Chapter 7
W hen I woke up the next morning, I splashed cold water on my face.
My eyes were red-rimmed, the flesh surrounding them puffy.
There was no way I’d be able to hide this from my father…
so I wondered if I should tell him the entire truth.
In fact, keeping silent about my relationship with Sinclair was the first time I’d ever hidden anything from him, aside from not burdening him with the stories about the bullies I’d grown up with.
As I stood in the shower, I thought back to a week ago.
I’d just gone to my first ballet and the fanciest restaurant I’d ever stepped foot in.
I’d felt like a princess from head to toe.
Now, I could see in the cold light of day that it had all been a sham.
Like the ballet, we’d been on a stage, performing our parts, staying in character, and following the script.
Only I hadn’t been let in on reality until now—and feeling fooled by an act probably stung worse than losing Sinclair.
That wasn’t true.
I’d grown to genuinely love him, to see that behind his cold, hard exterior was a man who’d wanted nothing more than love and acceptance—maybe even admiration—from his father and knew he would never get it.
As I toweled off, I realized I still did love him, and that hurt deeply, but it couldn’t erase the other part of Sinclair Cornelius Whittier.
The other part of him had lied to me.
Used me.
Abused my trust.
Manipulated me.
And, maybe, he’d figured out how to make me fall in love with him.
Made me become a willing victim.
Fortunately, after I got dressed and headed to the kitchen, my father was sitting in the living room, watching some weekly news recap on television.
We said good morning to each other but I was able to avoid looking him in the eye.
Maybe I could tell him everything at breakfast.
Dad had made coffee already, so I poured a cup.
Then I popped out of the kitchen and asked if he needed a refill.
“Still nursing this cup, but I could eat a bite.”
“I’m on it.”
As I took a long gulp of coffee, I felt immense relief that he hadn’t noticed—or, at least, mentioned—the evidence of a night of crying on my face.
Scanning through the refrigerator, I decided I needed a little comfort food.
We’d have to eat leftovers for lunch and dinner and probably even tomorrow, but for now I wanted something completely different—although breakfast was so late, it would be more like brunch, and we might wind up only eating dinner.
Still…
even if it meant we’d have to eat leftovers until Monday or Tuesday, I didn’t want lasagna this morning.
It had been ages since I’d made French toast.
I pulled the sausage links out of the freezer that I’d bought earlier in the week and started frying them on low while I whipped up batter for French toast.
When everything was ready—including butter and syrup on the table—I called my father in.
If he didn’t introduce the topic by asking if I was all right, I’d bring it up when we were done eating—maybe when I was cleaning up so I wouldn’t have to look him in the eyes.
But, of course, he knew.
As soon as we both sat down at the table, it didn’t take him long.
“Sweetheart, you look like you’ve been crying. What’s wrong?” Just the question brought tears to my eyes again—and I couldn’t get the words out.
Dad put a hand on my shoulder and I felt a wave of guilt.
The last thing he needed was to get caught up in my stupid emotional drama.
Instead, he needed to keep his strength in reserve as his body tried to heal itself.
“If this is about me, don’t you worry. I’ll make it.”
Grabbing a napkin from the holder in the center of the table, I swiped at my eyes and nose.
My father certainly was important and worthy of any tears I could ever possibly shed—but he also deserved to know the truth.
Getting myself under control, I sucked in a slow, calming breath.
“That’s not it, dad.”
His green eyes scanned mine, trying to absorb my pain, hoping to root out the cause of my misery.
I could almost imagine what he was wondering—was I crying because I had to go back to Denver?
Did it have anything to do with the idea that I might lose him in the future?
But he didn’t say another word.
Instead, he continued patting me on the shoulder, offering comfort.
How could I even begin to tell him how foolish I’d been?
I would start at the beginning.
“I was so angry when I went to Denver,” I said, hoping to help him understand my frame of mind.
Even as I analyzed it myself, I could appreciate how it had all happened: I’d been ripped away from the only life I’d ever known, taken from my home and my father, the one other person who made us a family, and at the worst time.
Isolated in a place that might just as well have been halfway across the world, I was vulnerable—and that had been how I’d fallen victim to Sinclair Whittier’s charms.
