My Sister, Myself

CHAPTER THREE

THE CAMPUS WAS beautiful. Though grass was at a premium in this desert town, Montford’s lawns were green and lush, so velvety thick Tory had an urge to lie down in it and pass the day there.

She might have, too, if her kill-’em-with-love drill sergeant wasn’t marching along beside her. Students milled all around them, moving with purpose, every single one of them looking as though they belonged.

“You’re going to do fine,” Phyllis was saying. Not that Tory had expressed her fears this morning. Phyllis just knew she was feeling them.

“You’re sure you tested me on every aspect of the Emerson years?” Tory asked for the third time that morning.

“You know it, Tory,” Phyllis assured her. “You had a lot of it down before we even started yesterday.”

Tory shrugged, feeling stiff in her sister’s suit and low heels. Tory was used to less-formal clothes. And higher heels. Christine’s feet had been half a size larger than Tory’s, but Phyllis had fixed that with some inserts. They’d go shopping for Tory’s school clothes later in the week.

“I had no idea I’d retained so much from when I helped Christine study.”

“I’d guess it was a good diversion from whatever else might have been going on in your house.”

Tory stumbled, still not used to Phyllis’s open way of talking about her and Christine’s painful up-bringing. She wondered how Christine had dealt with her friend’s honesty. Wished, suddenly engulfed by an unexpected surge of grief, that Christine were there so she could ask her.

“You’ve had your meeting with Dr. Parsons,” Phyllis said, motioning toward the sidewalk on the left when they came to a fork. “He didn’t suspect anything, and he was your toughest sell. The others who interviewed Christine only saw her for a few minutes back in April and then never spoke with her again. Christine got her hair cut. Had a makeover and lost a little weight over the summer, most recently due to her car accident.”

“Dr. Parsons sure was nice,” Tory said, relaxing just a little as she replayed her early-morning meeting with the president of Montford University. He’d asked about the car accident and been very sympathetic about her sister’s death, agreeing not to say anything to anyone else about it, as no one knew her sister or knew that her sister had been coming to town. He understood her need to grieve in private.

“He seemed to have a real affection for Christine, though he seemed surprised that she cut her hair.”

“You cut your hair,” Phyllis corrected, slowing as they came to the side door of an old brick building. “You can’t keep thinking of Christine as someone else if you’re going to pull this off.”

Tory looked up at the imposing building, afraid that it was their destination, that Christine’s new office, her new colleagues, were in there.

“You make it sound as though we’re criminals,” Tory told Phyllis, staving off the panic that could send her right back into Bruce’s clutches.

“I’m not up on criminal law,” Phyllis said, “but I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that we’re breaking a couple of laws.”

Tory had been so caught up with the emotional trauma inherent in the entire situation, she hadn’t even given a thought to the legal issues.

“You know, I’ve spent years ignoring the laws that were supposed to help me, because in my case they never worked. So I’ve never even thought about the ones I might be breaking.”

She looked at her new friend, an angel sent to her from heaven—if there was a heaven. And turned to leave.

“Where are you going?”

“We can’t do this, Phyllis. Risking my life, my freedom, because the alternative is no better, is one thing. But I won’t risk yours.”

Grabbing Tory’s arm, Phyllis pulled her toward the door. “If I am breaking a law, that’s my choice,” she said firmly. “You may think I’m the only friend Christine had, but I know she was the only real friend I’ve ever had, and I’m not letting her down. Or you, either. Let’s go.”

Perhaps it was a sign of her cowardice. Or weakness. But Tory went.

And two hours later, when she stepped into the first college classroom she’d ever been in—the first of five she’d be stepping into that week—when she saw the rows of desks, the students sitting there, and walked right past them to the front of the room, she refused to let the weakness show.

She was Christine Evans. The best damn teacher any one of those intimidating intelligent students had ever had.

IN A CHAIR right in the middle of the room—not so far back that he wasn’t a part of things and not so close to the front that he missed what was going on behind him—Ben watched as his fellow classmates filed in and took their seats. So far, he was the oldest of the bunch. Not too many seniors took American Literature 101.

Still, he wasn’t daunted. Or even the slightest bit disappointed. This was his classroom. His school. His day.

Pulling out the black spiral-bound notebook he’d bought for this class and a new pen, he sat back and waited for his teacher to arrive. C. Evans.

Was “C.” a man or a woman?

Listening as a rather immature boy, clearly fresh out of high school, tried to pick up the blond cheerleader-type in the back of the room, Ben smiled. He felt the way Buddy had looked in the bathroom that morning.

