Page 53 of Thick and Thin

But I hoped I could distract him a bit. “I wonder why this room doesn’t match the west wing. Up until the end of the hallway, they’re similar.”

“Did you notice that Augie and Warren’s old rooms had bathrooms?” I gave him a quick nod. “But mine didn’t—nor did the playroom. Both wings used to match—and I only knew that because Augie told me about it one time. That part of the room,” he said, pointing toward the enormous walk-in closets, “used to be another bedroom, but my mother wanted a larger space and so the other two rooms were made smaller to adjust. Edna said that Augie and Warren’s nannies told her that our mother used to renovate different parts of the house for something to do and, a few years before I was born, she decided she didn’t want just a master bedroom—she wanted the largest bedroom on the block.”

“She looks like she got it.”

“Yes, she did.”

“Have you ever thought of…using this room instead…since you’re the master of the house?”

“No. Not until now. This room is far too big for one person.” He pulled me close and held me then but didn’t say another word about the space. “I know you’re eager to go, but I wondered if you’d stay and have lunch with me first. That way you can avoid any rush-hour traffic.”

There was something he wasn’t telling me…and then I figured it might be a gift. Maybe he’d ordered something that was due to arrive any minute. After all, the tour of the east wing had felt much like a stalling tactic—but, coupled with his insistence that I stay a little longer, especially after planning to leave early, made me suspect that.

I would gladly spend a little more time with him, not knowing what the future held for us.

To kill the time between now and lunch, he took me down into the dungeon, asking my advice about what we could do with the space. “I know a lot of wealthy families, so I know what they might use this space for.”

“Do tell.” Dad and I had always been in a crackerbox, so musing over possibilities of what to do with extra space felt foreign to me.

“A small bowling alley. I think it’s long enough that we could do that. Or a movie theater or a game room.”

“You already have a game room.”

“Not like that. We could put a pool table down here and a few arcade games. Maybe table tennis or foosball or hockey.”

“How middle class of you.”

He laughed. “Well, just so you don’t cling to that notion, we could even put a wine cellar down here.”

I found it so strange how, after all this time, I felt comfortable around him—and his money. Up until recently, I’d hated even the idea—but Sinclair had managed to turn that all around…mainly because I’d seen him doing good with it. Not just with the money he raised for and spent from the Foundation but with his own. He’d insisted that all the furniture we had hauled out be given away rather than sold and he paid to have it distributed to families who could use it. And then, of course, there was his plan to bring jobs back to Winchester, paying workers a better wage than they’d make at most other businesses in town, along with cleaning up the mess his father had left behind.

Sinclair Cornelius Whittier was a good man…and one I was proud to love.

“I…have a gift for you.”

“Oh?” The way he raised his eyebrow sent a spark through my body—but we would not be making love right now, no matter how he was making me feel.

“Yes. I don’t know what you’ll think about it, but…it’s in my room.”

He answered by raising both eyebrows—indicating that he thought I was going to give him the gift of my body. But he should have known he already owned it, along with my heart and soul.

This gift had taken a little longer to prepare than the ornaments but much of it was not my handiwork. When we got to my room, I handed him the gift that I wrapped inside a sheet, due to its bulk. As he took it from me, he frowned slightly in curiosity. Then he sat on the bed, placing it on his lap, and pulled the sheet off and away to reveal the padded scrapbook album I’d painstakingly put together.

And I watched him as he slowly, deliberately turned page after page, pausing to absorb everything I’d put together—pictures of his mother and brothers and even a few of his dad. Pictures of Sinclair himself, even though there weren’t many. His birth announcement. A couple of report cards from the private elementary school he’d attended as a young boy. A note from Edna that she’d written just days earlier at my request. Others from Greg and Henry. One from me.

And quotes from his mother’s journal.

Just below his baby picture was one that I’d loved the most—and one I hoped he did as well:

* * *

Sinny is the most precious baby. I couldn’t sleep tonight, felt horrible. But I got up and went to the nursery to stare upon his peaceful face. This child makes life worth living.

* * *

Although I would never know for certain, I suspected much of it brought a tear or two to his eyes, because he blinked furiously and, at one point, wiped under one of his eyes.

But did he like it?

---