Chapter 22
H alfway through dinner, my stomach had calmed down and I tried enjoying the food.
It helped that the servers hadn’t made me feel like I had to have wine like everyone else at the table.
Fortunately, the salad, though delicious, had been small—and I’d completely ignored the bread served with it.
Was this—dinner and a ballet—something the Whittiers did fairly frequently or was it a once-a-year event?
It was clear to me how important it all was to them—all four men wore tuxes, their wives (or date, in Warren’s case) wearing expensive jewelry and fine clothing, and I wondered if the women’s days had gone like mine with someone fussing over their hair and makeup as if they were royalty.
We also had this room to ourselves and it was connected to the kitchen.
The staff from time to time would tell us what they were doing or what would be coming next, but the elder Whittier seemed to ignore it.
Instead, he was dominating the conversation at the table, talking about a recent shareholder meeting.
But I was glad for that—because, even though I found it boring, it helped me relax.
There was no attention on me.
Their father’s wife— Madeline?
—and the younger Augustus’s wife whose name I couldn’t remember were talking quietly between themselves, while Warren and his older brother chatted when their father wasn’t talking, with Warren’s date interjecting with an occasional comment.
But she blended right in, making the two men laugh.
Once in a while, father Augustus would demand a refocus of their attention while he began talking about another important angle regarding the shareholder meeting.
Sinclair was the only son who seemed to really pay attention.
Once, he squeezed my hand under the table—but I didn’t know if it was for my benefit or for his.
Soon, when our main courses were delivered to the table, I wasn’t sure that I wanted any of it: A steak garnished with some sort of greenery, next to a bowl of mashed potatoes and delicious-looking glazed brussels sprouts, served on a huge plate.
Fortunately, the steak looked small…
but I wasn’t in the mood and I wondered who’d made the decision that everyone here would be eating steak.
Sinclair must have read my mind.
Leaning over, he whispered, “This is the best steak you’ll ever taste. It’s raised locally, and the chef works magic with it. Just taste it.”
Turning my head, I tried to think of something snappy to say, but it died on my lips.
Sinclair’s eyes and his earnest expression did much to quell my nerves again, and I quickly nodded.
Then Warren asked, “How did you two meet, Lise?” When I shifted my focus to him, I was again amazed at how much the brothers looked alike—dark hair and the same strong jawline.
But Warren’s eyes were brown, rather than blue.
It also didn’t escape my attention that Augustus got his mother’s green eyes, and I wondered how Sinclair felt about that.
Sinclair answered. “She works for me.”
“Ah…the good ol’ Foundation. Gets ‘em every time.”
What did that even mean?
Sinclair just shook his head, cutting his steak.
But Warren wasn’t done. “So what do you do there?
”
“She’s my personal assistant,” Sinclair said, obviously wanting to keep my real work secret.
And then it washed over me, confirming what I’d already suspected in the back of my mind—none of them knew who I was or that I was repaying the debt I owed for the destruction of WCC’s simulation lab.
I had a clean slate here.
Instantly, my muscles relaxed and then I realized that much of the dread I’d been experiencing had to do with multiple factors—not just that the Whittiers were so different but that we were enemies…
and especially because Sinclair and I had crossed a big line.
But they didn’t know any of that—although Warren’s curiosity had him digging.
So that Sinclair wouldn’t get stuck answering everything for me, I said, “I’m still pretty new…learning the ropes.”
“Not even letting ‘em settle in yet before putting the moves on, eh, little bro?”
Already, I didn’t like Warren—but that didn’t mean he wasn’t saying something I shouldn’t be listening to. My mind began racing all over the place, wondering what Sinclair might be hiding from me.
Did he always date employees? Was I just another notch on his proverbial bedpost?
But their father once again overrode the conversation. “That’s enough.
Warren, why don’t you enlighten us all on how business negotiations are going with West Communications?
”
More boring business talk—but I immediately understood that Warren and his date were only there for business.
