Chapter 16
A fter Sinclair left for work, I let Edna know what I wanted—a laptop or tablet so I could record everything and a clipboard or a spiral notebook. Everything I did would eventually wind up electronically recorded, but I wanted both for flexibility, because I didn’t know exactly how I was going to tackle this task—project, actually. That really was the proper definition, because there was a lot of work that would be involved and multiple tasks I’d have to do in its execution.
Still eager, I headed downstairs and decided to first give the place a quick once-over so I could really get a handle on the scope of the project. Sinclair and I had stood just a few feet inside and much of what was stacked there made it difficult to see what else I had to work with. So I wandered around the large space that somehow felt smaller because it was packed so tightly. It reminded me of a bazaar my dad and I had gone to when I was ten or eleven. It was a Christmas sale with lots of vendors and merchants, each with their own table where they sold their wares, crafts, food, and various items. It had been in the high school gym, and the bleachers had been retracted to give more floor space—and I remembered feeling overwhelmed at just how many people and how much stuff was there.
But I refused to let myself feel overwhelmed down here, even if, unlike the bazaar, there weren’t neatly delineated aisles. In fact, I was beginning to view this project as my salvation. Being able to focus on an undertaking of this magnitude could help me better tolerate the time away from my father. Rather than having to clean bathrooms every day while slowly ticking off each number on the calendar, I had something to do that could be meaningful.
And, if not, at least it was interesting and it would keep my mind engaged.
As I wandered through the old ballroom, I discovered a lot of things. First, there were a lot of light bulbs that needed replacing, and when I found the switch for the chandelier, I turned it on, expecting it to be as disappointing. But, even though many of the crystals hanging on it could stand a good cleaning, it still dazzled, giving me just a taste of what this room had been like back when it had been loved.
There were boxes upon boxes and so much furniture; some spots were a tight squeeze—so I didn’t force my way through but figured when I got to a particular spot, I’d move things when I needed to. In the middle of my exploration, Edna arrived at the bottom of the stairs and called me. “Miss Miller?”
“I’m over here. Just a second.” I made my way back through the maze of unwanted items and, when we could see each other, I said, “Please call me Lise.”
She beamed. “I’d be happy to.” Tucked in her left arm were several items that she began handing to me, starting with a bottle of water. “I thought you might be thirsty.”
“Thank you.”
“Here’s the clipboard and paper. I can get you loose leaf if you don’t want the legal pad, and I didn’t know if you’d want a pen or pencil, so I brought both.”
I thanked her again, setting the bottle of water on an old metal four-drawer filing cabinet. “I’ll be using this right away.”
“Great. And here’s the laptop. It’s one Sinny had picked up for a…guest and they left it here. I don’t expect it to be charged at all, so you’ll want to plug it in. If it doesn’t work, let me know and I’ll get you something else.”
“Perfect.”
“Do you need anything else?”
“I don’t think so.” After she turned, I said, “Actually, yes. Lots of these light bulbs need to be replaced—but I don’t think that’ll be an easy task until I get it better organized.”
“I’ll ask Henry to take a look. Can you make due with the chandelier for now?”
“Yes, definitely.” In fact, as long as I kept it on, it would only be the farthest reaches where I’d need light.
With a nod, she began walking toward the staircase. “Lunch will be at one in the kitchen.” Then she turned back around. “What do you usually like to eat midday?”
I felt my heart warm toward this kind woman again. I’d simply assumed I’d be eating whatever they served here and I’d have to accept that—but she was asking me what I wanted . “I don’t usually eat too much. If I’m busy, I’ll have an apple or some other piece of fruit. But if I have more time, I’ll eat a sandwich.”
“Ah. Do you have any favorite kind?”
“I like ham and cheese—but I also like cucumber with cream cheese.”
Edna gave me a quick nod. “Anything you hate?”
“Well…I don’t hate baloney or salami, but I wouldn’t cry if I never ate them again.”
At that, she laughed. “All right. Well, I have chef’s salad on the menu today, but we can have sandwiches tomorrow.” With a wink, she added, “On rustic bread.”
“Homemade?”
“Of course.”
As Edna turned back around, I added, “I like salads too.”
“I’m glad to hear that.”
Her footfalls echoed as she made her way back upstairs, but I barely heard the door close. Armed with the clipboard, I began making notes and jotting down ideas about how I wanted to tackle this project. I found the two closets—one on each side of the room. One was blocked with boxes, so I’d look inside at another time, but the closet on the east side was filled with coats and old clothing—plus more boxes on the floor. The bathroom was located between both but it had gold lettering on the door that said Washroom . It had nothing more than a toilet, sink, and mirror—and the fixtures on the sink were old.
