Chapter 10
W hen we arrived back at the house moments later, Sinclair and I walked in the house with him carrying the takeout bag.
My father was asleep in his chair, the TV playing softly in the background, his coffee cup still mostly full, his breakfast all but untouched.
“Dad?” I asked softly, touching his shoulder.
To Sinclair, I said, “Would you please take that in the kitchen?” When he nodded, I turned back to my father.
“Dad?”
Taking in a deep breath, my father fluttered his eyes and then looked at me.
The exhaustion on his face made me want to cry.
Had this miracle infusion somehow made him far worse?
He must have seen the worry in my expression.
“I’m all right, princess.”
“Are you hungry?”
At that, he smiled.
“I guess I am—a little bit. I appreciate all the trouble you went to with breakfast, but I’m not in the mood for it.”
“What about Chinese?”
“Is that what I smell?”
I nodded.
“Yes. Are you up for eating in the kitchen?”
“I can’t just sit here all day long. I need to move. I’ll go wash up and be right there.”
Although I hovered, trying to see how I could help him up, he managed without me.
He was still using his walker but did okay shuffling toward the bathroom.
So I returned to the kitchen, pausing in the living room to gather his dishes, and found that Sinclair had already removed the boxes out of the bag, placing them on the counter beside the stove.
“I wasn’t sure where to put everything.”
The table was full of breakfast—including my untouched plate of French toast and sausage.
“Mr. Sherwood interrupted us just as we’d sat down to eat breakfast.”
“It smells good.”
“Just French toast and sausage.”
“When you come back, maybe we could have Edna make that sometime.”
I didn’t know if I’d want that, because it would simply remind me that I wasn’t with my father.
I’d never said it to Sinclair or Edna, but, aside from the occasional bagels and cream cheese, tuna fish sandwiches, and mac and cheese she’d spoiled me with, the food she served rarely reminded me of home—and, somehow, that had been a good thing.
It had kept me focused…
until I’d fallen in love with Sinclair.
Then everything had seemed to change.
Still, even now I didn’t want these two worlds to meld.
Now that I was back home, it seemed fitting to keep them separate, especially because I didn’t know what the future held.
As I scraped the food off our plates into the trash, though, I didn’t say anything.
I put them into the sink and almost scraped off the plate of extra food—the one with four more slices of French toast and two tiny sausage links, but I couldn’t bring myself to toss it wastefully.
Instead, I set it on the stove next to the unwashed skillets.
Back at the mansion, these few dirty items would have hardly seemed noticeable, I thought, remembering it took the stacks of plates and glasses after Sinclair’s dinner party for his staff to look close to messy.
Here, though, just a few items stuck out like a sore thumb—and I tried not to feel embarrassed or ashamed about it.
Sinclair asked, “Can I help with anything?”
“Sure. You can get plates and silverware out,” I said, indicating the cabinet just above where he’d placed the food.
His offer helped to put me at ease.
After putting the butter and syrup away, I wiped off the table and Sinclair put plates in front of three chairs.
“Are you okay with water to drink?” I asked, fetching glasses out of the cabinet.
“That’s fine.”
Sinclair took each glass from me as I filled it to place it on the table and, just as we were finishing, my father joined us.
Although he was still leaning on his walker, he seemed to have summoned some strength.
“I suppose I need to thank you for lunch.”
“No need. I was hungry and thought it would be rude to eat without sharing.” Sinclair took the food from the counter and began placing it on the table.
“Lise said you like sesame chicken.”
“ Like would be an understatement.”
Sinclair smiled and I said, “Shall we eat?”
We all sat and Sinclair handed my father the container of sesame chicken along with one of the boxes of rice before handing me the chow mein.
For a little bit, we were all focused on putting food on our plates, but it felt like, if there had ever been an elephant in the room, we had one now, and it was breathing down our necks.
After piling a modest amount of food on his plate, my father still hadn’t taken a bite.
When he spoke, his voice was kind and calm as it often was.
“You’re the youngest Whittier?”
“Yes. My name’s Sinclair.”
“Well…even though I dislike how this all came about, I do want to thank you for caring for my daughter over the past few months. The name’s Rowan, by the way.”
