Page 64 of On Thin Ice

I felt bad for the other dancers who were relegated to the back while the three main characters received all the applause and attention, because they added to the beauty and splendor of what I’d seen.

When we stood from our seats to leave the box one final time, I felt breathless. I’d been taken away to another world for two hours—during that time, I hadn’t thought about my youth growing up in Winchester any more than I’d pondered the next ten years of my life. I’d been whisked away to another world.

Sinclair and I walked behind the rest of his family and he leaned over to whisper in my ear. “What did you think?”

Although I was smiling, I was on the verge of tears again, marveling at how moved I’d been by the entire production. All the stress and discomfort from dinner had vanished. “I loved it.”

And it dawned on me, something so corny that I wouldn’t share it with Sinclair but something that felt so true: art soothes the soul. I’d seen it with the art Sinclair had kept in his mansion, hardly noticing it anymore—but I’d felt it here tonight.

But it was true…and so I had one thing to say to Sinclair. As we continued to make our way down the corridor, I squeezed his hand. “Thank you.”

Chapter 23

Once we’d made it outside into the cool September evening, I wrapped the dainty shawl over my shoulders. Although it wasn’t as warm as a jacket, it helped keep some of the chill off my arms. The entire Whittier family and plus ones—meaning Hannah and I—made our way to the sidewalk.

The street seemed as busy now as it had been when we’d arrived at the restaurant earlier but, this time, I was sure that the vehicles packing the street belonged to some of the hundreds who’d been in the auditorium with us.

I was prepared to spend more time with his family, reminding myself that this was a special evening for them. For all I knew, we’d go out for coffee or drinks now—and I was glad that not only had my makeup been done by a professional but that my stomach had calmed down. The last time I’d gone to the restroom before leaving, I checked myself in the mirror. The lipstick still looked fresh and perfect while the mascara and eyeliner had stayed in place, despite my crying off and on.

Sinclair once more whispered in my ear. “You’re the most beautiful one here.”

A blush heated my cheeks, making me grateful that the muted light outside would make it less obvious. I shook my head, getting ready to tell him I wasn’t, when his father approached. “Bring this girl to Thanksgiving dinner,” he all but barked at his youngest son. “Hell, she’s welcome at all our family functions.”

His wife—Madeline?—wrapped her arm in his and said, “Please do. I think Vivian gets lonely.”

From behind them, Warren and Hannah said goodbye. Warren shouted, “I’ll call you on Monday, Pops.” Then the two of them all but ran down the sidewalk away from us.

The eldest Whittier’s face turned red, and a vein seemed to pop out on his forehead, something even visible in shadowed lighting. But then his oldest son said, “Ready, dad?” Both he and his wife approached a limousine—something far flashier than the one Greg drove—and were getting in.

Madeline, letting go of her husband, reached over and took my hand. “It was lovely meeting you.”

“You too.”

Sinclair and I waved as their limo began crawling down the street. “We’ll have to walk a block if you don’t mind.”

“No, that’s fine.” In fact, I thought it might help me readjust to real life.

As we began walking in the direction the traffic was moving, Sinclair wrapped an arm around me. “Are you cold?”

“I’m okay.”

We walked in silence for a bit before he spoke again. “Greg and I figured out last year that it was easier for him to pick me up over here,” he said as we turned the corner. “There’s still a lot of traffic but not that mess in front of the complex.”

I knew that was true, considering we’d walked past the Whittier limousine stuck behind several vehicles a minute earlier.

As we continued walking slowly down the block, I took in the surroundings. At this time of night, Winchester would still have a few places open and a couple of cars driving about, but it was much quieter and darker. Here it seemed almost as bright as day and as lively as a bees’ nest with the constant motion.

Finally, we stopped in the middle of the block and Sinclair turned around to look at the cluster of oncoming traffic. “There he is.” Sinclair pointed toward the signal light where his more modest limousine waited patiently for the light to turn green. Even when it did, the car was slowed by congested traffic. It made me glad I wasn’t the one driving.

When he reached us, Greg didn’t pull over and he didn’t have to. Even though traffic was moving a bit, it reminded me of snow and ice in the gutter back in Winchester when the sun would heat it just past freezing, where the water would almost reluctantly make its way down the street over and under the ice. But no one seemed to care that Greg had stopped for moment. There was no honking or yelling through open windows while Sinclair opened the back door for me to get in. As soon as he closed the door, though, Greg put the car in motion.

As the limo crept down the block, Sinclair said, “So tell me the truth. What did you really think?”

“Of the whole evening—or the ballet?”

Grinning, he said, “I’m pretty sure I know what you thought of the whole evening. But now that it’s just you and me, I wanted to know if you really loved the ballet or if you were just saying what you thought I wanted to hear.”

“Oh, no! I loved it. I…I’ve never been so moved by anything like that. I was literally crying at the end of the performance.”

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