I also found another set of stairs on the east side—but they appeared to be in even worse shape than the ones I’d come down. Although I could imagine this ballroom in its former grandeur, I could understand why it wasn’t used as such anymore. Not having windows was part of the problem but I thought it had also become a bit of a safety hazard.
And, really, did people ballroom dance anymore?
Maybe rich people did…another reminder that this was not my world.
I spent most of the day coming up with a plan.
And then I felt melancholy as I finally realized I wanted to do something like this with my life—find treasures and figure out more about them, store them and care for them, something these neglected items hadn’t experienced in years, maybe decades. When I’d pondered the future, I’d often thought I’d like working in a museum, and this experience, although short, convinced me that was where I belonged. So, after completing my ten-year penance for the Whittier family, I would return to school—only this time, I knew what I wanted to do with it.
When I took a short break, I sat on the bottom step on the west side where I’d begun and sent my father a long text. I told him the work I was doing and said I thought I’d like it okay before asking him to give me an update on what was going on with him.
Tucking the phone back in my pocket, I resisted the urge to research what sort of education I’d need to work in a museum. Although I could probably get away with goofing off down here, I didn’t want to do that. I felt like last night Sinclair and I had started building a bridge of trust between us, and I didn’t want to burn it down so soon, regardless of my overall feelings about him, his family, and everything between us.
Then I opened up the laptop with one goal in mind: to create a spreadsheet and come up with columns for the information I wanted to capture. I plugged it into the wall and it booted up okay. It was definitely older but I didn’t need anything state of the art to do what I needed.
There was no passcode needed and soon I arrived at the desktop and had another shock: on the screen were just three words on a blue background: Mrs. Sinclair Whittier .
At lunch, I had barely sat down with Edna at the table before I was itching to ask her questions, but I wanted to start with a softball. “Why don’t you eat breakfast with me and Mr. Whittier in the morning?”
“Oh, I do sometimes, but I’ve usually eaten by the time I get here.” And part of me wondered if Sinclair probably didn’t permit or encourage it—but I wasn’t going to ask. “You can have any of these dressings, but I recommend this citrus vinaigrette. I make it myself and it’s perfect for a summer salad.”
“I’d love that.”
She’d also supplied a tray of assorted crackers, and I realized that maybe Edna didn’t spoil Sinclair as much as I’d thought she did. Instead, she just seemed to naturally be what I thought of as the perfect hostess. She seemed to genuinely enjoy doing nice things for him— and me —which stirred more warm feelings in myself than I maybe should have allowed.
But I was growing to love this woman.
As I poured dressing on my salad, I said, “About the laptop…”
“Doesn’t it work?”
“It does, but…I think maybe I shouldn’t use it.”
“Why ever not, dear?”
I speared a chunk of cheese and lettuce and kept my eyes focused there. “Because it belongs to Mr. Whittier’s wife—or, um, ex-wife?”
“What?” Edna started laughing. “Mr. Whittier’s never been married. Why would you think that?”
“Because the desktop background says the words ‘Mrs. Sinclair Whittier.’ Why would someone claim it as theirs in that way if they weren’t married to him?”
Again, Edna chuckled, shaking her head. “That’s the laptop Mr. Whittier used to let a woman named Natasha use when she visited. Apparently, she felt like their relationship was more serious than Mr. Whittier did. She’s lucky he didn’t see it.”
“Oh.”
“Then again, maybe he did . That might be part of why she’s not here anymore”
I took a bite of my salad as an excuse to not talk but I found so many strange emotions swirling through my brain. I felt a tinge of jealousy, which was bizarre, because even though I found Sinclair irresistibly attractive, I did not have designs on him. Irritation was another emotion bubbling below the surface that, for the work I was doing, I got someone else’s used item rather than something new.
But, logically, I knew everything I was feeling was silly. Why would they waste money on a new laptop when there was a perfectly good used one? I certainly wouldn’t have done that, even if I’d had extra money—but couldn’t they have removed that woman’s traces before giving it to me to use?
After I swallowed, I asked, “Would it be okay if I removed that background?”
“Heavens, yes. I guarantee Mr. Whittier would not be happy if he saw it.”
And what I didn’t tell Edna was that I didn’t want him to think I’d put it there. In fact, I’d already let my guard down, a stupid move in and of itself. I really needed to remember that the man I was working for was my worst enemy.
When Edna had told me dinner that evening would be served in the dining room, I worried that might mean I had to dress more formally, even though she hadn’t said so—but I didn’t own anything extravagant and I hadn’t even packed all the clothes I owned. In fact, I realized as I pondered my predicament, I hadn’t even brought my winter coat, much less a jacket.
