Page 65 of A Thin Line

“You should see it for yourself. It’s…interesting. It’s obviously a painting of a city street, but the colors are unusual and the lines are…” I found that I didn’t have the vocabulary to fully express what I’d seen, particularly because it had been abstract—and, from the research I’d conducted, that was what most people liked about her style: she didn’t paint typical landscapes. The line between reality and fantasy was blurred.

“Ms. Miller, I rarely enter the gallery, full of art curated to my tastes, so why would I go out of my way to look at a painting in the dungeon I probably won’t like? I’m a practical man concerned with practical matters. Art is not practical.”

There went my hope of us bonding over a mini book club—not that I’d expected that to go far. I could have argued passionately with claims learned from several teachers over the years about the merits of literature, art, music, and more—but I knew I wouldn’t win. If someone like Sinclair Whittier didn’t value art, there would be no changing his mind. I’d always thought that wealthy people were the ones who encouraged art—and, obviously, I wasn’t completely wrong. After all, I didn’t personally know anyone who’d pay seven figures for a painting.

So I decided to get to the point. “Would you say money is practical?”

At that, he didn’t sigh; he huffed impatiently. “What are you getting at?”

“The painting downstairs is worth a lot. I looked it up and found that when an artist becomes famous, their earlier work is even more valuable than their current work. You could make a lot of money if you sold it.”

I didn’t know what I was saying that was making him angrier, but he was clearly ready to lose it like he had those first few days I’d been here. His neck appeared red as if he were holding it all in and it was ready to blow. “I don’t need money and I have far more important things to concern myself with.”

“But—”

“Inventory what you find and we’ll discuss it another time.”

And that was it. Case closed. I could sense I’d get nowhere if I continued.

After some time, Edna came in, swapping our salad plates for dinner. Every meal had been an adventure as I experienced new flavors and spices and ways of eating. Most were enjoyable but I yearned for the familiar. I would have loved a bowl of mac and cheese or French fries just once.

When Edna exited the room again, Sinclair cleared his throat. “I need to make you aware of a special event next week that will involve you.” Was this the news that had him grumpy and on edge? “On Friday night, I will have several business colleagues over for dinner to discuss the end of the quarter. Ordinarily, you have Friday night off but, as you know, sometimes a job requires you to work additional hours, and you will be assisting with this dinner. Edna will stay late to supervise but I’ve hired a local chef who will be catering the meal. He usually brings a staff with him as well.”

“What will I be doing?”

“Whatever Edna and the chef tell you to do.”

“Okay, but what will my job be?”

It was as if a mask lowered over his face—the grouchy, surly expression was suddenly replaced by a cold, emotionless visage. “You will be serving dinner—as a maid.”

Why? Wasn’t the work I was doing enough? If extra servitude would have really made a difference in what I owed, I would have been asking to do anything and everything—but it was more a matter of time than money—he’d said it himself before—and it made me angry that he wanted me to serve him and his friends as part of the deal.

This felt like just another power play, a reminder of who was in charge.

My cheeks burned as I looked down at the broccoli on my plate…because this was yet another reminder that we were not friends and would never see eye to eye, regardless of what transpired.

I needed to remember that this man was and would always be my enemy.

Chapter 23

The next day, Friday, was a week before the “special event.” Although I was still fuming when I woke up, I didn’t share the details with my father and I planned not to let it get to me. Instead, I hoped to use it as leverage to make sure my father could get to his October appointment. By playing a maid and doing extra work, I could demonstrate that I’d been willing to do whatever Sinclair required. When asking for permission, I’d also remind him that, at one point, he’d said he wasn’t heartless.

That would be his chance to prove it.

At breakfast, I hadn’t said much, which was probably to Sinclair’s liking, allowing him to peruse the pages of the WSJ uninterrupted. But, as he was leaving, Edna said, “Mr. Whittier, I’ll be picking up the ingredients for the Brandy Alexanders next week. Is there anything else you’d like for me to pick up while I’m out?”

The way he answered sounded almost as if he’d forgotten I was there. “Check if Ms. Miller needs anything.”

“Of course. I’ll be doing the usual shopping as well.”

“Anything else?”

“No, that’s it.” As soon as he’d left the room, she said, “He’s been under a lot of pressure lately.” Was that an excuse for his awful behavior? I simply nodded to acknowledge her words and returned to my bowl of oatmeal. “Is there anything you need, dear?”

“Not that I can think of.”

“Well, I won’t be going until after lunch, so let me know if you think of something.”

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