I could feel a blush crawling up my neck as I thought my father had no clue about exactly how Sinclair had cared for me after that first kiss.
But I instead focused on my fork.
Even though I was hungry, I hadn’t taken a bite either.
“What kind of man would I be if I hadn’t?”
Ah…
but it hadn’t started out that way, I thought.
But then my mind went back over my time there.
He’d rescued me that very first night from two scary men who’d meant me harm.
And then I remembered when I’d hurt my ankle, how he’d literally picked me up and carried me, getting me the best medical attention I could have ever asked for.
Then, of course, he’d covered me on his insurance, made sure I was well fed, and even paid for anything I needed.
He was going to pay for my education…
had already paid off the student loans I’d had before coming to his mansion.
He was a good man.
“Let’s not go down that path,” my father said, and I completely understood his point of view.
He was likely thinking everything I had initially—but, having kept him informed over the last few months, he also knew Sinclair had treated me well.
“But there are a few things I would like to talk about.”
Dread gripped my stomach, causing the smell of soy sauce and ginger to sour in my nostrils.
What was my father going to say?
Sinclair, however, seemed curious.
“I’m all ears.”
“How old were you when your old man pulled his mining operation out of Winchester?”
The breath flew from my lungs.
Dad was going for the jugular, not even warming up the prey before striking.
I wasn’t sure when I would take a bite of food, but I knew it wouldn’t be now.
But Sinclair’s face was neutral and, if I’d had to guess at the moment, I would have said he was unfazed.
“I don’t know. I wasn’t privy to much of my father’s business affairs until I was older. I do remember him saying something about Winchester being a PR nightmare .”
My father nodded, swallowing a bite of chicken.
“This is hitting the spot, by the way. Just what the doctor ordered. Thank you.”
Sinclair’s smile came easily.
“Glad to hear it.”
It wasn’t until that moment that I realized how good my dad was with people—and, in his line of work before growing sick, I knew he must have always been.
He’d worked for Human Services, helping people in their greatest hour of need.
Whether his talent for making someone comfortable had either been a skill he’d been born with or developed on the job, it continued to serve him well.
And it was probably why people turned on him later, feeling betrayed.
He said, “Annalise was a baby when I noticed the first gash on the hill just in front of Winchester Peak. I didn’t think much about it at first, but the hill came into full view every day as I’d pull my car into the parking lot at work. And, over time, it got worse and worse. It began to look like the whole hill was going to crumble to the ground. For several months, I just talked to people at work about it. Eventually, I learned that the Whittiers—your family—owned much of that land and that you—or they —had been mining and had been for quite some time. I didn’t know it then, but there had been even more aggressive mining out of sight, behind that hill.”
Sinclair said, “So you’re saying that the damage you can see in town isn’t all of it?”
“Right. Well, I’ve always been a curious fellow, and I began doing some research. Nobody in town with answers would talk to me about it—not the county commissioners, not city council. So I had to do it on my own. Unfortunately, I couldn’t find a thing about any agreements made between the local government and your father, but the way people were so tight-lipped told me something had happened. But I kept researching—and I discovered just how destructive that mine was and could become. Do you know anything about the environmental hazards of strip mining?”
Sinclair took a drink of water from his glass.
“I don’t know details but I’ve heard that it’s bad for the environment.”
“It is. Besides destroying the natural beauty of our town, it causes erosion problems. You can see that now, because the land was stripped of all its vegetation and never replanted. Deforestation, of course, is another big concern, and, even now, hardly anything can grow there because when it rains, it washes so much of the soil away. It also disturbs the habitat for animals and, in many cases, can lead to water pollution. Fortunately, this particular mine hadn’t gotten far enough to do that.”
I’d heard much of this before but in greater detail, and I’d forgotten about a specific incident until just now.
Several months before my mother left, my parents and I had gone to dinner at their friends’ house, a family in Winchester they were close to.
After we’d eaten dinner, the parents played Trivial Pursuit and had me and their two children go to the basement filled with toys and kids’ games.
The son, a few years older, was playing a video game, but the daughter and I, close in age, were playing dress up.
Suddenly, my mother had appeared, telling me to take off the Halloween princess costume I was wearing and to come upstairs because we were leaving.