So I grabbed one of my light summery dresses and put it on with sandals and headed down. I’d seen inside the dining room every time I went to the kitchen but didn’t realize until I entered it just how breathtaking it was. The windows faced west and, since Sinclair wasn’t in the dining room when I got there, I walked over there first. The yard outside the windows, like on the east side, was ensconced by three walls—the long garage at the back that ended close to the sidewalk, this wall that ran north to south and had several rooms I’d never seen, and the wall of the west wing. The yard was spectacular, thanks to Henry’s gardening skills and pride in his work.
I turned to take in the room and once again had that sinking sensation that I didn’t belong here. The chandelier was unlike any of the others I’d seen in the mansion thus far—it was like a shower of lights raining down rather than a series of curved arms. The table was a dark polished wood with a velvet runner and a vase with sprays of dried plants, and the seats looked like they were made of gold—shiny and uncomfortable looking. The floor was white marble with gold veins, also polished to perfection. Against one wall was a side table and above it was a large round mirror.
I didn’t feel like I’d be able to eat in here comfortably.
“Ms. Miller.”
Sinclair’s voice echoing in the quiet space unexpectedly made me jump—but I turned around, hoping I seemed composed enough. “Mr. W.”
Only the slight twitch of the corner of his lip gave away that he didn’t like when I called him that. He still wore the dark gray suit he’d had on this morning with the blue and gray striped tie. The accents of blue seemed to emphasize the color of his eyes—making him seem colder…and yet more mysterious. “Have a seat.”
“Where?”
“I’ll be sitting here,” he said, indicating the head of the table, setting to the side a black leather portfolio holding papers and a pen. “You can sit anywhere you like, but I’d like you close enough that we can talk. I have the contract here so we can discuss it.”
I could have been defiant and sat as far away as I thought I could get away with, but I instead sat in a chair right next to his at a diagonal—but I chose the side with the mirror so that it would be behind me. It seemed high enough that I wouldn’t have to look at myself eat, but I didn’t want to take that chance.
Before I could pull the chair out all the way, he said, “Allow me.” After he moved the chair far enough from the table that I could sit, I did so, and he helped push the chair in. I found it odd that he did things like that for me when he’d made it quite clear that he planned to punish me for what I’d done. Maybe he was doing it to keep me off guard.
After I sat, he did so as well. He asked, “Would you like to give me an update on the dungeon project?”
I almost laughed at how he put it but instead worried that what I was about to say might change his mind—because, if I liked the work, how much punishment could it actually be? Still, I was going to take that chance. “I think I’m going to enjoy it.”
Edna came in with a tray holding glassware and a carafe of water. She filled each glass before placing one in front of me and then another in front of Sinclair, leaving the half-filled carafe between us. As she started to place a wine glass at my setting, he said, “None for Ms. Miller.”
Nodding, Edna put a glass in front of him and then left the room. After he took a sip of water, he asked, “Do you have an idea of how long it will take you to inventory everything down there?”
“No. But I did create a spreadsheet to capture all the important information and I’ve started coming up with a plan for how I’ll tackle each section.”
“Good.”
Edna appeared once again rolling a cart, holding elegant china I hadn’t yet seen. It was mostly white with a silvery pattern and it looked delicate. She set on the table two small pitchers and a butter dish along with a basket that gave off the aroma of freshly baked bread. Afterward, she set the silverware and napkins in place in front of Sinclair and me, along with a small plate for each of us near our water glasses.
While she worked, Sinclair said, “Keep me apprised of your progress. Next week, I’ll give you a time sheet and you’ll see that I expect you to enter details of what you did throughout the day. You will, at the end of the week, record anything else you feel is pertinent.”
“Okay. All the work I did today made me think that going to school to study for a career where I was doing something like this could help me with this work. I was thinking—”
His anger seemed to come out of nowhere—but after the first two words, he reined himself in so that he wasn’t yelling. “You should have thought about that before allowing the college’s simulation lab to be destroyed.”
My anger simmered as I began to believe I’d never hear the end of that.
But before I could counter, he continued. “Which reminds me…you are working for me, so when are you going to sign the contract? Your ten-year clock doesn’t start counting down until we’ve reached an agreement in writing.”
He really was a bastard. Cold and cruel and heartless. And the rest of our conversation only punctuated that belief.
Still, I tried to keep my emotions close, hoping my tone sounded neutral. “Ten years is a long time. I don’t want to be away from my father for that long. He might be dying for all I know—and I don’t know how much time he has left.”