Even now, I wondered, though…
because a huge part of my heart still belonged to him, regardless of what I told myself.
I continued.
“But part of me was afraid too…of going to jail, of being away from you, and—”
The doorbell rang, interrupting my train of thought.
Dad said, “Don’t get it. It’s probably just those Jehovah Witnesses who like to come by from time to time.” And continued coming by because my father always invited them in to chat.
Who could blame him really?
After all, they were a small contingent in Winchester that didn’t hate my father, and I knew he got lonely, especially with all the time I’d spent at school—and, when I’d get home, I’d spend even more time studying.
And now, well…
I really couldn’t blame him.
The sweet smell of the French toast mingled with the savory scent of the sausage, and I felt guilty that my father was comforting me rather than eating.
“Go ahead and fill up your plate. I’ll get rid of them.”
“See if they can stop by on Monday instead.”
Despite my roiling emotions, I gave my father a smile, shaking my head.
I’d have to make sure I wasn’t around when they planned to come by.
After making my way through the living room, I opened the door—but the two Jehovah’s Witness ladies were not there.
Instead, it was Mr.
Sherwood.
What the hell was he doing here?
“Mr. Sherwood?”
Before I could ask, he said, “I’m sorry to show up unannounced, but I was thinking about our conversation all night long. You didn’t believe me.”
“I—”
“So I would just like a little of your time to prove to you that the Whittiers have wrongly indebted you.”
“Mr. Sherwood—”
“ Alan ,” he corrected.
Why didn’t he get that I would never call him by his first name?
“I don’t understand—”
“That’s why I’m here.”
I hadn’t heard my father come out of the kitchen until he spoke.
“What’s this about the Whittiers now?”
“Rowan, so good to see you.” Mr.
Sherwood used my father’s entrance as an excuse to come through the door, his hand outstretched.
Why had I never told my father about all my misgivings around this man?
That lack of disclosure was working against me.
“Did I hear you say something about the Whittiers?”
“Yes. If I may…” he said, indicating with his hand that he wanted to sit down.
But I had to put a stop to all of this.
Now.
“Mr. Sherwood, my father has just undergone a medical procedure that will help with his illness—but it’s made him overtired and… Anyway, I can’t have you getting him all stressed out about something he can’t do anything about.”
As if to emphasize my words, my father backed up, nearly falling on the couch—but I suspected just hearing about his worst enemy hadn’t helped.
“But I need to talk to you, Anna. I didn’t have a chance to tell you everything. I got the feeling yesterday you didn’t believe me and I need to set the record straight.”
My father said, “You two go ahead and talk. Don’t mind me.”
“I will mind you, dad. I’ll give you a summary later.” Then I turned back to Mr.
Sherwood.
“Just give me a bit. Come on, dad.” Holding out my hand, I helped him up off the couch.
“You need to eat or else you’ll never get your strength back. Where’s your walker?”
“Over there,” he said, indicating the spot beside his recliner where it often sat, waiting to be used.
When I started leading him to the kitchen, he said, “Could you just bring my plate out here?”
Nodding, I helped him over to his recliner and another pang of guilt struck me, a reminder of how much the treatment had zapped him of his strength.
Then I grabbed his coffee cup that he hadn’t brought to the kitchen so I could fill it up at the same time.
Now that I was out of the living room, Mr.
Sherwood used it as an excuse to chat with my father, so I tried to hurry.
On my father’s plate were two slices of French toast but he hadn’t gotten much farther along.
I put butter and syrup on the toast and set three sausage links on his plate.
If he didn’t eat them, so be it, but I he wouldn’t have a chance if I didn’t give him the opportunity.
Then, making a couple of trips, I brought out his plate, napkins, silverware, and fresh coffee.
Of course, Mr.
Sherwood was already filling my father’s head with nonsense.
He was in the middle of saying, “I think they’re expecting your daughter to do far more work than she needs to.”
It was obvious looking at my dad that he really was exhausted.
Still, he wanted to hear all Mr.
Sherwood had to dish out—but it would be better if he heard it from me.
“Mr. Sherwood, can we speak outside?”
The way he frowned made me suspect he’d been hoping I’d offer him a cup of coffee.