I’d been upset because the girl and I had been enjoying ourselves and we’d barely started playing.
I’d already begun experiencing the loneliness of being ostracized at school, but it hadn’t gotten into full swing yet.
When I came upstairs, I could tell something was wrong but didn’t understand—and it wasn’t until we were in the car that my mother began scolding my father about ruining a perfectly good evening.
But one thing I remembered my father saying—not the words but the gist—was that it was clear that the man of the family was “in the Whittiers’s back pocket.” It was something I’d heard over and over as the years went by, that people in town, especially politicians, turned a blind eye to what was happening because they’d been bought off.
My father said, “Do you have children, Sinclair?”
“I don’t.”
“When you bring a child into this world, your whole perspective changes. At least it did for me. You stop living for the moment and start looking at the impact your decisions will have on your child—and I couldn’t stop thinking about how awful a place Winchester would be if I just sat back and let it happen.”
Sinclair nodded, obviously tuned into my father—and that simply spurred my dad on.
It wasn’t until that moment that I realized just how lively he was, as if talking about the past had energized him.
Ever since the infusion he’d been fatigued and pale, but now his cheeks had some color—and his energy level was better than it had been since I’d returned.
He was passionate about this subject, I knew—but he hadn’t had an audience in a long time.
“I wrote your father a letter, asking if we could meet. When I didn’t hear back after a month, I wrote another letter, basically outlining all the reasons why the mine was so detrimental.” My dad chuckled.
“It was long, three pages, but I hoped it would make an impression. I ended by offering a compromise: keep the mine but change the manner of mining. Don’t get me wrong—there are problems with underground mines too but I understand their importance to our way of living. And underground mines are far better for the environment.”
I was merely an observer as this conversation unfolded—but I remained amazed at my father’s eloquence.
As much as I’d loved and adored this man before, he was becoming an even bigger hero in my mind as I watched him in his element.
Sinclair said, “We have mines elsewhere. My older brother came home from school one time and went on and on about how the different minerals our company extracted from our mines made the world a better place.”
“I’m no fool. I understand why we mine, but there’s a better way.”
“If it makes you feel any better, my brother was just trying to impress my father. Warren—our middle brother—even called him an ass kisser in the middle of dinner and was told to leave.”
My father chuckled, and it felt like a muscle relaxer.
They were having a civil conversation—and Sinclair seemed to be genuinely interested.
Dad said, “Your father replied—but it was nothing more than a dismissal as well as the assurance that he would continue mining. I tried to set up a meeting and was told by everyone at the company that I spoke with that he didn’t have time.
“I knew I was being blown off—so I decided to try another tack.
I again tried to work with local government officials, but they’d have none of it.
Bear in mind that I’m covering a span of years here—I really was trying to work with your father or even the local government.
Frustrated with the lack of results, I organized a fundraiser to raise awareness about the environmental hazards of the mine, and I used the money I earned to make flyers to generate interest in a meeting at the library.
Not many people came, but they seemed curious.
So then I organized protests.
At first, I had a few people marching with me and even managed to get news crews from Colorado Springs to report on what we were doing…
and that’s when everything changed.
“Mind you, I have no proof, but I will be convinced to my dying day that your father was behind all this.” My dad paused, his brow furrowed, and he reached for his glass.
“I don’t need to tell you any more if you don’t want to hear it. It’s not easy hearing bad things about your parents.”
“There’s nothing you could say about my father that would make me feel less about him.”
My father’s shoulders drooped.
“I guess I should have known. All these years my warnings still fall on deaf ears.”
“You misunderstand.” Sinclair sighed, putting down his fork.
“What I meant was that my father has disappointed me throughout my life. Nothing you say will come as a surprise, and I want to hear what you have to say.”
It was as if a light had been turned on inside my father.
“Ah…then perhaps you know of his tactics? I often accused him of guerilla warfare. To this day, I don’t know how he did it, but my reputation in Winchester was ruined, slowly but surely. I’ve often compared it to that scarred hill up there. One day it was a lovely sight, with so many trees and bushes, a beautiful view…and the next the earth was upturned—brown and red and barren and, on windy days, it was nothing but a dust storm. But it was more than that…the way some of the rock appeared underneath the dirt made it look like a literal scar, as if the skin of the planet had been ripped off and, in the midst of the damaged flesh, there was a gash that went even deeper.
