me is harming his budget. So, good luck with that one.’
He was right. Harvey had acquiesced to Whittier so much it was a running joke that he needed a straw to suck up as hard as he did.
Either way, she wasn’t going to stay here and be preyed upon. Those days were over. She rushed to the door, wrenched it open, and almost ran headlong into Martha McBrand.
‘Oh!’ Martha cried out as she stepped back.
Bridget quickly pulled herself together and gently brought the door fully open, leaving it that way. As her colleagues began to file into the room, Bridget once again settled into the chair closest to the door and felt growing despair as Whittier’s threats sank in.
‘Stop, Daisy!’
Bridget admonished the dog who was currently carpet surfing on the area rug in Bridget’s living room. Normally, she found it amusing when the dog flopped on her back and began rubbing around as if she had the worst itch in the world. Tonight, however, there was no solace to be found. Not even the mint chocolate chip ice cream was helping and it was her go-to comfort food.
Bridget had come home hoping to find some comfort in her personal space. She’d taken great care in decorating her home. Her living room was eclectic yet modern with comfortable furniture that was soft and enveloping while still having clean lines. She’d decorated in warm tones of pale browns, gold and orange, with touches of flair in the art and knick-knacks. It reflected the woman she considered herself to be – warm, welcoming, and classy. She’d always found sanctuary in her home.
Tonight, she just felt alone.
She’d considered calling Connor, asking him to come over, but decided against it. She wasn’t ready to let him that close. Despite what they’d shared, she wanted to take this
On the one hand, they were good together. He made her laugh. But he challenged her in ways that made her want to run the other direction. His ideas about sex were intriguing, but they also meant she’d wasted almost 20 years of her life.
Uggh! Let it go, she told herself. You’ve got more pressing problems.
Dale Whittier could very well ruin her career.
She’d thought about calling Claire and Mona, but she already knew what they’d say. They’d tell her to report it. To not let him get the best of her. And, while Bridget agreed in principle, it wasn’t that simple.
This was her career at stake.
She could report the harassment, but even if her complaint was successful, she’d find herself labelled a troublemaker and have a hard time finding work elsewhere.
If she got her tenure successfully, she’d be almost untouchable. It was one of the reasons she’d selected Pinewood to begin with. With so few universities maintaining a tenure programme these days, a teacher was constantly auditioning for their job. They’d be lucky to get more than a one-year contract, but the responsibilities were still the same despite the lack of payoff in return for the professor.
When she’d been in that position, she’d still had to advise. Still had to participate in university activities. Still had to be accountable for the curriculum, passing rates, and student evaluations. She’d still had to publish and be relevant but had no assurance that the 50 to 60 hours a week she put in would result in her contract being renewed or her salary not being cut when it came time to renegotiate.
She’d suffered through a few of those types of contracts when she first began teaching and quickly determined she’d wanted a tenured position. When the position had become available at Pinewood she’d done her damnedest to land it and she deeply resented the dean for putting her back up against the wall this way.
She probably wouldn’t have taken the position if he’d been in charge when she interviewed. She wasn’t one to put herself into the line of fire if it could be avoided and she’d known the day she met Whittier that he was going to be trouble. His eyes had lingered too long. His tone had been suggestive and he’d made her feel like a piece of meat under inspection for consumption.
Dean Winslow, Whittier’s predecessor, had been a kind man with a compassionate face that lit up when he spoke of the research he did in addition to leading the department. Her interview had taken place over coffee in the teachers’ lounge because he’d said he wanted all the candidates to get a feel for what it was really like in the department rather than a sterile interview in his office. They’d gone much longer than the 45 minutes he’d allotted for the interview as they’d discussed their passion for teaching and how satisfying it was to see the light bulb go off in a student’s eyes when they finally grasped complex chemical concepts.
She’d instantly liked him and they’d become close that first year. Winslow had become a mentor to her. Unfortunately, his heart had begun to fail and he’d decided to retire. He still served on the board of directors, but he spent most of his time in his garden now or with his children and grandchildren.
President Harvey had hired Dean Whittier. It had not been a popular decision. The search committee had recommended another candidate: a woman with a stellar record and a charismatic personality. Whittier had seemed coldly arrogant throughout the entire interview process. Bridget had been on the search committee and universally they’d agreed that Sheila had been the better candidate. The president had overridden their recommendation, giving the position to Whittier. A month later, the university was getting a brand new fitness facility. You didn’t have to be Einstein for that math to add up.
Either way, she was stuck with him now, and he was leaving her little choice. She had to find a way to expose him and his harassment without getting herself fired. She already knew how the victim in a situation like this could be turned into the villain. She’d seen enough women made out to be the criminal despite being horribly violated. She’d never been willing to be one of them.
It had been bad enough that she’d come away from her experience at Trent’s hands feeling as if she’d deserved what happened to her. She hadn’t been willing to put herself through the public humiliation of having it confirmed. Then, as if the rape wasn’t lesson enough, the baby had been the final crack in her confidence.
Trent hadn’t used a condom. He’d impregnated her that day. This was before the use of the “morning-after pill” was widely available. When she’d found out she was pregnant, there had been no consideration for her. She’d decided to have an abortion. She wasn’t going to bear the child of violence. She wouldn’t even consider it.
She’d located a nearby clinic and arranged to have the abortion. During the procedure, she’d seized in reaction to the anaesthesia they’d given her. Her uterus was perforated. The resulting damage meant she’d be more likely to win the lottery than to ever carry a baby to term.
The loss of her dream of being a mother had done her in. For the first time, she’d felt helpless, powerless. That was when the idea that she was being punished for her experimentation with Doug had come to her. Those seeds had taken root and she’d been unable to shake them. That, more than the rape itself, had changed her life in ways she still suffered from today. In the aftermath, the greatest damage that had been done to her was that she’d begun to question her own judgment. Where Trent hadn’t been able to hurt her body, his act of violence had succeeded in damaging her psyche.
She felt the same way now. Helpless. Powerless. Whittier was backing her into a corner and she wanted to fight. She just didn’t know how. She’d never been a quitter and she wasn’t quitting now. But how did she expose him for the scum he was and not lose her job? She would not be vilified when she was in the right.
There had to be a way. There had to be.
With no answer forthcoming, Bridget took her dishes and placed them in the dishwasher, setting the timer to run well after she was asleep.
A long, hot bath did nothing to spur inspiration. With a troubled heart, she drifted off to sleep.
Chapter Fourteen
Skyler sat in her Jeep in front of the River Rock Medical Building. She had no idea how long she’d been there. She only knew her hands were aching from clutching the steering wheel. She was definitely late for her appointment, but, no matter what she told herself, she was unable to summon the will to leave her car.
Clearing her mind of all thought, she reached for the keys still dangling in the ignition and started the car.
