Page 3 of Thick and Thin

“Hmm.”

“And a few journals…that I’m pretty sure were written by your mother.” This time, he didn’t say anything but I thought maybe I sensed some unease. Really, though, that could have been coming from me as I tried to find the best way to say what I needed to. “And the reason why I think that,” I said, speaking slowly, trying like crazy to gauge his mood but failing, “is because I’ve been reading them.”

In the silence, I imagined his thought process. He was likely wondering why I had the nerve to read through his mother’s private thoughts, ready to kick me out of his bed for violating his trust.

But there hadn’t been anything about that in that stupid contract. I’d signed the NDA, meaning I couldn’t go to the press with anything I’d found or even talk to my father about it. Sinclair, of course, would be an authorized party with whom I could discuss everything, but I wouldn’t even feel comfortable telling Edna about the details I’d absorbed. And I knew there were clauses in the contract that could be used against me in this case, but I didn’t care. This felt important, regardless of the consequences.

“And I wondered if you wanted to read them.”

When he finally spoke, I couldn’t tell anything from his tone. “Why would I want to do that?”

“Because I almost feel like I’ve gotten to know your mother…and I thought you would too.” And then it dawned on me: he didn’t seem angry. Not at all.

I stopped swirling the patterns on his chest and looked up at him, waiting for a response—but he remained silent. As I tried searching his face, his eyes seemed like they were looking at something far away…and perhaps they were. It was quite possible he was trying to look back in time.

But when he didn’t speak, I decided to venture forward. “She seemed like a beautiful person, even though a little misunderstood.”

Somehow, those words opened him up much like the server the night before had opened a bottle of wine. Slowly, the dark liquid had poured out into the clear glass, and that was how it felt like Sinclair was allowing himself to speak. “Edna has told me a few stories. She hadn’t known my mother for long. She’d been hired to be my nanny, so she did spend a lot of time with my mother. It was just…cut short. Edna always said she was kind and caring—but something was wrong.”

When Sinclair grew silent again, I finally asked, “Wrong?”

“Edna described it by saying it was like she was collapsing in on herself…like a dying star. But Edna didn’t know her very well and at first wondered if she was feeling overwhelmed. Augie was away from home at some boarding school and she was upset about not having him closer and Warren was becoming a spoiled brat. I guess not much has changed.”

Although he chuckled, I couldn’t hear amusement in it at all—maybe because he’d meant it as a joke but hadn’t actually found it funny. When the room grew still and quiet again, I began to wonder if maybe he was done speaking—and I tried to decide if I should tell him everything I’d read.

But, instead, he asked a question. “Did her journals say anything about that? About how she was feeling the last month of her life?”

Once again, I forced myself to tell him the whole truth. “I haven’t finished reading the last journal yet. But I do know she was excited for you to be born. She said she felt like your two brothers had taken after your father—but she thought you would be more like her.”

After a few long moments, he said, “That fits much of the narrative I’ve heard from Edna.” He pulled me close then, so that I had to turn my head to rest against his chest. “When my father bothered talking about it, he told me my mother took her own life—due to postpartum depression. So, in a way, I killed her.”

“Oh, Cory. You shouldn’t blame yourself.”

After a bit, he squeezed me closer. “It’s hard not to…especially when you have a father who makes you feel that way.”

Should I tell him? Would it make him feel better to know that a man named Xavier might have been his true father?

While I was debating it internally, Sinclair seemed to read my mind. “Did she ever say anything about another man?”

Even in that warm bed cuddled up next to his heat, a shiver shot up my spine. “Yes.”

“Was she having an affair?”

“I don’t know. She seemed to have an affectionate relationship with a man named Xavier. He was some kind of art dealer. No, that’s not quite right. But he was tasked with procuring rare pieces of art for your father.”

“Not surprising.”

“Your father was doing a lot of business in Europe—and your mother thought he was having an affair with someone there.”

When Sinclair shifted slightly, I tried to crane my neck—but he still kept me too close to move. “I don’t know about that. But Edna did tell me that he was out of the country a lot when I was little—working on some merger that eventually fell through.” Loosening his grip slightly, he began rubbing one of his hands down my back, but it almost seemed as if he was doing it absentmindedly. “I guess that could have also been a relationship that soured. Hard to say. He didn’t remarry until I was in college—to Madeline.”

“I know it had to be hard growing up without your mother.” I’d experienced the same—only I had actual memories of the woman.

“Edna did a good job as a substitute. She took good care of me. It’s harder growing up without a father.”

Although my breath was inaudible, I held it, almost as if I were trying to hide—that if, I thought, Sinclair forgot I was there, he would open up more. I had so many questions…but I knew I had to wait. The young boy Sinclair had been put me in the mind of a stray cat afraid of humans—and so I had to be still and quiet as a way to show I meant no harm.

He began talking again. “Other people were envious of me growing up.” When he spoke again, he made his voice sound gruff like his father’s. “The almighty Whittier family. Even the rich kids I hung out with were jealous of me…because I had anything a boy could ever want—any material thing was mine at the snap of my fingers. But I didn’t have the one thing I wanted—a father who gave a shit, who actually spent time with me. And I never had a good relationship with my brothers either because they were too much older. They often called me the baby of the family, telling me they didn’t want to play with a baby.”

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