Chapter 18
I hadn’t thought much about what day it was, evidenced by the fact that I put on clothes for working downstairs. But when I arrived in the kitchen that morning, Sinclair was not wearing his usual suit. He wore a blue polo and khaki pants—and, rather than being seated at the table, he was over at the coffee pot, pouring himself a cup.
“Good morning,” I said, realizing today was Saturday.
“Ms. Miller,” he said, nodding. “We haven’t talked much about weekends, so I suppose I should bring you up to speed. Because you have weekends off as does Edna, you’ll be feeding yourself. There are leftovers in the refrigerator, along with other meals Edna has made for us—but you can also have fruit, eggs, toast. Help yourself.”
So I didn’t have to work today. Had that been in that stupid contract?
Before I could ask a question, he continued. “And next week, Edna will resume her regular schedule. She usually leaves between ten AM and noon on Friday, and I let her know yesterday that she can do that again. She worked longer hours this week to help you adjust.”
I got a coffee mug out of the cabinet. “But I can work today if I want?”
“I won’t stop you but I don’t think it will change much in the grand scheme of things.”
Looking up at the coffee pot, I felt irritated at myself that I noticed how the blue of his shirt intensified the shade of his eyes. It made him even better looking—and the scratches on his cheek were fading some but still gave him that rugged appeal. “What do you mean?”
“You take minimum wage and you multiply it by the number of hours you work. If we’re being generous, working every Saturday might earn you another ten-thousand a year—but it still wouldn’t get you to 1.5 million dollars in ten. So you might as well take the weekend off and enjoy it.”
As I stirred my coffee, inspiration struck. “Could I go see my dad then?”
A small smile appeared on his face as he buttered a piece of toast. “No. But you can talk to him all day unfettered if you like.”
What had been slight irritation at myself moments earlier became full-fledged anger at the man standing in front of me. “It would be easy enough to go and be back tomorrow night in plenty of time for work Monday morning.”
“You’re right. But what have you done so far that would lead me to trust you enough to do that?”
“I’ve been doing what you’ve asked.”
He arched a dark brown eyebrow—and if I hadn’t been angry with him, I would have been angry with myself for thinking it made him irresistible. “And you also ran away, putting your life in jeopardy, breaking our agreement.” Not wanting to look at him anymore, I opened the door of the refrigerator and began scanning for evidence of the so-called leftovers and prepared meals, knowing I could always grab a piece of fruit off the bowl on the island. “Remember our contract?”
“Like I could forget it.”
“At the risk of sounding condescending, considering you said you couldn’t forget it, anywhere you go outside the mansion must have pre-approval.”
Shutting the refrigerator door empty handed, I stood, crossing my arms. “Fine. How do I get pre-approval to go see my dad?”
His voice was calm and steady, like the waves of a lake. “You’re on the right path.”
“What does that mean?”
He picked up his cup of coffee. “If you continue working diligently as Edna reports you have been, that will go a long way to proving to me that you can be trusted.”
Ah, but I knew that couldn’t be all of it. Even if I kept working like I had been, if I continually pissed him off with my defiance, would he excuse the behavior? “Is that all?”
He knew what I was getting at. “If you meet the terms of the contract…then you’ll know you’re on track.”
“I don’t have it memorized. Shouldn’t I have a copy?”
“Yes, you should. I’ll go over your timesheet with you tomorrow and I’ll give you a copy of everything you signed.”
Maybe I could be less bristly if I knew it meant I could see my father regularly. That would make this prison sentence so much more bearable. “Thank you.”
After he finished the coffee in his cup, he said, “I promise you will have plenty of opportunity to earn my trust.”
The way he said it made me believe him. The tone of his voice was genuine, sincere—and without its usual arrogance.
Once again, I had a glimmer of hope—and I was going to hang on as hard as I could.
After we finished eating, Sinclair said, “I won’t stop you if you really want to work today. I know you said you’re enjoying it, but I’m a big believer in taking time off as well. If you give yourself a break from working hard, you’ll find yourself refreshed and eager when you return. At least, that’s seemed to be the case in my experience.”
I knew that to be true in terms of school, although I’d never been able to afford going an entire weekend without studying. Still, breaks had always been important—even during finals week. “Okay.”
“So why don’t I show you all the mansion has to offer in terms of entertainment?”
I liked the idea. Although I’d explored some on Tuesday when I’d been cleaning bathrooms, I hadn’t seen everything—and maybe there was something in the east wing I’d get to see. Hoping I didn’t seem too eager, I said, “I’d like that.”
“Let’s start on the third floor.”
So we walked up the first flight of stairs and I asked, “So what do you do at your job?”
“It’s not nearly as glamorous as you might think.” We continued walking up the stairs side by side and I watched the chandelier out of my peripheral vision, knowing I could finally look down on it if I chose to. Sinclair continued, “My family has a lot of irons in the fire, so to speak. What do you know of the Whittier Corporation?”
“Not much, other than you guys like to rape the earth for resources.”
