Page 42 of A Thin Line

I wanted to argue, because it would have been easy enough to take it to a sink or slip it in a dishwasher—but who was I to tell him how to run his household? “All right. Good night.” I resisted the urge to apologize or thank him again. Those words had already been said.

When I got to my room, I considered sending my dad a text message—but it was too late for that. Instead, I peeled off the sweatpants and climbed into bed, shutting off the lamp on the nightstand.

I had a hard time drifting off, even though I was tired. It had been a long, stressful day—and my stomach was letting me know its displeasure.

After a bit, I heard a sharp knock on the door. I knew who it was—and so I pretended to be asleep. Although he didn’t knock again, I was on alert—and decided to simply answer the door. It would be easier than what could potentially ensue otherwise.

When I opened the door, he wasn’t there—but then I saw what he’d left me. Just in front of the door was a silver tray with a glass of milk next to a plate with crackers and an apple cut into wedges. The perfect touch was a folded linen napkin.

Bringing the food into my room, my mouth began to water—but my brain was churning. How had Sinclair Whittier managed in such a short time to become a human being in my mind?

That question kept me up a lot longer.

Chapter 15

When I woke up the next morning, I found I wasn’t as angry or hopeless as I’d been the past couple of days—and in the first text message of the day to my dad, I let him know that. I didn’t tell him the details because I didn’t want to give him cause to worry, but I figured if I let him know I felt a little better about my role here, he’d be able to focus more on his health and well-being.

And, after last night, I thought there might be a chance for a few courtesies in the future—like visiting my father on occasion.

I had hope.

So when I went downstairs a few minutes before seven, I was wearing more conservative clothing than the day before: a simple pink cotton dress and white flats with my hair pulled up in a ponytail. And I was looking at the mansion in a whole new light. Was it way too much house for one man and his driver? Yes. Did I still feel like a misfit there? Of course. But I was beginning to see its beauty. Someone had carefully chosen every single aspect of this gigantic building, and I was beginning to see the appeal of its aesthetics.

Carrying the silver platter that had held my midnight snack the night before, I entered the kitchen. Edna beamed at me from the stove while Sinclair sat at the table, reading what looked to be some kind of report. “Have a seat, dear. Breakfast will be served in just a moment.” I set the platter on the end of the table, remembering the times Sinclair had told me “Edna will take care of it.”

“Can I get a cup of coffee first?” Although I felt better rested than the day before, I still had a little more catching up to do.

“I’ll bring you some.”

There was already a full glass of water in the spot where I’d sat before. Between Sinclair and me was a pitcher of orange juice and two empty glasses. I didn’t dare start with a jolt of sugar first thing in the morning, so I waited to see what Edna would be bringing to the table.

When Sinclair looked up from the page he was reading, I said, “Thank you, by the way.”

A frown formed on his face before he shook his head, returning to the report.

Ah…so he was going to pretend he hadn’t even brought me that food. I could play that game too, but I knew it had to be him and I really was grateful, even if he didn’t want to accept my declaration of thanks.

And, for some reason, it made him all the more desirable in my eyes. It didn’t help that the scratches on his face added to his appeal.

Edna approached the table with a cup of coffee for me. To the side of the juice was a small pitcher of cream and a bowl of sugar and sweetener packets. I doctored my coffee while Edna brought two plates of food. Although my tummy had felt satisfied when I’d gone to sleep the night before, I was hungry now, and the smells hitting my nose amped up my anticipation.

After she set the plate down, I examined what was there: a small bowl of oatmeal, a toasted whole wheat English muffin, and something else I wasn’t quite sure of. “What’s this?” I asked, pointing to what I thought was fish.

“Poached salmon. That’s your protein this morning.”

I wasn’t the world’s biggest fish eater, but I’d give it a try. And, although the oatmeal looked good, topped with beautiful berries mingled with the subtle scent of cinnamon, I wasn’t a fan. Before my mother had left, she’d make oatmeal once a week, and it was always warm, runny, and bland. I used to call it breakfast soup.

This morning, though, I was hungry and didn’t want to seem ungrateful.

Sinclair was buttering his English muffin, and I decided to do the same, picking up the table knife to the right of my plate. Edna asked, “Can I get either of you anything else?” We both declined and, as Edna left the room, she said, “Be back in a bit.”

Now it was just Sinclair and me and things felt awkward all of a sudden. Even though he seemed quiet and maybe a little surly, I knew that might be due to being in pain after saving me last night. Add to it staying up late and drinking, and he might be wishing he could be back in bed.

But I was grateful, because he hadn’t yelled at me once since then.

I decided to make a little conversation. “The mansion really is beautiful.”

He scowled then. “I hate this place.”

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