Chapter 19
O n the morning of Christmas Eve, I packed a suitcase and left it by the door of my bedroom before heading down to breakfast.
Edna was only going to be at the mansion until noon and then she would be off for several days.
Earlier in the month, I’d asked Sinclair if I could have something shipped to the mansion—and, of course, he’d agreed.
I’d purchased acrylic paints and twine, and one weekend I made salt dough ornaments, something I’d done as a child.
In the vast kitchen and pantry, I knew I’d not only be able to find all the necessary ingredients but I suspected I’d be able to find cookie cutters as well.
When I did, I spent all afternoon on a Saturday making a set of Christmas ornaments for my dad and Edna: decorated Christmas trees, snowmen, reindeer, stars, gingerbread men, candy canes, and mittens.
My favorite part was painting, and Sinclair even joined in the fun, painting carrot noses on the snowmen and giving Santa Claus green eyes because he said they looked like mine.
When I came downstairs, I held Edna’s present in a gift bag.
I had a present for Sinclair too, but his would wait until later when we were alone.
I was surprised he wasn’t in the kitchen yet…
but maybe because he wasn’t working today, he was operating on his Saturday routine.
“Morning, dear.”
“Morning, Edna,” I said, walking past the coffee pot to the stove where she was stirring some oatmeal.
“And merry Christmas!”
“Oh, you didn’t have to get me anything.”
“I didn’t. I made it.”
Turning down the burner, Edna gave me a big smile and accepted the bag.
“What have we got here?” I’d wrapped each ornament in plain tissue paper I’d found in one of the closets downstairs and she picked up the first ornament, removing it from the paper.
It was one of the trees, mostly green but covered with dots of various colors to represent twinkling lights and a yellow star on top.
Then she unwrapped each of the other ornaments, one by one, as the oatmeal started to bubble.
“These are lovely, Lise.” She looped the twine hanger of one of the gingerbread men around her index finger, maybe trying to picture it hanging on a tree.
“This one looks good enough to eat.”
I laughed.
“I’m glad you like them.”
“I got you something too.”
I felt the same way she had, wanting to insist she didn’t have to—but I loved seeing the twinkle in her eye.
“Just give me a second.” After placing the gingerbread ornament back in the gift bag, she turned the burner under the oatmeal off and went to the pantry.
I got a cup out of the cabinet for coffee, but she returned before I could fill it.
What she brought was a plain brown paperboard box with a gift bow on it.
When she handed it to me, I asked, “Can I open it now?”
“Of course.”
Inside were eight beautiful bagels along with tiny jars of various jams, peanut butter, and Nutella.
“Oh, wow!”
“Those bagels are homemade, by the way.”
“ You baked them? Thank you so much, Edna.” And, although I’d never done it before, I hugged her.
“It was my pleasure.” As she hugged me back, I nearly melted into her, feeling maternal arms about me for the first time in far too long.
I had to hold back tears.
Sinclair’s voice cut through the room just then.
“That should tell you just how much Edna cares for you.”
Smiling, I closed the box again, whispering another thank you .
“You’re not kidding. I’d forgotten how much work it is to make the darned things.”
“I really appreciate it,” I said.
“I’ll eat one for breakfast tomorrow morning.”
Sinclair joined us, stopping at the coffee pot to pour himself a cup.
He looked as handsome as ever in a powder-blue sweater that couldn’t hide his scrumptious body—and the way the color of the sweater reflected in his eyes made him a sight for sore eyes.
It didn’t hurt that he hadn’t shaved since yesterday, donning that rugged look I loved so much.
“Did you already give her your gift?”
Edna said, “She did. And thank you for your gift as well, Mr. Whittier. Your gift from me is in the refrigerator.”
His eyes lit up like I’d never seen them before—almost child like, full of wonder.
“Is it—”
“A yule log, yes.” To me, she said, “It’s the only time I can get him to eat anything bad.”
