Chapter 6
I hadn’t read any of Sinclair’s mother’s journals in some time, because I’d been so consumed with researching schools.
But I’d finally made a decision Monday night and written up a new proposal…
for just one school.
I didn’t choose it because I thought he’d be pleased, but I thought he would be nonetheless.
Tuesday night after dinner and a walk—something that was becoming a daily ritual with us…
turning us into something I might call friends or companions —I curled up in bed with a different journal.
This one was light pink with flowers.
What shocked me was how much her tone had changed—but it didn’t take me long to find out why.
The second entry said it all.
I had my appointment today and the doctor said everything seems to be going fine.
I’d hoped I’d have a girl this time, but it’s a boy.
And that’s okay. I love little boys—and I’ve heard girls can be harder, so I’m happy!
Of course, Gus still can’t be bothered.
And I don’t care anymore.
I have this beautiful baby boy growing inside me—and I just know he’s going to be perfect.
I love Augie and Warren.
They will always have my heart, but they feel like their father’s boys.
This baby feels more like ME.
And so, even though Gus has already chosen a name for him, Sinclair Cornelius, I am going to call him Cory.
When I speak to him, rubbing my belly, imagining that he can feel my touch through the stretched skin and all that fluid, that’s what I call him.
I love it all the more because I know Gus will hate it…
just like he hates when I call him Gus in public.
I paused…because once or twice, I’d thought of Sinclair as Cory too.
I read almost the entire journal, which was a day-by-day account of the second trimester of her pregnancy, but I fell asleep with a few pages left to go.
That night, I dreamed about him—and, in my dreams, I called him Cory .
In there, I saw him as gentle, protective, and loving, much like his mother’s words came across to me.
When I awoke the next morning, I realized something else.
Had his mother been in his life for longer, she likely would have had more of an influence on him.
But the longer I was here, the more that picture began to fill in…
and I suspected much of the man was shaped by his father.
Still, I sensed I could feel something of his mother in him.
There was something good inside him.
I knew it. And all day long I planned to hold onto that dreamy feeling…
that one where he held me and comforted me, where he loved me.
I hoped that foolish emotion wasn’t obvious on my face at breakfast. Fortunately, he was absorbed in his WSJ and Edna wanted to talk to me about decorating for fall.
Apparently, there was a room somewhere in this huge building that I hadn’t seen yet, one that held holiday decorations.
There were plenty of rooms I hadn’t peeked in yet, but there were only a few that I was dying to open.
And I was forbidden from looking.
The only thing Cory— Sinclair —said was “It’s not even September yet, Edna.”
“I know. I’m just excited.”
“Kitchen and dining room only.”
She frowned but shrugged and winked at me.
I was curious—how would a person decorate an entire mansion for a holiday?
Maybe that was why Sinclair asked her to confine the decorations to two rooms.
After Sinclair left, she promised she’d show me everything in October…
and I went to work.
Tonight I’d be presenting him with my new school plan—something totally different.
Something worthy of me, just like he’d asked.
I would be asking him to put his money where his mouth was.
And I’d already made a decision that would protect me if he changed his mind: although I would fill out the financial aid paperwork, I wouldn’t accept any loans.
If he wouldn’t pay the bills when they were due, I wouldn’t attend.
It would be as simple as that.
Because he hadn’t told me when on Wednesday evening I’d need to submit my new proposal, other than the vague statement “at dinner,” I brought it with me to the dining room.
And I wore my prettiest dress—a fuchsia number with a short skirt and shorter sleeves that fit my waist and breasts like a glove.
Nothing popped out but it was like another layer of skin.
I’d only ever worn it once or twice because, back in Winchester, I didn’t want the attention.
When I’d bought it online—on clearance—I hadn’t known it would be so form fitting, but it had turned out to be cool on hot days, so I hadn’t tossed it.
Here, though, I did want Sinclair’s attention.
He’d already told me I was worth far more than I valued myself—and so I was going to show it off.
But he wasn’t there when I arrived, so I sat at my usual place, trying not to peek at it again.
What was done was already done, and I had only to get his approval on it—or his demand that I do it again.
After a bit, I heard his voice in the hallway, and I was surprised at myself—how I sat a little straighter, tried to make sure my expression was smooth yet hopeful…
but also trying not to look too hopeful…
or lovesick. But that was the road I’d been heading down for the past few weeks.
