Chapter 11
A s I spoke with my dad on the phone later that afternoon, I realized something that made me so sad, I wondered if it seeped through my voice.
If I had fallen in love with anyone other than Sinclair Whittier, I would have told my father probably before anyone else.
As it was, I hadn’t told a soul.
But I’d gotten good at keeping my voice light, at making my imprisonment seem not so bad that sharing something positive was also easy to brush over.
Still, I had some news I wanted to share.
“There is a silver lining to all of this.”
“What’s that?”
“Mr. Whittier is going to pay for me to get a degree.” The phone was so silent for so long that I finally asked, “Dad? Are you still there?”
“I’m here. I just find that very hard to believe. Why would those people do anything nice for you?”
Although I was beginning to suspect it was because Sinclair cared for me on some level, that wouldn’t make my father feel any better.
So I slapped together pieces of the truth, hoping it would make sense.
“Believe it or not, for lots of reasons. In the work I’m doing for him, I found a painting that might be worth over a million dollars—and it was something just sitting in storage, collecting dust. If I hadn’t found it and rescued it, who knows what would have happened to it?”
“Hmm. So you’ve made them money?”
He didn’t have to know Sinclair didn’t plan to sell it—at least not as far as I could tell.
Still, it was a definite asset he could add to his portfolio.
“Yes, so maybe he feels obliged to pay me. But that’s not all. I’m going to be earning a master’s in museum studies—and that will only help me with the work I’m doing now. Plus he said they pay for their employees’ education all the time.”
“And you’re sure this isn’t some kind of trick? You’re not going to wind up owing the bill?”
“I thought of that, dad—so I’m going to make sure the tuition is paid each semester before I attend.”
“Smart girl. Of course, you thought of that. Well, good. I say take advantage of whatever they give you while you can.”
We’d already discussed the insurance and my father was no longer paying for that for me, and I hoped that meant a little more money in his pocket that would give him a bit of a cushion for his monthly expenses.
I tried to think how I would have worded my sentences before falling in love with Sinclair.
“It’ll be good to have a solid education without having that debt hang over my head—even if it is funded by the Whittiers.”
“As much as I hate that part about it, I think you should milk it for all its worth. That would at least be a little repayment for everything that’s happened to us.”
It was the first time I’d ever heard the defeat in my father’s voice, the first time I’d ever sensed just how victimized he’d been by his decades-long beef with this powerful family.
It was so hard for me to reconcile that—and the life I’d always known—with my growing adoration for the youngest Whittier son.
I had just a glimmer of hope—what if we could mend that fence?
But, of course, that would never happen.
The rift between our families was too deep, too far to cross…
yet I couldn’t help the way my feelings for him were growing.
I just couldn’t think about the future.
My future, at any rate.
“I need to follow up with Mr. Whittier about your treatment in October.” It was so weird calling him Mr. Whittier now, but it was another necessary pretense I’d have to get used to.
“Don’t you worry about that. I’ll get it taken care of.”
“Why? What’s going on?”
“You’ve got enough to worry about, princess. I’ll take care of it.”
I knew he wasn’t telling me everything, but I had no way to find out.
Apparently, I wasn’t the only one keeping secrets.
Maybe Sinclair had already made arrangements and my father was too proud to say what they were.
We spoke a little longer.
Dad told me the town had removed a traffic light from a corner of Main Street in Winchester, saying it wasn’t necessary, but he thought it was yet another stupid move by Winchester government.
Half joking, I told him there were plenty of traffic lights up here.
Then we said goodbye, and I found my eyes filled with tears when we ended the call.
Still “convalescing,” I was lying in bed when Edna delivered dinner: chicken noodle soup and some of her crusty homemade bread, with more tea (this time decaf) and a pitcher of water.
“Can I get you anything else before I leave?”
“No, thanks, Edna. You’ve already done so much for me today.”
“I just hope you’re starting to feel better.”
“Yes. Better already.”
“That’s how you know the medicine’s working. And a little chicken soup never hurt either.”
After she left, I got up and walked around the room.
Still sore but I knew by morning no one would be able to tell.
I ate the soup but I could tell it had come from a can and not Edna’s kitchen.
I imagined she bought it while she was at the store earlier because, after having been in the pantry, I could attest that there wasn’t much processed food—some crackers maybe but most of what was in there was pasta, beans, flour, tomato sauce, sugar…
all items that would be used to make meals mostly from scratch.
While I respected that, sometimes my father and I would buy a frozen pizza or a few boxes of macaroni and cheese—and I loved them because they were easy.
Soup, however, wasn’t one of those things I bought regularly.
Still, I managed to eat the entire bowl along with the bread and I found it filling.
I planned to take a bath and then I was going to read the remaining few pages of what I was calling the pregnancy journal —Sinclair’s mother’s account of being pregnant—and try to start another before calling it a night.
When there was a sharp rapping sound on my door, I nearly jumped out of my skin.
That wasn’t Edna here to retrieve the dishes.
Besides already having left for the evening, her knock was much softer.
