Page 45 of A Thin Line

“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.”

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