“It’s so bad, it’s good. I might just sit beside the fireplace tonight and eat the whole damn thing.”
“Well, then, I suppose I need to fill you up with a hearty breakfast to make up for all the bad food you’ll be eating over the next few days.”
Part of me felt a pang of sadness for him—because he’d be all alone in this monstrous mansion.
I’d actually grown to love it in the months since I’d first arrived, but it reminded me of how lonely he’d seemed, how cold and distant.
It was a reminder of how empty even the most beautiful building can be when it’s filled with priceless art, exquisite furnishings, and no love.
And now, with Greg and his wife, along with Edna and me, leaving that day, Sinclair would be all alone.
Even going to his father’s house for the evening and his oldest brother’s the next day wouldn’t make up for it.
But he didn’t seem sad at all.
Not a bit.
I found that strange, because I felt like I’d gotten to know him enough to see behind the masks he wore.
Maybe he was making an extra effort, knowing I needed to be with my father.
Soon, all three of us sat at the table—Sinclair and I in our usual spots across from each other with Edna at the head between us.
I loved having her here.
Sinclair said, “I wanted to give you an update about the simulation lab.”
“Oh.” I nodded, scooping up a spoonful of the oatmeal as the scent of cinnamon wafted into my nostrils.
I imagined, since I would be in Winchester later that day, that he didn’t want me getting any more surprises going home like had happened in October.
“The police have been working diligently on the case since I supplied them with newer information—and they have concluded that you weren’t the one who destroyed the lab. Instead, based on what I told them, they conducted interviews with lots of students on campus and finally got one kid to break. He confessed that he and a few other students had done the deed under the direction of one Alan Sherwood—and the mastermind of the plan has been arrested.”
“Oh, wow.”
“They didn’t give me details, but they said they also got a search warrant for his office on campus and his home and found evidence linking him to the crime.”
“Meaning Lise is free and clear?”
“One hundred percent.”
Edna had a twinkle in her brown eyes when she said, “Why don’t you have that scoundrel come work off his debt with you?”
Sinclair grinned.
“I think I’m done with exacting revenge. Life is too short for all that.”
I couldn’t agree more.
Even at my age, life was beginning to feel way too short.
“Besides, he’s not nearly as breathtaking.”
I blushed, smiling at him before focusing intently on my oatmeal.
After breakfast, Sinclair asked me to stay for just a bit.
Now that the east wing’s second floor had been cleaned out—including returning Augie and Warren’s personal belongings to them, whether they wanted them or not—an interior designer would be in the first week of January to discuss renovations.
I was thrilled that Sinclair had managed to let go enough of the past to allow Edna and I to do that—and it was all the more evident, because he asked me to take a walk with him through that wing’s second floor.
As we walked down the main hall past the antechamber, I got another look at the huge decorated tree there, sitting in the spot where the giant red vase was usually displayed.
The tree was a lovely sight, decorated by Edna with Henry’s help.
He’d had to use a ladder to reach the top—and I’d discovered that all the Christmas decorations had been in one of the old servants’ quarters.
And that was where the red vase and pedestal it sat on were tucked away until the holidays were over.
It was spectacular.
Even though Sinclair had always had Henry hang lights outside so he wouldn’t appear to the neighbors to be a Grinch, he’d never allowed the inside of the mansion to be decorated.
This year, though, we had his blessing—and I helped Edna with everything but the tree, making the main hall, the antechamber, and select rooms like the library and great room as festive as possible.
And I felt that holiday spirit as we walked through the mansion, filled with emotions I hadn’t experienced in a long time.
The only thing missing was my father—and I’d get to see him soon enough.
Once we got to the second floor, Sinclair took me through the rooms one at a time, starting with Augie’s first and then Warren’s.
He had memories of each one, but his best memories were in the playroom.
He told me that it had been a nursery at one time but that one of the nannies had suggested a play space where it would be easy to keep an eye on the younger boys.
Warren only agreed when they put in a television and game console.