But that wasn’t about to happen.
“I suppose that would be fine.”
“I’ll be right back.” I ran to my bedroom, taking a chance that he’d start filling my father’s head with his words again, but I wanted a sweater, because the mornings were beginning to feel chilly—and I didn’t want to give Sherwood another reason to come back inside.
Although it was fortunate that my father had switched the television back on, indicating he wouldn’t converse further with Mr.
Sherwood, it also told me he was even more tired than I’d thought—and he might not even eat.
“Can I get you anything else, dad?”
“I’m fine.” At least he was picking up a sausage link as Mr.
Sherwood and I walked out of the house.
It was cool out, but I probably would have been okay without the sweater.
Still, it covered me up a little more, a move I’d often felt compelled to do around this man.
“So what is it you needed to tell me?
“Thank you for giving me the time,” he said, looking around the yard.
The neighbors across the street had recently repainted their white house, making ours look even more rundown in the process.
Years ago, I’d let the shame about our living conditions fall by the wayside, but every once in a while, those feelings rose to the surface.
But that hadn’t been what Mr.
Sherwood had been looking at.
I followed his eyes from my old car parked on the street to my dad’s truck in the driveway…
sitting right next to Sinclair’s Lexus.
“When did you get that car?” Mr.
Sherwood asked.
“Is that yours?”
“No.” I was sure he was already making assumptions, so I said, “Mr. Whittier let me borrow it for the trip down.”
“That seems generous.” Ah…
he’d said the word, but it was obvious from his tone that he didn’t think so.
And we were not going to get into a debate about his motivations.
So I simply repeated my earlier question.
“What is it you need to tell me?”
Sherwood raised his eyebrows but then nodded.
“A lot. But let’s start with this,” he said, pulling his phone out of his jacket pocket and, after typing in his passcode and swiping the screen a couple of times, he handed it to me.
It was an article from the online version of the Winchester Tribune , the daily paper that somehow kept chugging along.
Under the headline that read WCC’s lab up and running , there was a picture of the first section of the lab—looking exactly as it had before it had been destroyed.
Only this time, there were two students in the picture, pretending like there wasn’t someone with a camera there.
The students were administering care to their pretend patient, giving the fair citizens of Winchester a glimpse at their modern learning environment.
Below the picture was an article and I knew I’d need to read it before Sherwood would leave.
But what was the point?
He’d already uncovered the lie Sinclair had told me, and this felt like I was a dog who’d peed on the carpet, only to have her nose rubbed in it.
So rather than read word for word, I scanned it.
Of course, it reported exactly what Sinclair had already confirmed, that crews had worked day and night to make sure the lab was ready to go by the fall semester start date.
There were a few choice quotes from Dr.
Rakhimov as well and it was weird how, even after all this time, I could hear her haughty voice in my head bragging about the feat, taking most of the credit.
But I knew it was the Whittiers’ money that had made it happen.
She’d just been smart enough to glom onto them, robbing any other departments of the chance to put that money to good use.
Honestly, though, she’d done a lot of good—and now, in retrospect, I could give her credit.
After all, that new auditorium she’d had built would be used by the college as a whole…
even if she did have first dibs on it.
When I handed the phone back to him, I said, “Okay. Now what?”
“I have…so much to tell you. We’re allies, you and me—and your father. I don’t like what the Whittiers have done here any more than you.”
So much had changed since I’d left.
Regardless of my anger with Sinclair, I didn’t associate him with the mining fiasco.
The blame for that sat squarely on his father’s shoulders.
And that too was the strangest thing.
It was very easy for me to reconcile Gus, Constance’s husband thirty years ago, with the cold, cruel man who’d been hell bent on raping and pillaging a hillside he didn’t have to look at regularly.
He was, after all, the same man who’d ignored and rejected his wife and left his youngest son to be raised by a nanny because he’d had doubts about his genes.
But it was a little harder to reconcile Gus with the man I’d had dinner with a little over a week ago.
I knew he was simply a mellowed version of his former self…
but I couldn’t quite hold the anger in my heart as I had.
I knew, though, that it still mattered to my father.
So I simply nodded.
That was all Sherwood needed to continue.
