Page 48 of A Thin Line

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.

Chapter 17

The next day, dinner was also to be in the dining room, according to Edna, but I hadn’t seen Sinclair at all. When I’d come down for breakfast, he’d already left for work—and, although I was curious about what his work actually was, I vowed not to ask Edna. Although I’d really grown to like her, I couldn’t fully trust her. How much of what I told her was shared with the boss?

Even though I was still smarting after my altercation with Sinclair the night before, working all day downstairs had helped lighten my mood—and I had a proposition for him, something I thought would make the work all the more meaningful.

This time when I arrived at the dining room, Sinclair was already there. Again, he was wearing a gray suit but this time he had a red tie that really popped between the gray jacket and crisp white shirt. Although he was, as always, handsome and impeccably dressed, he was a beast underneath it all—and I’d be smart to remember that.

Because my mind kept going places it really shouldn’t.

Still…if I could soothe him and stop from riling him, maybe the next ten years would be bearable. And, as long as I didn’t think about the coarse proposal he’d suggested last night to tempt me into cutting my time in half, I could deal with him in general.

“How did things go today, Ms. Miller? Anything to report?”

“Um…not so much to report but I do have something to discuss.”

“Do tell.”

After we were both seated with him once again helping me into my chair, I said, “I’ve started entering items on the spreadsheet. I have several columns: the first is for category, like furniture, art, etc. The second lists the item and the third gives details. The fourth column lists where I have stored or will store the item. I spent today mapping out where I would put particular things and, though it might change, I think it will work. I might need shelving or more boxes at some point but I’ve got a good start.”

“Let Edna know what you need.”

“Of course. But I’d like to add another column to the spreadsheet. I’d like to give the approximate value of each item.”

“Don’t bother,” he said. “It’s all worthless junk.”

When Edna appeared, she began getting us set up for dinner just like the night before. I hoped tonight I’d actually be able to eat what she’d prepared.

“It’s not. And I think I could look things up on the internet to get a decent idea of some of these items’ value.”

His lips turned up at one corner. “Okay. Why not?”

“Thank you.”

“But I have to ask: what have you found that makes you think anything down there is worth something?”

“The paintings and sculpture alone have to be valuable.”

Picking up his water glass, he said, “Not if they were created by nobodies. If the artist isn’t well known and it’s modern, not to mention being neglected for so many years, the paintings won’t be worth much more than the canvas they’re on.”

“You won’t know for sure until you have a seller.”

“That may be—but don’t hold your breath, Ms. Miller. I’ve purchased enough fine art to know those aren’t worth anything.”

I refused to let him burst my bubble. “All right, but there’s more. There are dishes that seem very old but are in great shape; vintage clothing that I know has potential; and old books. I was looking inside a couple of them, and one was published in 1888.”

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