Page 72 of A Thin Line

“Yes, sir.”

As he walked out of the kitchen, he turned briefly. “And, in case you’ve forgotten, you will be serving on Friday night—so make sure you get your rest this week.”

I would have never said it, but that felt more like punishment—and that thought made me ashamed, because lots of people served him willingly, people like Edna, Greg, and Henry, at his beck and call for different things. I was no different from them, so why did I find the idea of serving at his party so humiliating?

But I knew why…it was because I wasn’t willingly working. I was being forced—and that made all the difference.

As I returned to my regular duties, I tried not to think about it. It had only been a few days, but it felt like forever since I’d been down here—and once I’d walked into what appeared to be a time capsule on the second floor of the east wing, I’d begun to associate it with the trunk. So, instead of focusing on a variety of tasks as I had been, I spent the entire day sorting through what was left in the trunk.

It was mostly papers—business documents, medical records, notes—but there were several more journals written in the same hand as the red one.

There was also a baby book of Sinclair. There were two or three pictures in it of him as a newborn, along with his birth statistics—but the book had never been completed.

Sinclair wouldn’t want to know about that, any more than he’d want to know about the presence of all those journals—but I did. I was dying to know what those pages contained. Still, I didn’t know that I had time to read them all “on the job”—but I suspected that the information I found in there might explain the mystery of why Sinclair had effectively closed up the east wing’s second floor. So, after spending ten minutes with Edna for our afternoon tea break, I went back downstairs and waited until I heard her busy in the kitchen, enough that I could tiptoe.

I wasn’t going to Sinclair’s office or the east wing. Instead, I had a handful of journals, including the red one, and I snuck them in my room. I’d return them when I was done but I couldn’t give them the attention I wanted downstairs. Just as I would be getting into the woman’s words, my phone alarm would ring, reminding me that I needed to get something done that I could count on my timesheet.

After dinner that night, I went straight to my room and cracked open the red journal. It wasn’t long before I was sucked into the woman’s world again.

* * *

Gus has decided to send Augie to a boarding school in New Hampshire against my wishes. He’s only eight years old but Gus insists it will “toughen the boy up.” I argued it from every single angle I could think of, but Gus would always come back to insisting that if he was going to inherit the business, he needed to get a taste of the real world. And he’d have Warren start attending a boarding school in a few years too, he said.

So I spent all day researching for a boarding school that was at least closer to home so I could see him every weekend, but there was nothing. The only boarding schools I could find close by take boys of a more reasonable age—when they are in high school.

I cried most of the day, and the boys asked me what was wrong. I just told them my tummy hurt. In a way, it did. I know Augie was worried, especially because I kept holding them close instead of letting them play. He knew something was wrong.

My only other thought was taking the boys and leaving—but where would I go? It isn’t like I have family to run to, and I have no money of my own. Even if I took what money I could get my hands on and even borrowed a credit card, it isn’t like Gus couldn’t find me—and, when he did, he would take sole custody of the boys. More than once, he’d said he paid his lawyers well because they could bend the law to make it say anything he wanted.

And they’d make sure to make him look like the world’s best father…and me the exact opposite.

* * *

After reading that passage, I hated Sinclair’s father even more.

I stayed up past midnight reading about her growing anxiety for her oldest going away to school, but she described the younger Augustus—whom she affectionately called Augie—as having a “stiff upper lip” and looking upon the whole thing as an adventure. The elder Augustus balked when she insisted upon sending her son with a cell phone so he could contact her whenever needed, but she managed to win that battle.

Once the new school year came around, she suffered what she called “dark days,” and it wasn’t long before I remembered all the medical paperwork I’d found in the trunk, indicating that she was being treated for depression and possibly bipolar disorder. But, I wondered, who wouldn’t feel that way with a cold, possibly cheating, husband, one who sent your oldest child away? She probably felt like her family was being ripped apart—she’d almost said as much.

She also talked about smothering Warren, spoiling him more than she should—but knowing that he too would be sent away in a couple of years, she wanted to make sure he knew he was loved. Unfortunately, she said, it was beginning to make him act like he was entitled—and neither she nor his nanny knew how to rein his behavior back in.

When Christmas rolled around and Augie got to spend two weeks at home, she said she felt more like her old self. Even Warren, she said, reverted to his previous younger sibling behaviors. Letting her oldest go back to school the second time was less traumatic, but she still hated the way his little eyes “looked supremely sad, as if he’d lost his dearest friend.”

I fell asleep reading and was jolted awake by my phone alarm. When I got up, I picked up that red journal, which I was almost done reading, and put it in the bottom drawer of the nightstand next to the other ones.

I couldn’t wait to read more later on…even while knowing that this background information was making me feel far more compassion for Sinclair Whittier than I ever should have.

It was blurring the line between enemy and friend…and possibly something more.

Chapter 26

Friday morning arrived quickly. I’d already been informed by both Edna and Sinclair that I would be working exclusively with Edna and, later on, the chef and his staff. Edna had already helped me pick out the uniform I’d be wearing: black slacks, white blouse, black jacket, and black tie. Edna had tried to talk me into the black skirt but my shoes—black flats—didn’t look professional with the skirt.

Over the past week, Sinclair had been silent and surly, not talking much, and I suspected he was still quite angry with me over snooping where I wasn’t allowed. Today, however, even though he appeared to be just as irascible, after he finished his breakfast, he said, “When you’re done, I have something to give you.”

My mind raced, wondering what it could be. Was it something physical…like a special broom for cleaning downstairs? Or a new laptop? Although I hadn’t been complaining about any of the tools and equipment I used, items like those would have been welcome.

But was it instead something intangible? Like having made final arrangements to have my father transported to his medical appointment in October?

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