I couldn’t read his face.
Edna reemerged in the dining room, holding two small plates of beautiful green salads, similar to what she and I had eaten for lunch. After placing them in front of us, she left without a word.
Sinclair took his napkin off the table and laid it over his lap before picking up one of the two small pitchers and looked inside. Then he picked up the other one, and, after glancing inside, poured it on his salad. It looked to be a balsamic vinaigrette. Even though I was hanging, waiting for his response—if I was to get one from him—I followed his actions, placing my napkin in my lap. The other pitcher held the citrus vinaigrette and, even though I’d loved it, I decided to try the other. While I poured it on my salad, Sinclair picked up the basket, pulling back the linen cover and removing a roll, placing it on the small plate. He held the basket out to me so I could take a roll as well.
“Thank you.” Although I said it, it wasn’t backed with a feeling of gratitude. It was hard to be appreciative when I was filled with so much anger.
“Maybe it’s a good thing we haven’t signed the contract yet. We can negotiate.” I felt a tiny glimmer of hope as he tore open his roll and began spreading butter on it. “I’ll make you a deal to cut your time in half to five years.”
My heart lightened at the suggestion. “I’m all ears.”
“If you agree to sleep with me whenever I ask, I’ll have James rewrite the contract, reducing the time you owe.”
Had I heard him right? Sleep with him? As in having sex ? What a disgusting suggestion—not because he wasn’t irresistibly attractive but because the idea of paying my debt with sex was repulsive. Slowly, a heavy emotion began to seep into my bones, one of feeling cheap and devalued. And, if I did sleep with him just to reduce my sentence, how would I ever be able to face my father again?
I hated to admit it to myself but…it was tempting.
But there was another thing, something huge: I was a virgin. Part of being regarded as the lowest person in your community made you untouchable to boys, except for the few that wanted to use and abuse a girl without making a commitment. It had been a little different when I attended WCC, but the only real interest shown to me had come from Mr. Sherwood. And, besides, simply dating someone didn’t mean I’d give up my virginity. I would only give it to the right man—and I knew I wouldn’t find him in Winchester, any more than I’d find him here sitting next to me.
Yet a part of me was intrigued…titillated. I imagined what it would be like with him, and in the darkest recesses of my soul, I wanted to take him up on his offer.
Why, after all we’d gone through already, did part of me want this man to have his way with me? It was something I couldn’t understand.
But I wasn’t about to tell Sinclair any of those things. Instead, I took a sip of water, hoping the time would help me speak calmly. He was already eating his salad as if our conversation had been about the weather and, for some reason, that simply made me angrier—and I hated how my hand was visibly shaking so I quickly set the glass back down. “That would make me a prostitute.”
Without even glancing up from his plate, he said, “You don’t have to look at it that way.”
His now calm demeanor did nothing but stoke my inner fury. “I don’t plan on having sex with someone I don’t love.” Even if that man seemed to push all my arousal buttons without even trying.
“I understand that you are of the fairer sex, but this would be a simple negotiation—and it would get you closer to what you say you want.”
Fairer sex. It was like he was trying to say anything to piss me off. “It cheapens the whole act. I won’t do it.”
“Suit yourself.” He took another bite of his roll before stabbing several lettuce leaves.
Meanwhile, I hadn’t eaten a bite—and, even though the rolls had smelled heavenly and I’d looked forward to eating them, my appetite had been dulled by our conversation. This time when I spoke, I couldn’t mask the anger. “Fine. I’ll sign your stupid contract. As is. ”
It was far better than the alternative.
Arching an eyebrow, he set down his fork, picking up his napkin off his lap to wipe his hands. Then he stood and opened the portfolio, pulling out several sheets of paper, ones I’d seen the day before. I got out of the chair and joined him on the other side of the table. When he handed me the pen, I snatched it away and flipped through the pages to sign. As if to add insult to injury, he said, “And the non-disclosure agreement.”
I turned to the last page and signed it as well, throwing the pen on the table, but it wasn’t nearly as dramatic an action as I’d hoped it would be.
And then I walked to the doorway, just as Edna appeared in the hallway, pushing the cart. I nodded at her and began walking in the direction of the stairs. Behind me, I heard Sinclair’s voice boom, “I didn’t dismiss you yet.”
I pretended I didn’t hear him, but I was pretty sure there wasn’t a clause about waiting to be dismissed in his vile contract. I expected him to follow me, but I wasn’t turning around unless or until I was forced to.
As I closed the door to my room, hot tears poured down my cheeks. Sinclair Whittier had won yet another battle in our war.