“Anna, you don’t know this, but I’d spoken out too. It was after I graduated with my bachelor’s degree and I came back home. I was earning my master’s online—and I’d gotten my foot in the door at WCC. A group of us held demonstrations protesting the mine—and we were told that free speech was good but this wasn’t Kent State or CU-Berkeley.”
Although I had no idea what he was talking about, I nodded.
He continued.
“We were told that we could choose to teach our classes—not full loads anyway—or we could have all the free time we wanted to protest. You probably know already that this town is corrupt from the top to the bottom. I hadn’t realized it until then and it was disheartening. I wasn’t allowed free speech if I wanted my job.”
“Why didn’t you just move somewhere else?”
“I could ask the same of your father.” That was fair—but I didn’t plan to have a discussion about it.
“If I’d left, I wouldn’t have been able to get these idiots living here to change—but if I stayed, I could influence young minds, help them see the light.”
His words triggered a memory from my time in his class.
One day, instead of lecturing about the American Revolution, he’d used the concept as a jumping off point to talk about tyrants and “history’s bullies.” And then he’d used that as an excuse to talk about the French Revolution and lectured us on how it all boiled down to social and economic inequality.
I’d been paying attention, of course, because being bullied due to my father standing up to a rich man had been the reason why my childhood had been less than ideal—but then in that class, Mr.
Sherwood had shifted the conversation once again to talk about civil unrest in the sixties, how ordinary citizens have a say.
His lecture had gone all over the place, and he’d even talked about tree spiking and ecotage.
Several students slurped it up—but I knew none of this would be on a test.
Besides, I’d thought at the time, I wasn’t going to stick around Winchester.
I didn’t plan to take up his or my father’s mantle.
At the end of the lecture, though, he’d quite pointedly said, “If any of you wish to discuss this matter further, come see me during office hours.”
I hadn’t thought much about it at the time.
After all, Sherwood had many times reminded students of his office hours.
He’d made a point of doing that with me specifically more than once.
“And that’s what I’ve done, Anna. I’ve used my position to open the eyes of the youngest Winchester adults, the ones who’ve been brainwashed into thinking that the government of Winchester has their best interests at heart, the ones who have only been drinking the Kool-Aid because it was given to them by their parents. These kids…they haven’t had the opportunity to analyze or to pick anything apart. That is, until me.”
I wanted this conversation to end as quickly as possible, so I wasn’t going to debate him about his merits as a college instructor.
I simply said, “Most of my professors tried to instill that idea into us—to not take anything at face value but to question it, to figure out for ourselves if something seemed rational.”
“Exactly.” He sucked in a deep breath, renewing his focus on me.
“So why didn’t you ever come to me during office hours?”
“I felt like I understood the concepts you were teaching in class.”
“Yes, but, Anna…weren’t you listening to the message behind the lecture? Didn’t you understand what I was telling you?”
“I mean, I got it, but—”
“Clearly, you didn’t. How did America begin?” Before I could even speak, he said, “That’s too broad a question. America became a nation and we fought for our freedom against oppressors. It’s in our blood to fight against tyrants. The French Revolution was the same—the French were tired of being ruled over by monarchs who didn’t know what it was like to struggle, to work hard—and all for the benefit of the rulers and the merchants. When the rich fail to listen to reason, it’s time to fight.”
A chill shot down my spine as I realized he was no longer talking about historical revolutions.
He was talking about now—about Winchester and the Whittiers.
“And so I ask again, why didn’t you come to office hours?”
The main reason was because he’d always had that creepy pervy vibe—and, as much as I would have liked to believe he wouldn’t have done anything to me, my intuition told me to never be alone in a room with him.
But I wasn’t about to say that out loud—because I realized I could have been wrong.
Especially now, listening to a lecture outside of the classroom, I began to wonder if his strange vibe was because of what he was talking about now.
“I…I have always tried to be available for my father.”
“And yet you’ve been gone for several months. Don’t you see? This is history repeating itself.” He paced along the patio as if he’d needed to get away from me for a few moments but I wondered if he was using it as an excuse to peek in the window at my father.
When he turned around, he asked, “Who do you think vandalized the simulation lab?”
It wasn’t what he asked but the way he asked it that made me suspect he knew the culprit.