It had to be Sinclair.
Still, I asked, “Yes?”
“May I come in?” he asked.
“Yes. The door’s not locked.”
When he entered, I was surprised.
His face was not the same as it had been this morning when he’d playfully slapped me on the bottom.
Instead, his eyes were cold and angry.
Had he known I’d snuck out of my room to fetch the laptop despite his admonition not to?
Or did he know that I’d had Edna take me to the clinic under false pretenses?
I could explain it all.
But the laptop wasn’t where he could see it, because I’d hidden it, along with the charging cord, under the mattress after I finished the application, and I’d find a way to sneak it downstairs tomorrow.
Edna had never seen it, so he had no reason to be angry about that.
Likewise, I could explain the trip to the doctor.
But it wasn’t either of those things.
“I received your text message,” he said coolly.
“Good. I just need to pay—”
“Don’t ever send me a text again unless it’s an emergency.”
I found that weird—but, for the most part, I was growing used to obeying his wishes.
“Okay. I just thought—”
“And I’m just telling you.”
I was struggling because this was starting to feel like I was speaking with Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde was the man who’d made love to me the night before.
Would it always be this way?
Or did that mean what I’d been afraid of?
That last night was the only time he’d hold me in his arms?
I could cry about it later—but, for now, I had questions.
“Okay. Sorry. It won’t happen again. I just wanted you to know I needed to pay to have the application processed.”
Reaching into his pocket, he took out a card and handed it to me.
It was a credit card in his name.
“You can use this to pay for whatever you need in terms of education. For now, it has a limit of five-hundred dollars.”
I wouldn’t need that much for the application fees or transcripts, but it was nice to know I had a bit of a cushion.
“Thank you.” And, despite how uncomfortable his presence currently made me, I had something else I had to say.
“I also wanted to ask about my father’s treatment in October…if you’ve made arrangements for him to get to Colorado Springs.”
“I haven’t made a decision yet. I’m considering letting you go down there for that—and if you don’t feel comfortable driving from Denver to Winchester, I can arrange for you to have a driver.”
While I appreciated all he was saying…
I was trying not to cry at how distant he was behaving.
Like nothing had happened between us the night before.
But my brain caught on something—something big.
He was actually thinking about letting me drive from Denver to Winchester.
Surely that meant he trusted me.
Maybe that meant he cared.
Still, I wasn’t sure how to act, so I chose to mimic his tone and facial expression.
“Thank you. When will you let me know?”
“Soon.” Finally, his eyes seemed to soften—but I still didn’t trust it.
“How are you feeling?”
This was closer to the man who’d held me last night—caring and comforting.
“Better.”
He gave me a short nod.
“Can I get you anything?”
Yes: an inkling that I matter!
Instead, I said, “No, I’m okay.”
“Have a good night, Lise.” He walked to the door and the sound of it closing behind him was as loud as the sound of my shattering heart.
After I had a good long cry, I took a shower and started to feel much better.
The tissue under my eyes was swollen and puffy and it looked like I was wearing red eyeliner, but emotionally I was steadier.
His recent rejection still hurt but I knew I was strong—and I would always resent him for taking my virginity, but I was strong.
It wasn’t much different from how I’d been treated by a good lot of the kids growing up.
But it reminded me of a friend I’d had in middle school, a girl named Ashley.
She and her mom had moved to Winchester from Colorado Springs to care for her grandmother.
Ashley and I became close, and I told her much about my history.
But it wasn’t long before she looked at the other side of the proverbial coin, realizing I was the town pariah and she didn’t want to be guilty by association—and, after that, she treated me even worse than most kids.
Those wounds cut deeper because I’d let her in.
I’d let her get close.
I’d told her my secrets.
And when she bothered to look at me or talk to me, she used my words and fears against me.
And I’d vowed to never let anyone get close again.
So even though I had a couple of friends in high school, I kept our relationships superficial, because I didn’t know who to trust. Still, it was nice to have someone to eat lunch with and study with.
I told my journal all the things I couldn’t even tell my dad…
until now. I’d allowed myself to trust someone completely, to let him inside, and he’d let me know tonight that I didn’t mean a thing to him.
It was a reminder that I had to protect myself.
But thinking about journals reminded me that I wanted to read more of Sinclair’s mother’s writings.
I suspected—no, I knew —he had to be the way he was because of how he was raised…
and I wished he’d had a chance to know his mother.
Through her words, I could feel who she was—and she was not a cold, cruel, heartless person, although I suspected she’d been married to one.
Fortunately, I hadn’t had to meet the eldest Whittier.
I already despised the man.
And I knew it for certain: if he’d treated his children the way he treated his wife…
no wonder Sinclair was the way he was.
I’d only survived because of my father’s love for me.
It was deep and unconditional.
Tears filled my eyes again.
I missed him so much.
Swiping at my cheeks with the back of my hand, I sat on the bed and became absorbed in reading the journal, the one that chronicled Sinclair’s growth inside her belly.
It was almost boring with its minute detail of how her body was changing—but there was one entry that caught my attention.