My feelings for him had gone from mere lust to something more.
And I suspected that, if I couldn’t get a grip on myself, it would lead to heartache.
As he entered the dining room, he said into his phone, “Get it taken care of. I’ll expect a full report in the morning.” He didn’t look the same as he’d appeared at breakfast. He seemed taller…
stronger. The more time I spent around him, the less I felt like I could take a full breath—and that was how I felt in this moment as his hot blue eyes connected with mine.
I’d expected to feel the aftereffects of the conversation he’d been having but instead he smiled at me—and then his eyes shifted to the papers beside me.
“Is that your new proposal?”
“It is.” I smiled back at him, warmed by his presence.
Possibly even heated by it.
But that was stupid—he’d already told me I was too young and that his position as my employer made it all the more forbidden.
Was that why I was attracted to him?
No…it couldn’t be. But somehow that made him all the more tempting.
He held out a hand. “May I?” Nodding, I handed him the two sheets of paper that now comprised my new proposal.
As he sat down, his eyes skimming the typewritten words, I held my breath, waiting for him to turn me down again.
This particular proposal was quite different from the one I’d given him on Sunday.
This one involved my attending the University of Denver in person , majoring in Art History.
Then, still with DU, I would focus on earning a master’s degree in Art History-Museum Studies.
I had already earned 33 credits from WCC, all of which should transfer.
If I took two three-credit courses every semester including summer, I could earn my bachelor’s degree in five years while still being able to focus on whatever full-time work Sinclair wanted me to do.
Then I could turn around and earn my master’s in another two.
That met my expectations—finishing my education before leaving his employ, which should mean I’d be completely debt-free.
And, if I was lucky, he would start putting that education to good use in some way.
But I was certain he would say no—because it was going to be time-consuming, especially if I had to take a bus to and from campus and it was expensive.
Even the cost of a year’s worth of textbooks was out of my price range.
It wouldn’t have been so bad had I not gotten my heart set on it.
After spending hours putting together this final proposal that was detailed to the penny and to the date, I was certain he was going to toss it back to me once more.
When he looked up from the proposal, he had a small smile on his face.
Was that because he was getting ready to deal a cruel blow?
But I was completely mistaken.
“This was the kind of proposal I was looking for. Well done.”
Edna came in with salads that she quickly set in front of us before whisking herself back out of the room.
“Thank you,” I said, breathless again but for entirely different reasons.
“I realize it’s going to cost a lot.”
“It is. And I’d say you’re worth it.”
I pressed my lips together, finding it hard to believe that he’d just said something so kind and sweet to me…
and I believed he meant it.
No longer could I hold my lips together, so I beamed and thanked him again.
But then I followed it up with my concern.
“What if they don’t accept my application?”
“What was your GPA at Winchester?”
“3.5.”
“What about high school?”
“About the same.”
“Well…why don’t we cross that bridge when we come to it? Complete your application and we’ll see what they say. I’ll have an account set up for you so you’ll have a debit card to pay application fees and we’ll go from there.”
It was time for yet another reality check.
“I probably won’t be able to start until the spring semester.”
“That’s perfect. That should give you more than enough time to get prepared for the experience. But you’ll need to be honest about something.”
“What’s that?”
“If two classes wind up being too much for you with work, you’ll want to let me know.”
“Yes, of course,” I said, completely understanding why.
After all, we’d already discussed that it shouldn’t interfere with my work.
“If it does, we’ll see about cutting back some of your duties so you can focus on school.”
My smile was genuine, and it nearly split my face in two.
“Thank you, Sinclair.”
“Just don’t make me regret it.”
When Edna came back in the room, he said, “Edna, would you mind finding a bottle of champagne? We have something to celebrate.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Oh, and bring a flute for yourself as well.”
I would have sworn she was giggling as she walked down the hall to the beverage nook.
“I’m underage. I can’t drink.”
A shadow passed over his eyes again.
“I knew that. Damn. How close are you?”
I wasn’t about to answer.
“I’ve had a glass of wine here and there with my dad.”
But he got up from the table, storming off.
It made me want to cry, because just moments earlier, we were celebrating, having fun…
and I’d never felt so close to him.
