature was what I’d assumed was written for men and women of his class. The majority of people I’d grown up around—for the most part, from lower class to upper-middle—didn’t care for that sort of reading. Yet many of those books received the highest praise and got the most attention. So exactly what people were actually reading them?
But I thought of another genre we hadn’t discussed. “What about thriller?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Action or adventure?”
“Maybe.”
One last attempt. “What about mainstream bestsellers?”
“Probably not.”
I let out a long sigh. “Well, you haven’t made this very easy.”
“I told you I didn’t read fiction.”
“I know, but I want to find something that will change your mind.”
His smile was warm and genuine. “I look forward to reading what you come up with.”
I hated admitting to myself that lunch had been an enjoyable experience, but I tried not to think about it as I opened the door to the downstairs area and began heading down. I’d brought with me the glass of water I’d had at lunch topped off so I wouldn’t have to keep going back upstairs every once in a while to quench my thirst.
When my phone vibrated in my back pocket, I was sure it was dad—but we usually texted in the early mornings and evenings. As I slid it out, I was still heading down the stairs and, distracted, my foot hit the crumbly stair wrong. Even as I lost my footing, I yelled in fear, because I knew I couldn’t stop myself from falling. It happened so quickly that I wasn’t sure how I’d done it, but the glass of water and phone had landed several feet from the stairs. Fortunately, a big box broke my fall, but I lay there on it for some time as I assessed my injury.
My foot. The ankle, specifically, felt like it was on fire. Finally, I raised my body to survey the remaining damage: my phone was in the middle of the cleared space on the floor with the drinking glass a little farther away in pieces, water all over the place. As I lifted myself up more, I began moving my legs and stopped again as pain radiated throughout my foot as I bore weight on it.
Had I broken it?
At the top of the stairs came Sinclair’s voice. “Annalise, are you all right?”
For a moment, my breath stopped. That was the first time he’d ever called me by my first name. But then the pain overrode any weird emotions in my body. I heard him coming down the stairs already, but I said, “I fell—and I hurt my foot.”
“Goddammit. It was the step.”
“Yes.”
By that point, he was by my side, helping me up—but he didn’t set me on my feet. Instead, he carried me—up the stairs and then down the west wing to the study. Once there, he propped me up on a loveseat and was examining my foot. “You’ve definitely hurt it.”
In pain, I couldn’t stop the sarcasm. “You think?”
“There’s an urgent care near here. I’ll take you.”
“Let me try walking.”
“No. My negligence has already cost you. Wait here.”
When he left, I sat up, then stood, gingerly and slowly putting weight on the foot that hurt, causing sharp pain to radiate through the area. Breathless, I nearly fell back on the loveseat.
In less than a minute, he returned. “Had to get my keys.”
As he started to pick me up again, I said, “I might be able to hop if you can hold me on one side.”
“Carrying you is faster.” With that, he scooped me up in his arms again and took me down the west rear hall toward the garage—a place I hadn’t been since the night he’d picked me up on the street when I’d tried running away. He carried me as if I weighed no more than a pillow—and, had I not been so distraught, I might have felt grateful.
I might have even enjoyed being so close to him, touching him, feeling the heat of his body against mine.
“Please just let me recover here. I don’t have the money for my copay.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. If you broke a bone or several of them, they might not heal correctly if you’re not treated by a doctor. Besides, what happened here is technically an injury that would be covered by Worker’s Compensation if I were paying you like a regular worker. And, in case you’ve forgotten, I’m paying for your insurance and all costs associated with it.” When we reached the bay with the silver Lexus, he set me down softly. “Is this okay for a second?”
“Yes.” But I noticed now that I was standing and not in his arms that my foot was beginning to throb. I tried to ignore it, but it was difficult.
Once he had the passenger door open, he asked, “Can you get in or do you need me to pick you up?”
“I think I can manage.” Still, he helped and soon I was seated.
When he got in on the driver’s side, he said, “Rest assured I will pay for whatever treatment you need. This was caused by my negligence.”
It wasn’t long before he’d backed out of the garage and, as he began driving down the alley, the door slowly lowered itself. The only times I’d been back here were at night and so I’d failed to notice something.
There were two garages. I realized he’d said something about it the first night, but it hadn’t registered until I actually saw it.
Between the two garages were a couple of trash and recycling barrels. The other garage appeared to have as many bays as the one Sinclair kept this car in, so I was curious. “Do you have more cars in the other garage?”
“I keep the cars I drive in this garage, including a couple of collectible sports cars—but I’ve been thinking of getting rid of them. I don’t drive them as much as I should. Someone else should get enjoyment out of them. In the other garage, there are cars for Edna and Gregory and Greg’s wife, as well as a riding lawn mower.”
He drove down the narrow streets at a speed that made me nervous, but he seemed to be a good driver, and it wasn’t long before he pulled into a shopping center that had an urgent care building sitting by itself in one part of the parking lot. Better still, there were parking spaces nearby designated specifically for patients.
And he picked me up again, carrying me in. I felt relieved that there were only two other patients in the waiting area. A nurse brought out a wheelchair for me, making me feel stupid—because if I’d been paying attention, this wouldn’t have happened. Meanwhile, Sinclair got me checked in and, in just another minute, we were back in the triage area.
The nurse asked what happened and what hurt, and she concluded that I’d need x-rays to begin with. “Ordinarily, we’d wheel you back in the waiting room, but considering you’re VIPs, I’ll get you in a private room.”
VIPs? Was that due to the Whittier name?
It had to be. And, had I not been in such pain, I would have been ashamed that I was getting preferential treatment over the other people in the waiting room simply because I was with a person of privilege.
Sinclair thanked her as she wheeled me deeper into the facility. He asked me, “Would you rather I wait outside?”
Considering I still felt like a foreigner away from home, his presence was comforting. “No. If you don’t mind, I’d prefer you stay.”
He gave me a quick confident nod—and soon we were in a small room. The nurse said, “Someone will be with you shortly to take you for x-rays.”
Once she closed the door, Sinclair shook his head. “I’m sorry this has happened to you, Annalise. I’ll get that stair fixed immediately. I should have done it a long time ago.”
“But you never go down there—so I understand.”
His lovely blue eyes assessed mine, somehow helping me feel calm and nurtured. “You are far more forgiving than I would have been.” And then he took my hand in his. “Maybe I can learn a little from you over the next few years.”
It had to be the guilt talking—but those words buoyed me throughout the rest of the trying afternoon.