“But, to my point, it seemed to happen so quickly, almost overnight—and that was how it felt with me, with my reputation and my relationships.
Suddenly, people I’d been friendly with started giving me the cold shoulder or they made excuses for why they couldn’t talk.
And then there was Lise.
Oh, my sweet Lise.
” For one short moment, he looked at me before shifting his eyes back to Sinclair.
“She was shunned by classmates, bullied and tormented, even when I did my best to have teachers or their assistants intervene. And her mother just up and left one day, unable and unwilling to deal with it anymore.”
My father grew silent for a bit, but it was evident he had more to say.
“It wasn’t her fight, she’d said more than once. Although it was a bit lonelier without my wife, it was at least quieter. This house once more became a haven…maybe more like a retreat, but it again became a place where I could let my guard down. Before Tammy left, we fought so much that even home wasn’t as comfortable. Still, I dealt with it. But not long after she left, Winchester got even worse, and I believe that was when your father finally decided he’d had enough—and I made that happen. I wouldn’t be silenced. The final straw was likely when I reported the mine to the EPA or it might have been after I’d contacted several news crews in Colorado. The paper here had made a few reports but who besides people in Winchester read it? And, even if they did, most everyone here had already made up their minds. A little article in the newspaper wouldn’t change that, and I knew it. I knew I needed the whole state to realize what was going on and we had a reporter from Colorado Springs up here interviewing me and other citizens. She’d told me she was trying to get ahold of your father to comment but neither he nor his spokesperson would return her calls. That report never aired but the mine was shut down—and I suspect your father had a hand in suppressing that report. But it didn’t matter, because the mine closed.”
I finally found my voice.
“That was when it got really bad—people complaining about losing their jobs, saying dad had done it on purpose to drum up business for the Human Services offices.”
My father frowned.
“I’m sorry you had to hear all that nonsense, princess. But that’s the worst part—I didn’t want the mine shut down. That had never been my intent. I just wanted them to run it responsibly. And I told people that over and over but they didn’t want to hear it.”
We were quiet for a bit, only the sound of my father’s fork scraping his plate—and, for that, I was grateful.
This was the most he’d eaten since I’d been here.
Sinclair’s voice broke the silence.
“I knew my father despised you, had called you a troublemaker and had said more than once that, when I did anything in Winchester, I needed to avoid working with the Millers at any cost—but I hadn’t known the details.”
My father said, “And yet here we are.”
Sinclair gave him a soft smile.
“Yes. Here we are.”
Underneath it all, there was an air of defiance—from Sinclair but it was mingled with my father’s.
How would everything have turned out if campus security and the police had figured out that I’d had nothing to do with the sabotage of the lab?
Would we be having this lunch together?
Would my heart be aching, knowing that no matter how much I’d grown to love Sinclair Whittier, it would never work?
I felt grateful that my father didn’t have any more questions about Mr.
Sherwood—but I imagined having the son of his enemy sitting at his kitchen table took his mind off everything else.
That was evident by the way he was acting, more energetic than he’d been in years.
“But I’m going to make you a promise, Rowan,” Sinclair said, putting down his fork.
“Lise will be home by Christmas.”
When my father’s brow furrowed, I said, “Don’t worry. I’ll be here for your infusion appointments too.”
“When you say Christmas,” he asked, “what do you mean exactly? How long will she be here then?”
“I mean I will be releasing her from her contract. She has a project to finish up for me—and it will probably be done before then—but, regardless of whether it’s done or not, I plan to let her go no later than Christmas.”
The tears that filled my father’s green eyes told both Sinclair and me that my presence would be the best gift of all.
But, for me, there would always be a hole in my heart that only my sweet Cory could fill—but that could never be.
Although my dad had seemed to accept the man I loved regardless of his family, now that I knew the whole story from my father’s perspective, I doubted a man like Augustus Whittier would ever allow his son to be with someone like me.
It would never happen.
We were never meant to be.