Page 59 of On Thin Ice

As he clasped it on my neck, he asked, “How does that feel?”

“Expensive.”

He chuckled. “You’d be right.” When I turned around to face him, his eyes said far more than his lips ever could—and I hoped my eyes communicated the same. I wondered how poets came up with their perfect phrases and metaphors—because I was completely speechless, as was the well-spoken tall man in front of me. But he finally managed. “This necklace belonged to my mother—and it hasn’t been worn in decades.” It wasn’t until then that I worked up to protest—but he stopped me. “I know my mother would have loved you. Even though I never got to know her in person, I’d heard stories from my brothers and their nannies when I was young—and even the occasional snippet from my father. She was a kind if misguided soul and I can’t think of anyone else she’d rather wear her necklace.”

It wasn’t until then that I touched it with my fingers, splaying my hands against the sparkly gems dangling from my neck. How many little diamonds were on this necklace? I couldn’t even guess. And I wondered if Sinclair was right. After all, he’d been correct about the kind of person his mother had been. Having read several years of her innermost thoughts, I felt like I’d grown to know her—and she was a kind person, one who’d wanted nothing more than to be loved by her cold, heartless husband.

Was I any different from her? Over time, would Sinclair prove to be like his father?

Before I could muse any further, Sinclair’s voice silenced my thoughts. “But that’s not all,” he said, reaching into the rectangular box again. “I had the jeweler design matching earrings just for tonight—but I’ll let you do the honors this time.”

Picking up the dangling earrings, I looked at my reflection in the dresser mirror, inserting an earring into one ear and then the other—and if Sinclair hadn’t told me, I would have guessed the earrings and necklace had always been a set. I remained speechless.

“The earrings are for you to keep, Lise.”

My natural inclination was to protest. “I couldn’t possibly—”

“Yes. You can and you will,” he said, his tone indicating that there would be no arguments. “No time for discussion. We have to leave. Dinner is at five-thirty, and if we don’t go now, we’ll be late.”

“What about the ballet?” I asked, picking up the red clutch purse Marco had given me for the evening, along with the shawl that I draped on my arm.

“It’s at seven and just down the street and around the corner from the ballet—and the restaurant is expecting us. But we have to go now. Greg is standing by.”

As we walked down the marble stairs toward the main hallway, for the first time, I knew I looked like I belonged there.

And I also felt like the world’s biggest pretender—but Sinclair’s firm hand against my back gave me strength. I had to believe he would guide me through this foreign world, even while I felt like I was more lost than I’d ever been in my life.

For the first time since leaving Winchester, I rode in the limousine with Sinclair to our destination. I thought to myself, this is how the wealthy live. My dad and I on rare occasion would go to the movie theater in Winchester, eating at Chili’s or McDonald’s first. But either he or I would drive and we wouldn’t get dressed up.

This, I thought, was the rich person’s equivalent…and, even though I’d loved everything up to that point—trying on gowns and choosing one, having it tailored to fit me perfectly, having my hair and makeup done by an expert, wearing expensive jewels—I’d give it all up just to be with my father in our living room, eating microwave popcorn and watching a movie on our television.

That was truly where I belonged. I didn’t belong here. Pretending had been fine…but now I was about to be exposed to an entire family who would see right through me.

Another knot formed in my intestines.

I looked out the side windows as Greg drove out of the neighborhood, and soon I understood why Sinclair had wanted to leave quickly. Traffic was tight with lots of cars moving slowly. This was the rush-hour traffic I’d heard him talk about from time to time—hundreds of people getting off work around the same time, each desperate to get home so they could begin their weekend.

I felt desperate too…but I wasn’t going home.

Sinclair must have sensed my anxiety. “Are you all right?”

Turning my head from the window, I tried forcing a smile. “Yeah.”

He narrowed his eyes and took my hand from my lap, holding it in his. “You’re not. What’s wrong?”

“I’m just a little nervous.”

Nodding his head, he gently squeezed my hand. “It’ll be fine. I promise. And I think you’ll love the ballet.” I wanted to protest, to tell him I was going to hate all of it and ask him to take me back…but to what? To the mansion? It too remained a place where I didn’t belong.

But he was here—and he would help me through it. So I just nodded back, trying to communicate that I was a good sport.

The longer we rode, though, and the farther away we got from the mansion, the sicker I felt. So I just held onto Sinclair’s hand, reminding myself that I could get through anything with him by my side.

Soon, we were downtown with buildings so high, they blocked out the sun that was dipping low in the west. Again, the traffic was tight and moving slowly, but when we turned onto a one-way street, it eased up a bit. When the limo pulled over to the curb, Sinclair got out before Greg had a chance to. Then he turned, holding out his hand for me to grab. Gripping my purse and shawl in the other, I took Sinclair’s hand and drew in a deep breath, trying to shake the awkward feeling.

“Have a good time,” Greg said, almost like a father dropping off his kids at a birthday party.

“I’ll text you when we’re ready,” Sinclair said, shutting the door once I was on the sidewalk. Greg had dropped us off right in front of the restaurant and Sinclair ushered me toward the door as the limo disappeared in traffic, swallowed up in the sea of cars all heading away from us.

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