As we reached the top of the stairs, he let out a breath which was, no doubt, indicative of his frustration with me—but I didn’t care. “I believe you’re referring to our mining division.”
“Yes. I saw the evidence of your corporation’s work every day in Winchester. The hills are scarred and I don’t know when they’ll ever recover.”
“Mining is just one facet of the Whittier Corporation,” he said, walking down the hall of the west wing. We also own hotels and real estate. We manufacture textiles and we’re involved in transportation and agriculture—and those are just the ventures I’m privy to.”
It boggled my mind. “And what do you do exactly?”
“None of those things. I run the Whittier Foundation. That’s the philanthropic division of our corporation.”
As we neared the end of the hall, I said, “So does that mean you’re in charge of charity?”
“Exactly.”
That explained his involvement with Winchester Community College and the corporation’s generous donations to the school over the years—and I hated that it made him just a little more human in my eyes.
Before I could say anything else, he led me through the door that I already knew had a grand piano in it. “This is the music room,” he said, walking over to the piano. “Do you play?”
“No.” I’d always wanted music lessons, but my dad couldn’t afford them. I’d learned a little in music classes and from the internet, but I focused on other, less expensive things I enjoyed, like reading and walking in the woods just outside town. “What about you?”
“I can—but I don’t.”
That seemed foolish. “Why not?”
He was looking out the window at the treetops blocking the view of the street. “My father forced all of us to learn a classical instrument. We had lessons several days a week plus practice time. I chose the piano, not knowing that I could have chosen a clarinet like my older brothers and, upon achieving competence, could have moved on to something else I would have enjoyed. Instead, I was a slave to that thing.”
“This one right here?”
Turning, he said, “Yes. But…I don’t hate it anymore. It’s lovely. That said, I don’t want to play because it reminds me of…” He crossed the room, opening a door to a large closet. “I don’t know why we call it the music room, because there aren’t any other instruments. Instead, we have folding chairs in here in case we wanted to have people listen, I suppose.” There were two comfy-looking love seats in the room, so if he had a party, that would be a time to dig out the chairs. “Maybe I should turn this room into something else.”
I wasn’t about to tell him what to do with the place, but I did understand wanting to get rid of symbols that reminded you of something that hurt you in the past.
Was that what the dungeon represented?
Although I didn’t have a dungeon, I did have memories. After my mother had left and six months had gone by with nothing but a short conversation, I took all my pictures of her and put them in a small shoebox, stuffing it under my bed where I wouldn’t think about it. Still, I did for a long time—and one day I took the shoebox to the big trashcan outside, fetching it out the next day when trash was due to be picked up.
So I also understood why he would want to keep it anyway.
Closing the closet door, he said, “But since you don’t play, I imagine you won’t find this room fun, either—so let’s head down the hall.”
And we did.
“First,” he said, opening another door, “I come to this room seven days a week unless I’m sick or out of town.” We entered the gym, another spot I’d peeked in on when I’d been cleaning. “You’re welcome to use it during downtime. I had more equipment but got rid of the elliptical because I didn’t use it and neither did any of my guests—and I replaced it with this guy here.” He placed his hand on a big black piece of equipment that stood at least seven feet tall. “There’s no limit to what you can do with this baby, but you do it mostly with bands—so it’s safer. If you want to do resistance training and you haven’t worked much with free weights, I recommend this.”
A small smile formed on my face. “I wouldn’t know how to do anything with it. I think I could fly just as easily as I could use it to lift weights.”
“If you ever want to use it, let me know and I’ll show you.”
And be beholden to him for another thing? I didn’t think so. Still, I said, “Thanks.” There was a treadmill and an exercise bike, and I thought to myself I’d rather just walk outside or ride a real bike rather than be stuck still pedaling to nowhere. To one side were a rack of free weights and a few yoga mats and bands—and I wondered what equipment he used when he was in here.
By the door was a small bench with towels stacked on the end next to a mini fridge. As we walked out, he said, “There are bottles of water in there if you need it.”
In the hall, I thought it would be just as easy to have a reusable water bottle that you’d fill up before your workout—but that, in addition to the gym itself, was just another reminder of the huge chasm between us.
He also showed me what I’d already discovered was the game room and he assured me I was also welcome here. Soon, we were outside while still on the third floor in the area with a table, multiple potted plants and shrubs, and several chairs. It was on the west corner of the house, facing the street in front and the side street, giving quite a view when you could see through the trees. The stonework beneath our feet was remarkable, something of a mosaic of interesting patterns and colors, but no discernable objects. He walked over to the railing, resting his arms on it. “This is one of my favorite places, especially in autumn when the leaves are starting to turn. That tree,” he said, pointing to the right, “has leaves that turn a bright yellow before shifting into an intense reddish-purple. And then its branches are bare.”
When I joined him there, I noticed the fountain was to the left of the tree. “Do you leave the fountain on all winter?”
“No. Henry winterizes it in October and gets it back up and running in March.”
“I thought he just took care of the plants.”