Even Sinclair’s own room, one I hadn’t seen until it was time to start working up there, didn’t seem to evoke much emotion in him.
“I always hated it up here…probably because my father did and happiness wasn’t allowed. We never felt like a real family.”
He had more to say, but he wasn’t spitting it out—so I knew I had to be patient.
Even without the furniture to evoke those memories, they clung to him like an albatross.
The walls were eggshell with no ornamentation, the drapes and carpet a rich blue color, but—unlike his brothers’ childhood spaces, there wasn’t anything distinctive about it.
I realized then that Constance probably had had some say in her older boys’ rooms.
After spending so much time in adult Sinclair’s bedroom, I had a hard time believing he’d grown up in this one.
After walking over to the window, he started talking again.
“At night, I’d stare out at the garden and the pool…in the summer anyway. In the winter, it looked cold and dark back here—but summer always gave me a little hope.” As I joined him by the window to take in the limited view, he added, “Much like you.”
Several minutes had passed while we stared out at the snow-covered yard below.
It was lovely in its own way, the pristine blanket untouched by feet or animals, hiding the dormant lawn underneath.
At least facing south he would have gotten more light during the winter than his brothers whose rooms were on the other side of the hallway.
“Shall we?” he asked, finally turning away from the window.
When I nodded, we left the room and approached the bedroom door that had once belonged to their parents.
As we entered, I let out a long breath that it no longer smelled stale and stuffy in here—and with the furnishings gone, it was a little easier to imagine it was just another room.
But I hoped I could distract him a bit.
“I wonder why this room doesn’t match the west wing. Up until the end of the hallway, they’re similar.”
“Did you notice that Augie and Warren’s old rooms had bathrooms?” I gave him a quick nod.
“But mine didn’t—nor did the playroom. Both wings used to match—and I only knew that because Augie told me about it one time. That part of the room,” he said, pointing toward the enormous walk-in closets, “used to be another bedroom, but my mother wanted a larger space and so the other two rooms were made smaller to adjust. Edna said that Augie and Warren’s nannies told her that our mother used to renovate different parts of the house for something to do and, a few years before I was born, she decided she didn’t want just a master bedroom—she wanted the largest bedroom on the block.”
“She looks like she got it.”
“Yes, she did.”
“Have you ever thought of…using this room instead…since you’re the master of the house?”
“No. Not until now. This room is far too big for one person.” He pulled me close and held me then but didn’t say another word about the space.
“I know you’re eager to go, but I wondered if you’d stay and have lunch with me first. That way you can avoid any rush-hour traffic.”
There was something he wasn’t telling me…
and then I figured it might be a gift.
Maybe he’d ordered something that was due to arrive any minute.
After all, the tour of the east wing had felt much like a stalling tactic—but, coupled with his insistence that I stay a little longer, especially after planning to leave early, made me suspect that.
I would gladly spend a little more time with him, not knowing what the future held for us.
To kill the time between now and lunch, he took me down into the dungeon, asking my advice about what we could do with the space.
“I know a lot of wealthy families, so I know what they might use this space for.”
“Do tell.” Dad and I had always been in a crackerbox, so musing over possibilities of what to do with extra space felt foreign to me.
“A small bowling alley. I think it’s long enough that we could do that. Or a movie theater or a game room.”
“You already have a game room.”
“Not like that. We could put a pool table down here and a few arcade games. Maybe table tennis or foosball or hockey.”
“How middle class of you.”
He laughed.
“Well, just so you don’t cling to that notion, we could even put a wine cellar down here.”
I found it so strange how, after all this time, I felt comfortable around him—and his money.
Up until recently, I’d hated even the idea—but Sinclair had managed to turn that all around…
mainly because I’d seen him doing good with it.
Not just with the money he raised for and spent from the Foundation but with his own.
He’d insisted that all the furniture we had hauled out be given away rather than sold and he paid to have it distributed to families who could use it.