Let the games begin.

A young woman walked in just then, clearly fresh out of her high school, if the confident tilt of her head was anything to judge by. Ben’s euphoria faded just a little as he watched her. Overdressed compared to the rest of the shorts-clad students, she stood out in her proper blue suit and white blouse. And she was far too striking to be wearing the no-nonsense pumps she had on.

What bothered him, though, wasn’t her clothes. Or even her confidence. It was the way his nerves tensed when she passed his desk. He’d been looking at female students all morning, and he could have been looking at a herd of cattle for all the reaction they aroused in him.

Staring down at the desktop in front of him, at his notebook lying there ready and open, Ben avoided noticing where the young woman sat. He wasn’t in the market for an attraction, a flirtation or a romance. Or anything at all that had to do with a woman. Maybe once he’d graduated, enough time would have elapsed and he’d be willing to venture down that road again. Maybe. But for sure, it would be no sooner than that. He wasn’t going back to working till he dropped, working at dead-end jobs just to pay the rent.

“Okay, everybody, let’s get started, shall we?”

His gaze shooting toward the front of the room, Ben came to attention. He’d been so set on ignoring one of his fellow students, he hadn’t even realized the teacher had come in.

Yes, he had. He just hadn’t known she was his teacher.

C. Evans. A woman. The suit.

Damn.

She looked straight at him, almost as though she’d read his thoughts, and Ben received his second jolt of the day. Her eyes, so compelling, so full, held his, and he sensed, somehow, that she was speaking to him. And what she had to say was far more intense than anything to do with American literature. For a few brief seconds, it was as though only the two of them were in that room.

“I’m Christine Evans,” she said, breaking eye contact with him. After glancing around at the rest of her students, she focused on him again.

Her look wasn’t sexual. Wasn’t the least bit suggestive. It seemed more as if she was searching for a friend. And that she’d chosen him.

Ben couldn’t accept the honor.

Glancing away from her, he observed the rest of the students in the room. Had any of them noticed the odd communication? Had any of them experienced it, as well, when Ms. Evans had looked at them? All the students in his line of vision seemed young, inexperienced, oblivious. So much so they didn’t recognize the undercurrents? Or were there simply none being sent their way?

“This syllabus covers the entire semester, and we’ll be following it exactly,” Ms. Evans was saying, passing around handouts.

She hesitated beside his desk, then dropped the stapled sheets on his notebook and moved on.

“Since I’m brand-new to town, I don’t know a single one of you, but I’m usually pretty good with names, and I expect to have them all learned within a couple of days. Until then, please bear with me.”

Like him, she was a newcomer.

“We’ll take a few minutes to go over the syllabus,” she went on, “plus my requirements of you and the expectations for this class, including the weekly essays you’ll have to write. Then we’ll be moving on to this week’s topic, the Emerson years…”

She might be new to town, but she clearly wasn’t new to teaching.

Ben settled in, making himself concentrate on what the teacher was saying with the same sheer strength of will that had seen him through eight years of toiling at jobs he hated so he could feed his baby girl. Nothing was going to keep him from getting his college degree.

Nothing.

“BEN? COULD I SEE YOU a minute?”

Ben stopped on the way out of his American literature class on Monday, the second week of class. His teacher wanted to see him.

“Sure.” Backpack hanging off one shoulder, he approached her desk. Stupid to feel underdressed in his shorts, T-shirt and sandals, but he did. Didn’t seem to matter to Christine Evans that it was over a hundred degrees outside. She’d worn a suit to class all four times they’d met.

Not that Ben had permitted himself to dwell on what the woman wore. At least not when he could help it.

She waited for the other students to finish packing up and leave the room, gathering her own stuff together at the same time. Ben started to sweat. He’d spent far too much of the weekend thinking about his English professor.

What secrets were hiding behind those big blue eyes? What made her expression so shadowed sometimes?

How old was she, anyway? And had she ever been married? Would she think him a fool for the mess he’d made of his own life?

Despite his resolve to allow no feelings to complicate his life, he could feel the woman’s sorrow. Maybe because it mirrored his own?

“I just wanted to speak with you about your piece on Thoreau,” Christine said when the last student had left the room. “Your portrayal of him as an intensely deep and lonely man, rather than the quack many considered him, was quite moving.”

“Thank you.”

She asked him a couple of questions about his research and he answered her. When she held the paper out to him, her hand was shaking.

“There’s a quarterly newsletter, The Edifice, for students of English to publish their work. I’d like to see you submit this to the editor for publication.”