Even if there was attraction between the two of them, they were here first and foremost to solidify a business partnership.
“I’d say just fine—wouldn’t you, Hannah?”
The blonde woman next to Warren could have been a model.
She was simply gorgeous with exotic looks.
I couldn’t quite explain what it was about her face that made her look so stunning, but she reminded me of the models I’d seen in fashion magazines I’d glanced through while waiting in line at the store when my father and I shopped together—sharp, angular bones, hollow cheeks, and artfully applied eyeliner.
I reminded myself that she might have had some help, just as I had.
I couldn’t tell how old she was, though.
She could have been just a couple years older than I or even Warren’s age.
There was nothing about her, from the way she looked and dressed to her behavior and speech, that gave anything away.
When she spoke next, I wasn’t able to tell if she was joking or dead serious.
“Isn’t it impolite to discuss negotiations before they’re finalized?”
It was as if I could feel the elder Augustus’s rage, and maybe it was because I was sitting next to him—but his face and words didn’t betray a thing.
“With the public or the press, it would be rude and even premature—but aren’t we all family here?”
I noticed the slightest twitch of Hannah’s brow—and I thought I could see the future.
There wasn’t a thing to base it on, though, because I didn’t know these people.
I couldn’t even remember all their names.
And I certainly wasn’t able to empathize with anything they were going through, any more than they would be able to understand what it was like to figure out one-hundred different ways to cook beans and rice.
The future I thought I saw was that negotiations with West Communications would fail.
That was what Hannah’s almost imperceptible brow movement told me.
For a split second, I thought maybe she and I were alike…
that we were both outsiders.
But I knew that wasn’t true, because it was evident that she still felt comfortable here, like she was in her element.
She wasn’t the sheep in wolf’s clothing that I was.
She too was a wolf.
And it was evident by her next few words.
“You’d like to think so, wouldn’t you, Augustus?” Her gaze darted to the younger Augustus’s wife as she stood to lean over the table.
“Vivian, right?”
It was the first time I’d heard the other woman speak.
“Yes?”
“Does the family usually talk about negotiations…say, at Thanksgiving or Christmas dinner?”
Vivian didn’t seem too happy at being called out—but her loyalty was clear.
“They talk about business all the time. Sometimes Augie even talks about it in his sleep.”
Her husband laughed but it didn’t quite reach his eyes—and not because he didn’t appreciate his wife’s save, but because he wasn’t happy with Hannah.
About that point, I was feeling relieved that I had blended into the background—but that wasn’t the case at all.
Hannah was looking for blood and turned to me next.
“What about you…Lise? Do you feel like we’re all family here?”
Why had she dragged me into it?
I’d hoped to be a fly on the wall—and I was only here to support Sinclair.
Regardless, I didn’t want to get dragged into whatever game this woman was playing.
I immediately thought of the chess games Sinclair and I played on occasion.
Pawns were sacrificed because they were viewed as unimportant and dispensable—and I believed she thought of me this way.
But I wasn’t about to make things difficult with Sinclair and his family…
because I suspected that happened enough as it was.
And I would not be this woman’s pawn, regardless of how I felt about the Whittiers.
“I just met everyone this evening—but Sinclair has been a gracious and kind employer and he has most certainly made me feel like family. If everyone else here is like Sinclair, then I think I might feel that way after getting to know them.”
Just as I’d been able to feel their father’s wrath at the woman interrogating me, I could sense Sinclair’s satisfaction with my answer—but I wasn’t about to look at him for approval.
Hannah let out a short, sharp laugh, one indicating she found my answer unbelievable.
“So I guess you want to hear all about the negotiations our two companies are going through?”
“There are worse things you could talk about.”
She sighed then narrowed her eyes at me into a glare, sitting back down in her chair.
Well, there was one friend I hadn’t made this evening.
Warren let out a nervous chuckle.
“I think we’re going to need more wine.” He and Hannah began talking quietly between the two of them, but I was tense and poised, covered by that strange sensation of waiting for another shoe to drop.