And then, of course, there was his plan to bring jobs back to Winchester, paying workers a better wage than they’d make at most other businesses in town, along with cleaning up the mess his father had left behind.
Sinclair Cornelius Whittier was a good man…
and one I was proud to love.
“I…have a gift for you.”
“Oh?” The way he raised his eyebrow sent a spark through my body—but we would not be making love right now, no matter how he was making me feel.
“Yes. I don’t know what you’ll think about it, but…it’s in my room.”
He answered by raising both eyebrows—indicating that he thought I was going to give him the gift of my body.
But he should have known he already owned it, along with my heart and soul.
This gift had taken a little longer to prepare than the ornaments but much of it was not my handiwork.
When we got to my room, I handed him the gift that I wrapped inside a sheet, due to its bulk.
As he took it from me, he frowned slightly in curiosity.
Then he sat on the bed, placing it on his lap, and pulled the sheet off and away to reveal the padded scrapbook album I’d painstakingly put together.
And I watched him as he slowly, deliberately turned page after page, pausing to absorb everything I’d put together—pictures of his mother and brothers and even a few of his dad.
Pictures of Sinclair himself, even though there weren’t many.
His birth announcement.
A couple of report cards from the private elementary school he’d attended as a young boy.
A note from Edna that she’d written just days earlier at my request.
Others from Greg and Henry.
One from me.
And quotes from his mother’s journal.
Just below his baby picture was one that I’d loved the most—and one I hoped he did as well:
Sinny is the most precious baby.
I couldn’t sleep tonight, felt horrible.
But I got up and went to the nursery to stare upon his peaceful face.
This child makes life worth living.
Although I would never know for certain, I suspected much of it brought a tear or two to his eyes, because he blinked furiously and, at one point, wiped under one of his eyes.
But did he like it?
When he closed it after the last page, he didn’t look at me for a bit.
Instead, he stared at the back of the album—but I couldn’t tell what he was feeling, likely because I was afraid he hated it.
In this book I’d encapsulated as much of his childhood and his mother that I could, not liking how so many snapshots and portraits had just been shoved in a large box never to be thought of again.
His mother was a woman who should be remembered.
And Sinclair was a man whose childhood shouldn’t be stuffed down as something to forget or ignore…
because it had led him to be the man he was today.
The man I adored.
When he finally met my eyes, he stroked my cheek.
“Thank you, Lise. I think this is the nicest gift I’ve ever received.”
And then we kissed—and kissed some more.
But I stopped us before it got too passionate.
“I have to go, Sinclair.”
“Just wait a little longer. I promise you’ll be glad you did.” Then he stood, placing the scrapbook album on my bed.
“For now, I challenge you to a game of chess.”
I knew for certain something was up—not just because of what he’d said but also when he continued to ask for not one but two rematches.
When we finally returned downstairs, Edna had set three places at the table—but when she served us bowls of butternut squash soup and crusty bread, she didn’t sit down with us.
I waited for a bit but when Sinclair started eating, I thought maybe she’d simply join us when she was ready.
After all, when she sat with us this morning, it had been a pleasant and welcome surprise.
But Edna left the kitchen after a bit and Sinclair asked, “What do you and your father normally eat for Christmas dinner?”
“It depends. Sometimes it’s a lot like Thanksgiving—but other times we try something completely different. Like last year, we had Italian food. I probably shouldn’t be allowed to try making calzones ever again.”
He laughed.
“Why is that?”
“Let’s just say cooking isn’t one of my innate talents.”
“Oh, I disagree. I saw what you and Edna did at Thanksgiving.”
“I can’t take credit for that. That was all Edna.”
Just then, Greg’s voice cut through the kitchen.
Strange, because I thought he and his wife had already left.
“Mr. Whittier, where would you like me to place the luggage?”
“In the room next to Lise’s.”
“Same side of the hall?”
“Yes.”
I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand straight, but I didn’t know why—until Edna entered the room…
with my father beside her.