Page 63 of A Thin Line

I didn’t know what to make of them—but I’d long since stopped putting anything in the trash box.

I finally came to several notebooks and journals. One was bright red, catching my eye first…so I picked it up and started reading the first page.

* * *

April 3

Gus has become colder and colder and nothing I do seems to change that. He was gone for over a week finishing some business deal in Europe. I’d had the cook prepare beef medallions just like he likes them and I opened a bottle of cab sav. I even decorated the dining room with a Welcome Home banner and some balloons, and the nannies were tending to the boys so Gus and I could spend a little romantic time together.

But when he got back, he grumbled that he was tired and went straight to bed, even after I told him a delicious dinner was waiting.

Anymore, it seems like he’s married to his job. He has little interest in sex anymore and he hardly ever looks at me the way he used to. I’ve been a good wife. I’ve been a good companion and I’ve never done anything to bring shame on this family. Why is he treating me like garbage?

* * *

I shuddered, feeling this woman’s pain through the page. Surely Gus was a nickname for Augustus—which meant that this diary had definitely been written by Sinclair’s mother. There was no year recorded, so I had no way of knowing exactly when this had been written—only that they already had children.

Part of me felt like I shouldn’t be reading this. After all, it was personal. But then I reminded myself that his mother had passed away when Sinclair was a baby…and maybe she’d written these words so that someone would read them someday.

At least, that was how I justified turning the page.

Chapter 22

Before dinner that evening, I headed to the library with the mission of finding Sinclair a book. After reading a few more entries in his mother’s diary, I had to stop. It became apparent that she was in a loveless marriage, trying to find a way to hold on. There were multiple examples displaying Augustus Whittier’s coldness toward her and I couldn’t bear to keep reading.

But it also made me feel a little less bitter toward Sinclair. If his father could be as cold to his sons as he’d been to his wife, it could explain a lot about Sinclair’s behavior.

And maybe I could allow myself to feel just a little forgiveness.

That was the main reason why I wanted to find him a good book. Unfortunately, the fiction wasn’t organized in any particular order; it was organized by authors’ last names—but that would make it a little harder. It was easy to find the mysteries that came easily to mind—Agatha Christie, Rex Stout—but I even found the Millenium Trilogy by Steig Larsson…which brought to mind lots of questions.

When had the rest of the family moved out? I knew his father had done it around the end of Sinclair’s stint in college—meaning less than ten years earlier—but what about his brothers? And had Sinclair been continuing to populate this library?

I thought The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo was an excellent contemporary mystery, but it also had some disturbing content and so I wasn’t quite ready to recommend it.

Finally, I decided to simply browse through the titles until something jumped out at me, knowing I could always fall back on Christie. She was indeed the mistress of mystery and wouldn’t let me down—but I wanted to start with something I thought could really speak to Sinclair.

And I finally found it. A book I’d read just a year earlier, Snow Falling on Cedars by David Guterson, sat on a shelf with no other books by his name and I pulled it out. I remembered it taking me a few pages to get into it, but once I had, I was hooked—and inside the pages was mystery, drama, romance—and so much more. Even deeper were social themes that had made me feel like everyone should read it. Unfortunately, I could only recommend it to online friends since I didn’t have many in real life.

If he read the book, we could have so much to talk about. As I walked down the hallway toward the kitchen, I smiled, thinking perhaps having our own little book club might make the years to come far more bearable.

When I arrived in the dining room, I sat expectantly, waiting for either Edna or Sinclair to appear. Finally, Edna entered and said, “Mr. Whittier is at a function tonight. You can eat in here if you like or I can serve you in the kitchen. Which would you prefer?”

Although I liked the dining room, it lacked the warmth of the kitchen—and I felt bad enough that Edna served me as if I were a Whittier. At least in the kitchen everything would be right there. “Oh. The kitchen’s fine,” I said, standing up and picking up the book as I left.

“Found something to read?” Edna asked as we headed to the kitchen, and the scents of a delicious dinner wafted under my nose.

“Yes, but for Mr. W. We were having a discussion last week and I told him I’d find him a good book to read—something with mystery, which I think he said he ‘wouldn’t hate.’ I loved this book and thought he might too.”

She gave it a better glance. “I haven’t read it.”

“I thoroughly recommend it.”

As Edna made her way to the stove, she said, “Mr. Whittier doesn’t tend to read novels.”

“I know…but I’m hoping to change his mind.”

“Good luck.” I wasn’t sure if she meant that hopefully or with doubt, but it didn’t matter. I’d already made up my mind.

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