It never did.
And Hannah still didn’t give the head of the family what he’d asked for.
The younger Augustus— Augie —said, “I saw the numbers you raised last quarter. Pretty impressive, Sin.”
As Sinclair and his oldest brother began talking, I felt my muscles relax once again—until I sensed the eldest Whittier’s eyes on me.
After taking in a long, slow breath, I turned to meet his gaze.
And he was smiling at me.
“In case you’re still around at Thanksgiving, I’m extending an official invitation to the family dinner. It’s clear you know a good deal when you see one.”
Such nice words…
but would he be saying that if he knew who I really was?
After dinner, we all casually walked down the block and around the corner—less than five minutes—to arrive at the auditorium.
The dessert we’d enjoyed had filled me up and was yet another experience I hadn’t had till now: a chocolate torte that tasted heavenly.
At least I could agree with his family about chocolate.
It wasn’t until we arrived that I found out we would be watching Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake .
Although I didn’t know what to expect, I hoped I wouldn’t hate it.
If having our own private dining area at the restaurant hadn’t been enough to convince me of the Whittier family’s wealth, the auditorium did.
The place was huge—but we weren’t escorted into the main house.
Instead, we were taken to a box close to the stage and it was as if it were made for us.
There were seats for eight of us—and Sinclair and I wound up taking the seats farthest away from the stage.
But there were no bad seats in there.
All eight of us had an up-close view of the stage from slightly higher up so that we could see everything, including all the other audience members as they arrived in various areas of the house.
Sinclair leaned close to me, putting his lips next to my ear.
It reminded me of how much I wanted this man, even while drowning in his world, feeling like I was losing a part of myself.
I was here for him, because of him—and if anyone had told me several months ago that I’d be falling in love with this man, I would have laughed.
“You are amazing,” was all he whispered.
I grinned and turned my head to him.
“Why do you say that?”
“You won my father over. How the hell did you do that?”
I simply shrugged, feeling the food in my stomach lurch as if I were suddenly on a roller coaster and going down fast—because if his father knew who I really was, he probably would have asked the staff at the restaurant to serve my head on a platter.
Sinclair saw it on my face.
“Are you all right? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
I lied.
“I think I ate something that disagreed with me. I need to find the ladies’ room.”
Already standing, Vivian leaned over behind us.
“I’m heading there too.”
Although I was irritated at first that she’d overheard part of our conversation and didn’t mind that we knew, I was glad for her to lead the way.
The bathrooms weren’t too far from where our box was, but the place was huge and I could have easily gotten lost.
When we entered the restroom, she said, “Sinny’s right. You look pale.”
“I feel like I’m going to be sick.”
Her eyes widened, but she didn’t say anything else.
Hurrying, I went to the stall farthest away from the main door and barely lifted the toilet seat before the contents of my stomach came rushing out.
And once it started, there was no stopping it.
Although I would continue to blame it on something I ate, the truth was my nerves just couldn’t take it anymore.
My body had needed to do something to get rid of my anxiety—and apparently this was it.
I didn’t know how long had passed when Vivian quietly rapped on the door.
“Are you okay? Can I get you something?”
Out of habit, I almost told her no.
But then I said, “Please let Sinclair know I’ll be out as soon as I can—but I need a few minutes. Please don’t wait for me. I don’t want you to miss anything.”
“Only if you’re sure…”
“I am.”
Once she left, I took several deep breaths and then rolled off some toilet paper so I could wipe off my mouth.
My breath was still shaky and my stomach muscles hurt from the exertion—but I was feeling a little better, even if empty.
At the sink, I ran the water and scooped up several mouthfuls—first, to rinse out my mouth and then to rehydrate.
An older woman came out of the stall that had been next to mine, but I didn’t know if she’d heard my retching, so I gave her a tiny smile.
“Would you like a mint? I always carry extras in my purse.”
Her kindness warmed me through and through.
“Yes, thank you.”
