Chapter 16
D uring dinner that night, Sinclair and I didn’t talk, and I wondered if maybe that foreshadowed the beginning of the end.
But, after Edna had left and we were done eating, he said, “I’ve been giving some thought to what you said this morning.”
“About?”
“About the east wing.” He looked up from his folded hands to meet my eyes.
“I don’t want any psychoanalysis about what it’s meant or why I’ve closed it off—but you’re right. A home is meant to be lived in. And this home might be so big that I don’t walk in every room every day, but the idea is that I should be able to. With exceptions, of course.”
“Exceptions?”
“Like Greg and his wife. I don’t intend to invade their privacy.” When I nodded, he said, “I’m in my thirties now, so I suppose it’s time to make some changes. Once you finish downstairs, I’ll give you the keys to the east wing and you can do the same thing there—if your offer still stands.” When I nodded, he said, “I’ll have Edna help you. She knows places where we can donate the things we no longer need.”
I felt a little emboldened…
so I asked, “Can I also put up some of the family portraits I found downstairs?”
“Put up? Where?”
“Wherever. Not in the gallery, but…maybe in the antechamber, the great room, the library.”
“We’ll see.” His jaw was firm, communicating far more than his words.
This was difficult for him.
Still, I had another question.
“And what about the artwork?” I almost asked about the furniture downstairs as well, but I understood why it was there.
It was dated and would look out of place anywhere in the mansion now—but I imagined a theater company would love it…
or maybe a family who didn’t have much.
“What about it?”
“Um, like the Downey painting. Some of that statuary and many of the paintings should be seen regularly. And the antiques…”
“We’ll see.”
As we headed upstairs to play a game of chess, it washed over me.
Not only had Sinclair agreed to let me help him, but I saw now that he was willing to grow and change…
and let love back in his heart.
And I took full advantage of that over the next month.
Life wasn’t much different by Thanksgiving.
My father had had his second infusion and felt better than he had in years.
I was still at the mansion for the most part, wrapping up my work.
I’d finally finished work in Sinclair’s so-called dungeon, and Edna had been helping me plan how to get rid of unwanted items.
Sinclair and I slept together every night and I felt comforted and loved in his arms, even while knowing it was temporary.
And yet life was so much different by Thanksgiving.
I had plans for the items that weren’t being disposed of and had already started changing the look and feel of the antechamber.
With the new artwork and addition of the one family portrait with all five Whitters—including too-thin Constance and not-too-happy baby Sinclair—the once-daunting space now felt a little homier.
Until I’d finished going through every nook and cranny downstairs, I hadn’t known such a portrait existed.
The warmth of the mansion was even better since I’d done some decorating for the holidays, with mini pumpkins and other autumn décor changing it from a museum-like quality into something much cozier.
After sharing a traditional meal with Sinclair’s family on the actual holiday, I would be driving to Winchester the next day with leftovers, and dad and I would celebrate together.
I considered inviting Sinclair as well, but I realized that was a ridiculous notion.
There was no sense having him and my father get to know each other better if our families’ paths would no longer cross once I left the mansion.
It felt almost like an existential crisis.
On the one hand, being in Sinclair’s arms and bed every night made me feel precious and special; but always, nagging at the back of my mind, was the notion that this wasn’t real.
We were playing make believe, pretending that everything was okay when we both knew it was almost over.
And I was dreading the end.
I was comforted by the fact that I would be near my father again and able to help him—although he wasn’t as in need of my help as he’d once been.
But part of me still felt like I belonged there.
Here I was just pretending.
Both Sinclair and I knew it.
And yet I hadn’t withdrawn my application from the University of Denver…
and I had yet to make plans for my return.
Instead, I was focused on the here and now.
With Sinclair’s blessing, I spent the entire week, from Monday to Wednesday, preparing for Thursday’s meal with Edna’s help.
Because he had decided to hold the Whittier Thanksgiving at their old traditional home for the first time since inheriting it, I offered to help.
Fortunately, Edna was an expert at a meal of that sort, and I wouldn’t have been able to do it without her.
On Monday, we went shopping and then, on Tuesday, we baked a variety of pies and one cognac cheesecake that Edna said was liked by Augustus.
On Wednesday, we prepared the entire meal, and Edna wrote detailed instructions for reheating it all.
Different times and temperatures were listed, and Edna also helped me determine which platters, serving dishes, and utensils to use.
The only thing I’d be making from scratch on Thursday was the gravy—and even that Edna helped me with.
We made a practice batch together and saved it in the refrigerator in the event that I messed up the fresh batch the next day.
Then we discussed logistics.
