Page 53 of A Thin Line

“If you ever want to use it, let me know and I’ll show you.”

And be beholden to him for another thing? I didn’t think so. Still, I said, “Thanks.” There was a treadmill and an exercise bike, and I thought to myself I’d rather just walk outside or ride a real bike rather than be stuck still pedaling to nowhere. To one side were a rack of free weights and a few yoga mats and bands—and I wondered what equipment he used when he was in here.

By the door was a small bench with towels stacked on the end next to a mini fridge. As we walked out, he said, “There are bottles of water in there if you need it.”

In the hall, I thought it would be just as easy to have a reusable water bottle that you’d fill up before your workout—but that, in addition to the gym itself, was just another reminder of the huge chasm between us.

He also showed me what I’d already discovered was the game room and he assured me I was also welcome here. Soon, we were outside while still on the third floor in the area with a table, multiple potted plants and shrubs, and several chairs. It was on the west corner of the house, facing the street in front and the side street, giving quite a view when you could see through the trees. The stonework beneath our feet was remarkable, something of a mosaic of interesting patterns and colors, but no discernable objects. He walked over to the railing, resting his arms on it. “This is one of my favorite places, especially in autumn when the leaves are starting to turn. That tree,” he said, pointing to the right, “has leaves that turn a bright yellow before shifting into an intense reddish-purple. And then its branches are bare.”

When I joined him there, I noticed the fountain was to the left of the tree. “Do you leave the fountain on all winter?”

“No. Henry winterizes it in October and gets it back up and running in March.”

“I thought he just took care of the plants.”

“I try to employ him year round. He also sets up all the Christmas lights…but I am concerned that I might have to hire someone else to do that this year. He nearly fell off a ladder last year. I’ll have to find something else for him to do.” He pointed to another tree on the west side of the house. “This tree’s leaves turn bright red.”

“I understand why this would be your favorite place in the fall.”

With what looked like might be a subtle grin, he said, “Maybe I don’t hate the entire mansion…just most of it.”

And I still wondered why—but he said, “Let’s head downstairs. The second floor is nothing but bedrooms, but we’ve got a few more places you might like.”

Once we were back on the main floor, we walked down the west wing—and I suspected we were heading to a room I’d already admired. Sure enough, we stepped into the library and I tried to act like it was my first time. “This is amazing.”

“I have to admit I like this room too. Feel free to borrow any books you like. Just try to put them back where you found them.”

“Will you charge me overdue fees?”

“That depends.” He was actually being playful—and I hated that I liked him that way. As he walked over to one of the gargantuan bookshelves, he said, “When I was a little boy, I planned to read all the books in here—but I no longer have such a notion.”

“Why not? I think that’s an admirable goal.”

“That may be—but I read a lot of modern texts. Eventually, they might make their way in here, but much of what’s in here is at the very least thirty years old.” He walked over to another bookcase to draw my eyes to a particular shelf. “Take these encyclopedias. They’re out of date—and, while some of the information would still be pertinent, much of it is dated or obsolete. When you can get what you need off the internet, knowing it’s current, there’s no need to open one of these old things.”

“Except for the history.”

At that, he gave me a warm smile. “Yes, except for the history.” His eyes lingered on mine for a bit before he said, “I’m sure you’d love to stay in here all day—and you can come back—but there are a few other rooms I’d like to show you.”

Next to the library was a room he called the study—which just seemed like a room with chairs and tables. Then we headed to the east wing—first floor only. There he showed me the sunroom, full of lovely plants and flowers and a wall of glass to let the outside light in. It smelled good in there, earthy and fresh, and Sinclair admitted he didn’t hate this room either. Next door was what he called the television room, something a poor girl like me would call a living or family room.

Across the hall was a gallery with more paintings and sculptures. This room had no windows at all. It was like the quiet dream place I’d constructed in my head years ago. Yes, I could spend lots of time here. Sinclair said, “When I was a child, we used to change this room up every so often.”

“Moving things around?”

“No. Putting new paintings and sculptures in here, just to keep it fresh.”

“Maybe that’s what all that artwork downstairs was for.” It seemed a shame that it was all neglected when, in the past, each piece had had its time—but I wasn’t about to say that out loud.

“I’m certain of it. But no one goes in here anymore, so what’s the point?” As he walked toward the doorway, he added, “Nothing’s changed in here for at least fifteen years—so you might not want to come in here very often either.”

I found it sad that artwork wasn’t being admired, but it didn’t seem to bother Sinclair much. The art was probably just another commodity—but it seemed like more than that. It felt like he was dismissing something. As I walked out of the room, I admired a painting of trees shrouded by mist—but what I loved about it was that it had a surreal quality, almost like the trees weren’t quite rooted in the ground but hovering above it.

Also on the east wing was a dry sauna and Sinclair said he would’ve preferred it next to the gym and he rarely used it. Then he announced, “Now we’ll go outside.” He opened the door to the east side patio, holding it for me to walk through. “Every once in a while, I’ll have a party and we’ll bake pizza in this oven. And something I would never tell my father: sometimes I’ll grill a hamburger or bratwurst out here.”

That seemed…odd—and not just that he wouldn’t tell his father. “You do that yourself? You don’t have Edna do it?”

“Well…she gets the patties ready for me, slices up all the vegetables, bakes the buns—but I do this part out here. She doesn’t like using the grill.” Before I could comment further on how using a barbecue somehow felt normal to me, he was walking down the steps toward the back of the mansion. “Come on.”

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