It made me angry and ashamed that he was upset by something I had no control over.
Edna returned with the champagne and three glasses—and I told her, “I’m not having any.”
“I know, dear.”
Sinclair came back in the room, holding a green bottle that looked like alcohol.
After opening it, he picked up a champagne flute and began pouring in the clear liquid.
“Sparkling grape juice cocktail.” As he handed me the glass, he winked.
My heart nearly melted.
He was respecting my wishes while still wanting to include me…
and that didn’t seem to be the work of a villain or an enemy.
After all the drinks were poured and we were holding our glasses, Sinclair said, “A toast: when I first met Annalise Miller, she believed in education but not in herself.” Was that true?
Suddenly, this toast sounded like yet another way to shame me—but I kept the smile pasted on my face.
Still, he’d somehow seen through me if it were true.
“You didn’t know what you were going to school for, Lise…you didn’t have a plan. And that’s the worst way to go about anything. I am proud of you now because you know exactly what you want, and you’ve mapped out a plan to get it. That deserves a toast with the finest champagne.”
I hadn’t expected him to turn it around, but he had.
And he wasn’t wrong.
The only thing I’d wanted when I’d applied at WCC was a way out of Winchester.
And it wasn’t a plan—it was desperate hope.
So I happily clinked my glass to theirs and sipped at the sparkling grape juice in my flute, a liquid that didn’t look much different from the champagne in Sinclair and Edna’s glasses.
When we finished, Edna hugged me.
“I’m proud of you, dear.” Then she picked up our empty glasses and left.
By the time she returned, Sinclair and I were seated again, ready to eat.
When she returned, he said, “See if Greg and his wife would like to finish off the bubbly, would you?”
“Of course. And…if not, could I take it home?”
Sinclair’s expression went from neutral to devilish.
“If you and Sam want to polish it off, feel free.”
“Thank you, Mr. Whittier.”
Soon, we were eating and Sinclair was telling me about his days at Columbia—and how his father had wanted him to major in business but he chose to major in finance, something he said was stupid in retrospect because he never intended to work as a financial advisor.
But investing interested him, as did math, and he considered finance to be “business-adjacent.”
And, although his words were upbeat, I got the feeling that his choice had become a wedge in his relationship with his father.
But had there already been a gulf between them?
I had no idea, but one thing I suspected, the more that he talked about his family, was that they weren’t like a family at all.
The only thing that had kept me going over the past several weeks was the thought of being able to see my father at some point—and talking to him helped as well.
If I believed I’d never see him again, I would lose all hope, all motivation.
That was what family meant to me.
But we were soon taking our walk and I still felt like I was floating on cloud nine…
because Sinclair believed in me.
He believed in me enough to spend thousands and thousands of dollars on me, all while I was working for him to repay him for the damage caused at the college.
In the back of my mind, I was certain he probably got some kind of tax break for paying for employees’ education—but that didn’t dampen my spirits, because it meant that he didn’t feel any less about me than he did the employees he’d hired to work at his office, wherever that was.
Near the end of our walk as we entered the iron gate in the front yard, he said, “I just hope you understand that I’m willing to reward hard work—and I see you’re making a real effort.”
“I am. And is it possible for me to earn as a reward the chance to personally take my father to his appointment in October?”
“Possibly. I’m still considering it.”
“Thank you.” And then, to remind him of my true value, I said, “Do you want to look at the Downey painting before you…?” I was at a loss for words, because I didn’t know what he usually did after dinner if it wasn’t playing chess with me.
Did he read a book? Work in his office?
In this gargantuan mansion, he could be almost anywhere and I wouldn’t know, because most times I would go to my bedroom where I could relax and be myself.
To my delight, he agreed.
“No better time than the present, I suppose.”
Soon we were walking down the stairs to the place where I spent a third of my day every day of the work week.
I led him to the area near the back east wall where I kept the artwork.
I’d draped a sheet over the paintings, hoping that would keep them from getting dustier, but I didn’t feel confident about cleaning them.
I’d remembered hearing horror stories about well-meaning people trying to clean old paintings and ruining them in the process.
I didn’t want to be one of them.
When I pulled the sheet off, the Downey painting was the top one.