Edna said, “This might be a sticking point, but I think you should spread out the main meal here on the kitchen table. Everybody can bring their plates in and fill them up here and take them back.”
I thought it was a brilliant idea, because the beautiful sideboard in the dining room wouldn’t hold all the food we’d prepared.
“Why is that a sticking point?”
“Sinclair’s father is used to being served. He might not like having to get up and do it himself.”
Without thinking much about it, I said, “Then I’ll do it for him if it comes to that.”
Edna raised an eyebrow but nodded.
“I hope it doesn’t. But you already know how I feel about all this.”
Boy, did I.
More than once, Edna cautioned me about several things that would likely go wrong with the plan.
The first had been that Sinclair’s family might say no to coming to the mansion.
They hadn’t.
The second was that, even though they often had turkey or other traditional items on their Thanksgiving menu, more often than not there were other foods they incorporated, like lobster or deviled eggs with caviar.
Edna and I had discussed that as well, but I decided not to worry about that because they’d said yes, knowing this would be a traditional meal.
She also warned me that, as the day progressed and plenty of wine had been consumed, the arguing would start.
And I couldn’t stop them from drinking
I just kept telling myself that it would be good for me to be around, because it would remind me that my father and I had a wonderful relationship—and I’d be seeing him the very next day.
So on Thursday morning, I got up at six o’clock to get started.
I would begin heating the various dishes for a while, but I wanted to get the table set along with the sideboard, where I planned to have all the drinks and desserts.
The room was absolutely lovely by the time I was done.
When I returned to the kitchen to pour myself a cup of coffee and consult my list, Sinclair was there, freshly showered after his morning workout.
I had my hair piled on top of my head and I wore a t-shirt and jeans.
I would be donning an apron shortly, but I’d have to make myself look presentable before everyone arrived.
But Sinclair looked so yummy and he apparently thought the same thing about me.
As he began peeling off my t-shirt in the middle of the kitchen, I said, “Let’s go upstairs.”
“We have this whole place to ourselves until my family arrives.”
“No, we don’t,” I protested.
Although I rarely saw Greg and his wife, there was always a chance they could show up down here.
“Yes, we do—and I want to take you here.”
“What about Greg?”
“They left last night to fly to Santa Fe. His wife has family there.”
“Oh.” So I let him have his way with me on the kitchen table…
and, later, as I cleaned it and began decorating it before setting it with food, I blushed, hoping I could put it out of my mind once his family arrived.
Fortunately, Edna’s list saved me.
I was able to get everything done, save the gravy and setting out the food, by the time I headed upstairs to get ready.
I didn’t have any super fancy clothes, but I’d brought a few sweaters with me the last time I’d visited home, and I wore a cream-colored pullover with black slacks and the black heels I hadn’t worn since serving at Sinclair’s dinner party.
As I was making the gravy at the stove, Sinclair entered the kitchen.
“And you still look good enough to eat.”
Grinning, I stirred the wooden spoon through the liquid in the pot as it slowly heated up.
“We don’t have time for an encore.”
He joined me over at the stove.
“It smells good in here. Not to put on any pressure, but my family has never been here for Thanksgiving…at least, not since I inherited the mansion.”
“That’s what you said.”
“My dad and Madeline have hosted it a couple of times at their place in Vail, but they sometimes travel this time of year. I think they get tired of the snow. Augie and Vivian have hosted it multiple times as well. But this is a first for me.”
“Should I be worried?”
“Not at all. You’ve outdone yourself.”
“It’s all thanks to Edna.”
“Not all. She’s not here to put on the finishing touches. Do you think it’ll all be ready by one?”
“Yes. I just need to start putting everything into serving dishes.” Edna had tried talking me into setting up a more formal buffet using Sterno burners, much like the caterers had at Sinclair’s dinner party months ago, but I didn’t want to be reminded of that night.
Even though it had ultimately been the impetus that had brought Sinclair and me together, I had felt humiliated and ashamed.
Today I was choosing to serve a meal, but I wanted to feel like an equal, rather than a servant.
When my father and I had a Thanksgiving meal, we let the food set out for a few hours before putting it away—and I probably wouldn’t do that here, but it wouldn’t hurt to let it be out during the meal without a flame underneath.
“How can I help?”
I marveled at this wonderful man, believing that earlier in the year when I’d first arrived, he wouldn’t have lifted a finger to help me.
But now he was willingly, taking platters to the place on the table where I instructed—and I felt a pang of longing, knowing that this would be the only Thanksgiving he and I would spend together.
To myself, I said, Better enjoy it.
But Sinclair’s family was about to make that all but impossible.