Ben met her eyes. And looked away. “You think it’s good enough?”

“I do.” She nodded. “I’ve got the submission requirements and the address in my office, if you’d like to come with me now.”

No. He had another class to get to, all the way across campus. A finance class. Part of his business major. Although it didn’t start for another hour…The main thing was, he couldn’t afford to see any more of Christine Evans than the three hours a week he was required to sit in her class.

“That’d be great, if you’re sure it’s not too much trouble,” he heard himself say.

His orders didn’t seem to have any more effect on him than they did on Buddy.

SHE WAS A FOOL. Not that this was news to Tory. What in hell was she doing inviting Ben Sanders to her office? In the first place, she didn’t belong there. The office really wasn’t hers. She’d barely moved in.

In the second, teachers shouldn’t have favorites. Especially not students who had a look of knowing about them, a maturity. Students who were so capable. So reliable.

“It’s obvious you do all your reading,” she said as she walked with him across campus. The heat was almost tangible, caressing her skin, and she reveled in its gentleness. Phyllis was having a hard time acclimatizing to Arizona’s weather. Tory loved it.

“I thought we were supposed to,” he said, shortening his stride to stay beside her. She moved over just slightly, automatically, leaving space between them.

She was still wearing Christine’s ill-fitting shoes, too busy studying every night to get into Phoenix for that shopping spree.

“You are!” She grinned, forgetting for a moment that she wasn’t a teacher walking with a student.

“But I’d guess some of my students haven’t even bought the text.”

“Then they’re idiots, wasting this opportunity.”

Tory wondered if he meant that.

“Do you like the Emerson years, Ben?” He’d certainly challenged her thinking a time or two during class with his insightful interpretations. She’d rather enjoyed debating with him. In the safety of the classroom.

“Not particularly.”

“Oh!” With heat flooding her face, Tory felt once again like the untutored young woman she was. “Well—”

“Don’t get me wrong,” he interrupted, moving far enough ahead to turn and walk backward, facing her. “It’s not that I don’t think your class is great. I do. I’m just not particularly fond of the Emerson era.” He shrugged. “Too stuffy for me.”

“So what authors are you fond of?” Passing a couple of girls from one of her other classes, she waved to them, feeling almost like one of them, accompanied as she was by the man they were all drooling over.

Except that she wasn’t drooling. Tory had given up drooling. She could relax a bit, though, as long as Ben was in front of her like that.

He shrugged again, fell back into step beside her. “Nathaniel Hawthorne. James Fenimore Cooper.”

“You go for the witches and wars, huh?” She moved sideways, leaving a little more space between them.

“What I admire most about The Last of the Mohicans is not the battles.”

“What is it?”

“Hawkeye.”

“Of course. The hero who conquers all and gets his woman.” Tory had a problem with that story. She’d wanted to believe there really were heroic men like Cooper’s Hawkeye, had held steadfast to that hope even in high school, despite the damage her stepfather had done. She’d held it until she’d met Bruce, married him and found out that no matter what their station, all men were alike.

“No. Hawkeye’s a man who has such a sense of honor and decency that he’ll risk everything he has, everything he is, to see justice done.”

Tory stopped in her tracks, her heart beating heavily in her chest. And then started walking again.

There was no point in arguing with him, in telling him that it was just such viewpoints, beliefs, that hurt people like her so badly. People who still believed that the sort of people they read about in books actually existed. There was no point in getting into it with him because she couldn’t support her argument with the facts.

“So who’s your favorite nineteenth-century American author?” he asked as they neared her office building.

“Louisa May Alcott.”

“Hmm. Kind of a minor player, isn’t she?”

“I guess,” Tory said, standing back as he opened the door for her. “But I like her, anyway.”

“Why?”

He was still holding the door, standing there looking at her, and she could feel his glance all the way to her bones.

There was something special about this man. Something compelling. And frightening.

“Because in a time when those guys—your Hawthorne and Melville and Emerson and so on—were writing about witches and wars and big issues, she wrote about ordinary everyday life. Her own life and that of her sisters. She was practical, the way women often are because they have to be. And she was able to take reality and make it palatable. Her writing engaged me as a child and, equally, as an adult.”

“I think I prefer books that transform reality,” he said, letting go of the door as she started down the hall. “Instead of stories that just present it the way it is.”

“Like any good writer, she did both. Her books were based on aspects of her own life, but they weren’t autobiographical.” Tory shook her head.

