Page 9 of On Thin Ice

“But everywhere I turn in this place there is something of beauty. There’s artwork everywhere—not just in the gallery—and it’s carefully chosen somehow to work together so that nothing feels out of place.”

“I have a good interior designer.”

Was that what they did? But I continued as if he hadn’t said a word. “From the chandelier way up there to the marble floor, the staircases, the windows, and every piece of art…it feels perfect.”

The only sound he made was hmm.

“And I’ve grown to love it.”

When I turned around, I couldn’t read him—not at all. He asked, “Really?”

“I do.”

“I’ll admit I’m not fond of it. It’s in constant disrepair.”

We began walking deeper into the interior of the house. “It is?”

“Yes. You saw the steps going downstairs.”

But I had a feeling those had been neglected for a long time. “Yes, but—”

“There’s always something around here that needs fixing.”

“Do you think it’s because it’s…such a large place?”

“No doubt,” he said, pausing at the west stairs. “To the game room?”

“Oh, yes.” As we began walking from the first floor to the second, I said, “That’s really no different from my dad’s house. One year we had to get a new roof and then the next we had to get a new water heater. And there were so many little things that constantly needed fixing.” After taking two more steps, I said, “I love how the view of the antechamber changes as you move up the stairs. Everything looks different from this angle.”

He made that sound again—and I couldn’t tell if it was dismissal or if he was actually absorbing my words. So I decided not to say anything else, instead allowing myself to silently admire what I saw.

I didn’t go to the third floor very often, so being here felt almost like a treat. When we got to the game room, he pulled a chess game out of the closet and unfolded the board at one of the tables. Although the sun still hadn’t set, I flipped on the light switch, knowing we would need it soon.

He asked, “Do you remember how to set up the board?”

“I think so.”

“Then you take the white and I’ll set up the black.”

“It’s been a really long time.”

He smiled. “I’ll help.” As I began copying how he set up his side, one piece at a time, I remembered playing all those hours with my dad. It wasn’t until now that it dawned on me that my mother must not have liked playing chess, or she would have played with us. Sinclair’s voice brought me quickly to the present. “I suppose I should thank you.”

“I wouldn’t. I’m not a good chess player.”

He chuckled, his rich voice warming every fiber of my body. “Not about that. For…helping me see this place with new eyes.”

“What—your home?”

“Yes. But I’ve never really thought of it that way—as a home. This mansion has felt more like a ball and chain.”

Although I doubted he’d say another word, curiosity got the best of me. “Why?”

As he paused, placing one pawn after another on his side of the board, his line of defense in the game, I could see his personal defenses on his face dropping. “When my older brother graduated from college, he immediately went to work for the company—but he never lived here again. Instead, the company bought him a home in Greenwood Village.”

I didn’t know where that was exactly, and I wasn’t going to ask.

“It wasn’t long after that the same thing happened when my middle brother came home from school and got a place in Highlands Ranch. And when I was in college,” he said, and I focused on setting up my pawns so that my face wouldn’t give away what I already knew because Edna had told me, “my father remarried and moved to Cherry Hills. And I got stuck with this old place.”

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