Sinclair stood back, eyeing it, cupping his chin as if deep in thought.
“The lighting down here is poor. Why didn’t you say anything?”
“It’s okay over by the stairs. That’s where I do most of my writing and stuff.”
“Well, I’ll have Edna get someone in here to work on it.” That gave me huge relief that it wouldn’t be Henry.
I’d already grown to love that man and didn’t want him hurting himself on a ladder.
“New lightbulbs might do the trick.” The chandelier brightened up the place when it was on, but there were plenty of other lights, especially in the back of the room, that just didn’t work.
“You’re right. But we’ll let the experts check it out.”
Had the ceilings not been so high, I would have offered to change them myself—and I wondered if Sinclair called this space the dungeon not just because it was in the lowest level with no windows but also because it was dark and shadowy.
“In the meantime,” Sinclair said, “if I were to keep this painting, where do you think it should be displayed?”
“Like I said, I think it would go great in the west side of the main hall.”
“I don’t disagree, but I like the way the art is arranged there. If we put this painting there, we’d have to make a lot more changes. But why don’t we take this upstairs and see if we can find a place?”
Once we arrived back in the main hall, I asked, “So you don’t want to sell it?”
“You already told me its value. How many people have an early Picasso or O’Keeffe or Warhol and then sell it? I see the value in keeping it.” We’d been walking down the west side of the hall but he paused and looked right in my eyes.
“When you find a hidden treasure, you don’t give it away to the highest bidder.”
Why did I feel like he was talking about me?
But then he continued walking.
“I think we might find a good place for this in either the study or the library. What do you think?”
“Let’s try the library.” I spent more time in there than in the study…
and I thought it would be nice to see it regularly.
When we walked in, he flipped on the light switch because the sunlight was fading.
And he must have had a good idea about where he wanted the painting, because he crossed the room to the outer north wall where a smaller painting already hung.
“We put this painting here where it would never get direct sunlight—and I think,” he said, holding up the Downey painting, “we could place this here and move the other painting either over here,” he added, nodding to the west wall, “or keep it here, arranged around this one.”
I tried envisioning it in my head—and I liked what I saw.
“I think it would look nice to have the smaller painting diagonal from it on the other wall like you said.”
“I do too. It shouldn’t get direct sunlight here…but I’m not the expert there. And I believe we’ll need someone to clean it up a little bit.”
“All the paintings downstairs are like that—dusty and kind of grungy.”
“Well, we’ll get them all cleaned then. Are any of them worth as much as this beauty?”
“Not that I know of. I couldn’t find much on any of the artists—and one I only know his or her last name.”
He frowned.
“Well…maybe your upcoming education can help you with that.”
“Do you think so?”
“Absolutely.”
Suddenly, I felt inspired.
I deepened my voice and raised my eyebrows as if playing a part I’d rehearsed.
“Here we have an early painting by the artist Ellen Downey. She was born in a small town in Oregon in the late eighties and began her career by painting street art. Much of her early work was controversial—but, by the mid-nineties, she focused on more conventional art and it was there that she began to make a living.”
He was grinning at me throughout my speech .
“Is all that true?”
I giggled.
“Most of it. I can’t remember all the facts, but—”
He pulled me close in his arms and kissed me then.
It wasn’t as desperate as that kiss on the night of his party…
but it was deeper, more meaningful.
And I was more than willing.
I wrapped my fingers around his neck as his tongue explored my mouth, my body waking up, tingling from scalp to toenails.
I could have gotten lost there.
When his lips left mine, he said, “You…make me feel alive.”
“What d—”
“You embrace joy and fun and…it’s something I don’t think I’ve ever done. I’ve always…” But he stopped talking as if he’d said too much already.
And so I got up on my tiptoes and kissed him again.
My body and mind had been consumed with him for so long now and I knew I wanted him.
I didn’t care if I shouldn’t.
It didn’t matter that, underneath it all, we were sworn enemies.
The man inside called to me—and my body and soul had answered yes.
We kissed for several minutes—but he kissed more than my lips.
He tasted my neck, my earlobe, my collarbone…
and, for the first time in my life, I knew I wanted to feel him inside me, wanted him to take me and do whatever he wanted with me.
I was no longer his willing employee…
I was his willing everything.