Page 60 of On Thin Ice

Again, Sinclair held the door for me and in I walked, deeper and deeper into this foreign land. The smells of the restaurant were appealing, but the atmosphere was stark and cold—lots of whites and blacks and sharp edges. The lighting was dim but it appeared that each table had its own lamp overhead.

A maître d’ greeted us and Sinclair said, “We’re with the Whittier party.”

The man seemed impressed by that, but maybe he did that for all guests to make them feel special. “Right this way, please.”

The restaurant already had lots of full tables, so I figured the food had to taste good—although I didn’t know if I’d be able to stomach anything at the moment.

Soon we were near the back and the maître d’ opened a glass door that led us into a private dining area. Here there was a huge round table—and lots of people already seated around it.

At that point, I had to fight the nausea…but Sinclair’s hand on my back gave me strength.

Then I took in the view: this was the Whittier family…the people who’d ruined my father’s life. What would my dad think if he knew where I was and what I was doing at this very moment?

I had to push it out of my mind because I was already struggling—and if I thought of my father and our history, I’d never make it out of this evening intact.

The men all stood up and there was no denying that they were related. I could see Sinclair in each of his brothers’ faces—they all had the same jawline, similar eye shapes…and the same coldness. Their father, however, was colder than them all, but his features were different, meaning the shape of their eyes must have come from their mother.

Sinclair said, without missing a beat, “This is my father, Augustus.” This was the man whom his first wife had called Gus. With everything I knew about him—from my own father’s experience to the words of his dead wife—it was a feat to appear neutral, especially when there was no getting out of shaking his hand.

Consorting with the enemy.

His hair was gray, causing the blue of his eyes to appear like what I imagined the center of an iceberg would look—but his smile seemed genuine.

He didn’t know who I was.

“This is Lise,” Sinclair said quickly. “And this is my father’s wife Madeline, my oldest brother Augustus the third, and his wife Vivian.” By that point, I was shaking his brother’s hand. “And Warren, my middle brother,” he said, pointing to the other side of the table.

Warren also took my hand—but he kissed the top of it, something I didn’t think anyone had ever done to me. I tried not to let it freak me out. He said, “Nice to meet you. Sinny, my date is Hannah West.” At that, he gave his brother a look as if to communicate something. Sinclair shook her hand, smiling.

As we took our seats, with Warren on the left of Sinclair and his father on my right, I felt my stomach clench again…and I tried to solidify everyone’s names in my head. But what stuck with me the most was Warren calling his youngest brother Sinny, the nickname Edna had called him once or twice. Had that been a sign of disrespect or love?

I had no way of knowing.

But I tucked my purse and shawl in my lap and made the biggest effort of my life to hold a pleasant expression, trying my damnedest to hide the turmoil inside.

It was just a few hours.

I could do this.

Chapter 22

Halfway through dinner, my stomach had calmed down and I tried enjoying the food. It helped that the servers hadn’t made me feel like I had to have wine like everyone else at the table. Fortunately, the salad, though delicious, had been small—and I’d completely ignored the bread served with it.

Was this—dinner and a ballet—something the Whittiers did fairly frequently or was it a once-a-year event? It was clear to me how important it all was to them—all four men wore tuxes, their wives (or date, in Warren’s case) wearing expensive jewelry and fine clothing, and I wondered if the women’s days had gone like mine with someone fussing over their hair and makeup as if they were royalty.

We also had this room to ourselves and it was connected to the kitchen. The staff from time to time would tell us what they were doing or what would be coming next, but the elder Whittier seemed to ignore it. Instead, he was dominating the conversation at the table, talking about a recent shareholder meeting.

But I was glad for that—because, even though I found it boring, it helped me relax. There was no attention on me.

Their father’s wife—Madeline?—and the younger Augustus’s wife whose name I couldn’t remember were talking quietly between themselves, while Warren and his older brother chatted when their father wasn’t talking, with Warren’s date interjecting with an occasional comment. But she blended right in, making the two men laugh. Once in a while, father Augustus would demand a refocus of their attention while he began talking about another important angle regarding the shareholder meeting.

Sinclair was the only son who seemed to really pay attention. Once, he squeezed my hand under the table—but I didn’t know if it was for my benefit or for his.

Soon, when our main courses were delivered to the table, I wasn’t sure that I wanted any of it: A steak garnished with some sort of greenery, next to a bowl of mashed potatoes and delicious-looking glazed brussels sprouts, served on a huge plate. Fortunately, the steak looked small…but I wasn’t in the mood and I wondered who’d made the decision that everyone here would be eating steak.

Sinclair must have read my mind. Leaning over, he whispered, “This is the best steak you’ll ever taste. It’s raised locally, and the chef works magic with it. Just taste it.”

Turning my head, I tried to think of something snappy to say, but it died on my lips. Sinclair’s eyes and his earnest expression did much to quell my nerves again, and I quickly nodded.

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