“Just a second.” After she washed and dried her hands, she opened her purse and handed me a little red-and-white candy wrapped in plastic.
“Do you feel like you’ll be able to enjoy the show?”
“I think so,” I answered, unwrapping the candy.
“Well, they say peppermint is good for an upset stomach, so it’ll do double duty.” With a wink, she headed toward the door, and I followed.
She stopped at the door to the box behind ours and gave me a wave.
Soon, I was entering the Whittier box and Sinclair stood, waiting for me to sit.
“Are you all right? We can leave—”
“No, I’m okay.”
With that, he smiled.
His voice was soft as we sat back down.
“Well, you got here just in the nick of time.” Just after he said that, a roar of applause filled the space—and, when I looked down, I saw the orchestra poised to begin, the conductor holding a barely visible wand in the air.
And then the strains of an instrument, an oboe, something I didn’t know at the time but learned later.
Its sound was soft, quiet, mournful—and yet it filled that entire space.
I’d heard this tune before, but I couldn’t place it.
As the oboe continued telling its wordless story, it was as if I could collectively feel everyone in the auditorium holding their breaths to make space for its sound.
Soon, though, the entire orchestra was in motion, even though the music was still restrained, as if holding back its whole power.
Something about the tune sounded familiar to me, but I wasn’t sure why.
I was fascinated simply watching the orchestra play from above—how the conductor would move his hands to keep time while also subtly pointing at different sections and how they would respond.
I would see woodwinds brought to musicians’ mouths or bows begin moving in unison.
And then the red curtain on the stage opened as the music became livelier and louder, celebratory—and the entire auditorium erupted in applause at the sight of dancers posed on stage.
I got caught up in it—in the splendor, the story, and the costumes.
The dancers held my attention, and I quickly learned that when one did something extra special—such as leap across the stage like a graceful deer in front of bowing ballerinas—clapping was expected.
Soon, I was caught up in the beauty of the story unfolding before my eyes—and so many sections of music sounded familiar.
I didn’t know if I’d heard them played in the background somewhere or in commercials or movies, but I recognized so much of it while never knowing that it had come from this ballet.
There were two intermissions and we got up for drinks and to use the restroom, but I was eager to get back both times.
But, aside from all that, at the beginning of the second act came that same refrain that the oboe had played at the beginning, the one that sounded most familiar, like something I’d heard recently.
It was the first appearance of the villain and Odette—and the music, dancing, and story brought tears to my eyes, even as the ballerina received applause for her graceful movements.
I was shocked at how I could experience this story without a single word.
When the ballet ended, I was happy, my eyes once more filled with tears.
And I was on the verge of giggling with giddy happiness from the curtain call that was just as lovely as the entire performance before it.
I could hear several men in the audience below shouting through the applause—and I finally figured out that they were yelling bravo!
The conductor came on stage and kissed the hand of the ballerina who had played Odette and she danced to the edge of the stage, indicating the orchestra, who also deserved immense applause.
I felt bad for the other dancers who were relegated to the back while the three main characters received all the applause and attention, because they added to the beauty and splendor of what I’d seen.
When we stood from our seats to leave the box one final time, I felt breathless.
I’d been taken away to another world for two hours—during that time, I hadn’t thought about my youth growing up in Winchester any more than I’d pondered the next ten years of my life.
I’d been whisked away to another world.
Sinclair and I walked behind the rest of his family and he leaned over to whisper in my ear.
“What did you think?”
Although I was smiling, I was on the verge of tears again, marveling at how moved I’d been by the entire production.
All the stress and discomfort from dinner had vanished.
“I loved it.”
And it dawned on me, something so corny that I wouldn’t share it with Sinclair but something that felt so true: art soothes the soul.
I’d seen it with the art Sinclair had kept in his mansion, hardly noticing it anymore—but I’d felt it here tonight.
But it was true…and so I had one thing to say to Sinclair.
As we continued to make our way down the corridor, I squeezed his hand. “Thank you.”