I heard from Xavier for the first time in a long time today.
He’s in New York at the moment but he’s planned a trip to Spain, still in search of rare, undiscovered paintings.
He’s convinced he’ll find gold.
I didn’t tell him about my pregnancy.
If he’d come to see me, it would be hard to deny it.
I was starting to show and it was all in my belly.
But what would he say?
I wouldn’t want to hear it.
He left in a hurry all those months ago and, as much as I enjoyed talking to him, his absence hurt.
All those unspoken words.
I read through the rest of the journal, hoping to find more about this mysterious Xavier person, but there was nothing.
Instead, it ended abruptly, not long after that entry.
I only had two more journals left.
The one I chose had a light purple glittery cover and, when I read the date of the first entry, I understood that this journal was started about a year before the pregnancy one—and, as I kept reading, I realized this journal came right after the red one, the one I’d read first.
It started out in January of the previous year with an entry about a birthday celebration for Warren who had just turned six—and it sounded like a disaster.
They’d invited kids of many of their family friends and Warren had thrown a temper tantrum about the cake.
He’d wanted chocolate with chocolate frosting but it was a white cake with chocolate frosting—and when they’d cut it, he’d had a complete meltdown.
It sounded like his nanny was part of the problem as well.
But I was reading rapidly, hoping to find out more about her friend Xavier.
It wasn’t until I was a quarter of the way in that I found an entry about him—early February, the year before Sinclair was born.
Gus brought to dinner the most intriguing man.
His name is Xavier Zelinsky and he has the darkest eyes I’ve ever seen—like little pools of onyx.
Gus has him looking for rare artwork.
He built that gallery a year ago and we have one pathetic statue in it.
Gus wants to fill it with art that will make his colleagues jealous.
I don’t know why he cares so much.
This mansion is impressive enough.
It’s like his entire life is one big dick contest.
Maybe that was what attracted me to him in the first place—that raw passion for winning, regardless of the cost, that need to be not good but the best. And not just to be the best but making sure everyone knew it.
One time he’d said he wanted his competitors to feel like they were sucking his dick and had to pretend they were enjoying it.
I should have known then.
I paused. What did she think she should have known?
That her marriage would have been unhappy?
But she didn’t explain.
Instead, she moved back to the dinner guest.
Anyway, Xavier promised to obtain whatever it was Gus wanted, but that it would cost. More than once, Gus said price was not an issue—so long as it was something he wanted.
Xavier promised to show his portfolio after dinner so that Gus could see firsthand all the treasures the man had already dug up for wealthy customers.
Xavier himself appeared to be pretty well off.
I know an Armani suit when I see one.
And I’m pretty sure he wore a Bruguet watch, but it kept disappearing under his suit jacket.
Gold and diamond cufflinks, highly polished black leather shoes.
This guy didn’t look like a million bucks.
He looked like he was WEARING a million bucks.
And Gus was obviously impressed.
As I continued reading that entry, I thought to myself that she too was impressed.
And, the way she described the man, I didn’t wonder why.
Most of the next few entries centered around Xavier.
He was at the house a lot, especially for dinners, where he would show the Whittiers the art he had found for them, letting them decide if they wanted it.
Or, rather, letting her husband decide—because there was one painting she adored that he said no to.
Gus left for Europe again this morning and Xavier showed up unannounced—with that painting I’d fallen in love with.
Gus said it looked like a “glorified Kinkade” and he would “never have that shit in my house.” But I didn’t care.
I loved it. It was a painting of a small stream surrounded by pines, just like my grandparents’ house I used to visit when I was a child.
It was like Gus was rejecting my past. And, of course, he was.
More than once he’d said he shouldn’t have married below his station.
And every time he said that, I reminded him that I’m the reason why his company is so successful today.
I would never tell the children this because I want them to love their father.
He’ll come around. He has to.
But he only married me because I was one of his top executives, and I was being courted by one of his rival companies.
Of course, he’s never said that.
He’s said he loves me, but his behavior of late is proving to me that this marriage was nothing more than a business deal.
I was an acquisition, one he’d been forced to make, and he was making the best of it.
I now know he never cared about me.
But Xavier is helping me get over it.
Today, when he brought that painting, I knew he cared.
But I told him I couldn’t take it.
“Where would I put it?”
“Wherever you like,” he said, with that teasing smile.
“I can’t pay for it,” I said.
“Gus would find out.”
“Not if I didn’t charge you for it.”
I told him I couldn’t possibly accept it—but then he told me he had other ways of getting paid and I didn’t need to worry about it.
Still, as much as I wanted that beauty, I ultimately told him no.
Finally, he said, “In a home this big, you couldn’t find a place to hide it from your husband?”
I toyed with the idea of putting it somewhere he’d never look—like in the game room upstairs.
Or in my closet. But he’d find out.
I know he would. He hated that painting so much, he’d never forget what it looked like.
It was like he was rejecting me .
But I knew he was—he’d already done it.
I set down the journal, thinking to myself that trait must run in the family.