“I try to employ him year round. He also sets up all the Christmas lights…but I am concerned that I might have to hire someone else to do that this year. He nearly fell off a ladder last year. I’ll have to find something else for him to do.” He pointed to another tree on the west side of the house. “This tree’s leaves turn bright red.”
“I understand why this would be your favorite place in the fall.”
With what looked like might be a subtle grin, he said, “Maybe I don’t hate the entire mansion…just most of it.”
And I still wondered why—but he said, “Let’s head downstairs. The second floor is nothing but bedrooms, but we’ve got a few more places you might like.”
Once we were back on the main floor, we walked down the west wing—and I suspected we were heading to a room I’d already admired. Sure enough, we stepped into the library and I tried to act like it was my first time. “This is amazing.”
“I have to admit I like this room too. Feel free to borrow any books you like. Just try to put them back where you found them.”
“Will you charge me overdue fees?”
“That depends.” He was actually being playful —and I hated that I liked him that way. As he walked over to one of the gargantuan bookshelves, he said, “When I was a little boy, I planned to read all the books in here—but I no longer have such a notion.”
“Why not? I think that’s an admirable goal.”
“That may be—but I read a lot of modern texts. Eventually, they might make their way in here, but much of what’s in here is at the very least thirty years old.” He walked over to another bookcase to draw my eyes to a particular shelf. “Take these encyclopedias. They’re out of date—and, while some of the information would still be pertinent, much of it is dated or obsolete. When you can get what you need off the internet, knowing it’s current, there’s no need to open one of these old things.”
“Except for the history.”
At that, he gave me a warm smile. “Yes, except for the history.” His eyes lingered on mine for a bit before he said, “I’m sure you’d love to stay in here all day—and you can come back—but there are a few other rooms I’d like to show you.”
Next to the library was a room he called the study —which just seemed like a room with chairs and tables. Then we headed to the east wing—first floor only. There he showed me the sunroom, full of lovely plants and flowers and a wall of glass to let the outside light in. It smelled good in there, earthy and fresh, and Sinclair admitted he didn’t hate this room either. Next door was what he called the television room , something a poor girl like me would call a living or family room .
Across the hall was a gallery with more paintings and sculptures. This room had no windows at all. It was like the quiet dream place I’d constructed in my head years ago. Yes, I could spend lots of time here. Sinclair said, “When I was a child, we used to change this room up every so often.”
“Moving things around?”
“No. Putting new paintings and sculptures in here, just to keep it fresh.”
“Maybe that’s what all that artwork downstairs was for.” It seemed a shame that it was all neglected when, in the past, each piece had had its time—but I wasn’t about to say that out loud.
“I’m certain of it. But no one goes in here anymore, so what’s the point?” As he walked toward the doorway, he added, “Nothing’s changed in here for at least fifteen years—so you might not want to come in here very often either.”
I found it sad that artwork wasn’t being admired, but it didn’t seem to bother Sinclair much. The art was probably just another commodity—but it seemed like more than that. It felt like he was dismissing something. As I walked out of the room, I admired a painting of trees shrouded by mist—but what I loved about it was that it had a surreal quality, almost like the trees weren’t quite rooted in the ground but hovering above it.
Also on the east wing was a dry sauna and Sinclair said he would’ve preferred it next to the gym and he rarely used it. Then he announced, “Now we’ll go outside.” He opened the door to the east side patio, holding it for me to walk through. “Every once in a while, I’ll have a party and we’ll bake pizza in this oven. And something I would never tell my father: sometimes I’ll grill a hamburger or bratwurst out here.”
That seemed…odd—and not just that he wouldn’t tell his father. “You do that yourself? You don’t have Edna do it?”
“Well…she gets the patties ready for me, slices up all the vegetables, bakes the buns—but I do this part out here. She doesn’t like using the grill.” Before I could comment further on how using a barbecue somehow felt normal to me, he was walking down the steps toward the back of the mansion. “Come on.”
To the east, there was a tall stone wall separating the Whittier property from its neighbor, making this area fully enclosed. “This is the garden,” he said as we walked past the area I’d seen before just outside his office window. “Henry grows a few vegetables here,” he said, pointing to the one spot I hadn’t been able to view from his office, “but he mostly uses it to grow flowers.”
“Did he put the garden here because your office is there?” I asked, pointing.
“No. The other way around. There are two office rooms on the west rear hallway, but I liked this view. It’s secluded. I don’t have to see the street, so I can concentrate without distraction.”
Before I could ask another question, we walked around the trellis. There, ensconced by three walls—the mansion to the right, the garage directly in front, and the barrier wall to the left—and the trellis was a beautiful swimming pool and hot tub. The water was blue and inviting, especially as the heat was bearing down on us.
“So,” he said, “you’ll find no lack of entertainment during your down time. And…if you can prove yourself trustworthy, we’ll talk in a month or so about letting you visit your father once a month. Does that sound acceptable?”
“Yes.” I tried not to sound too eager—but all of the things he owned couldn’t make me excited or happy. Knowing I could see my father would be the only thing that would keep me going.
And I was certain he’d sensed that.