“I’ve been to the house where she grew up,” she told him. Christine had taken her there—as well as many other places important to American literature. In New England, they’d been right there for the visiting. “It was so…so touching to see things I’d read about. In Little Women, one of the heroine’s sisters draws all the time, and upstairs in Alcott’s home, in this little attic bedroom, there were these incredible pencil sketches along the wall. Louisa’s sister had done them.”

Tory had treasured that tour. And all the others. For those brief moments history and fantasy had come together.

“You really love this stuff,” Ben said, waiting while she unlocked her office door.

Standing there with him right behind her, she wondered why she wasn’t feeling the need to run. Usually she couldn’t tolerate being so close to a man.

Probably because she was still playing the part of Christine.

“Yeah,” she answered. “I really do.”

BEN WAS WITH ZACK FOSTER the following evening, driving home from Phoenix. The bed of his truck was filled with Zack’s new living-room furniture. As he drove down Main, he saw Christine Evans coming out of Weber’s department store. He watched her climb into a brand-new white Ford Mustang. The car seemed to suit her better than the clothes she wore. She never seemed comfortable in them.

But then, she didn’t seem comfortable, period.

“Someone you know?” the vet asked, responding to his interest.

“Not exactly,” Ben said, pulling his gaze away, refusing to look in his rearview mirror to see which direction Christine had taken. “She’s just my English professor.”

Zack frowned. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen her before.”

“She’s new to town.”

“She’s gorgeous,” Zack said, his voice appreciative. “Not that I’m noticing,” he added.

“How long ago did your wife leave?” Ben asked, glad to change the subject. Zack had told him, when Ben had stopped in at the vet’s to pick up more puppy food for Buddy, that he was having to refurnish his house after his divorce. That was when Ben had offered the use of his truck to pick up Zack’s new furniture.

“Six months.”

Using the rearview mirror, Ben surveyed the couch and chairs in the back of the truck. “You been sitting on the floor all this time?”

“I haven’t been home long enough to sit anywhere.”

Ben could understand that. After Mary had left, taking Alex with her, Ben hadn’t been able to sit still, either. Though they’d never been in any one apartment for long—Mary had always found some reason or other to be dissatisfied with what his income could provide—there’d still been Alex’s laughter bouncing off whatever walls were surrounding them.

“You seeing anyone?” Ben asked. He had no interest whatsoever in complicating his life again, but Zack seemed like a man who’d enjoy women. Tall, blond, athletic-looking, the guy probably had women following him in droves.

“Nope,” Zack said. “I’ve been too busy at the clinic. Cassie and I are initiating a national pet-therapy program in universities across the country, and I’ve been doing a lot of traveling, though not nearly as much as she has.”

“I don’t imagine there’re lots to choose from in a town this size, anyway,” Ben commented. The thought pleased him.

“Not many I’ve noticed.” Zack grinned. “But I’m not looking, either. Marriage isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. I’m in no hurry to put myself through it again.”

“Know what you mean.”

“You been married?” The vet glanced over at Ben.

“Yeah.”

“How long?”

“Eight years.”

“Six, here.” Zack sent him a purely male look of commiseration. “Eight years,” he repeated. “You must have married young.”

“I was eighteen. Just finishing high school. I traded my education for a couple of dead-end jobs that allowed me to support my wife.”

Zack whistled, motioning for Ben to turn. “It’s the last house on the right,” he said. And then he added, “She must’ve been some looker to get her hooks into you that deep.”

“Yeah,” Ben said. Mary had been beautiful, but it wasn’t Mary who’d hooked him.

It was Alex.

CHAPTER FOUR

ALEX SANDERS wondered how far Shelter Valley was from California. She didn’t know what streets she had to take, but she might have to walk there.

“Ahhh!” she cried out when the next blow hit her back. She bit her lip. But she didn’t cry. She was a big girl now. Daddy had said so the last time he sneaked a phone call to her at this man’s place.

One more blow and Alex huddled in the corner. Her lip was bleeding now from biting it. And her back hurt so bad she thought it might be broken.

“Never, ever lie to me again,” the man said.

“I won’t,” Alex whispered. She’d try her best not to. She just wasn’t sure how she could stop doing something she wasn’t doing. How could she promise not to lie again when she hadn’t lied in the first place?

She thought of the phone number she had hidden in the pocket of her Cabbage Patch doll. Somehow she was going to have to call Daddy. He’d know the answer. He was her real daddy and he knew everything.

This other man who hit her—Mommy kept telling her to call him Daddy.

But she wouldn’t. Not ever. No matter what he did to her.