by Hannovah
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Acknowledgements
Other Works
Main Body
Epilogue
About the Author
Lies of Love
by
HANNOVAH
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to events, establishments, businesses, locales, incidents, names, persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Neither characters nor events should be construed as real because they are, in fact, a product of the author’s imagination. All references are used fictitiously.
Copyright © 2014 by Rosalie Abraham
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted electronically or mechanically, or in any other form now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording without written permission except in the case of newspapers, magazines, and websites using quotations embodied in critical articles, essays and reviews. For information and permission, please email [email protected].
Copyright © 2014 by Rosalie Abraham
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Many appreciations go out to my family and friends for their love and undying encouragement and support.
To my readers, thank you for including my books in your library. It has been more than a pleasure to entertain you and I look forward to doing so for many novels to come.
Novels by Hannovah
Big Mess in Paradise
Part One
Big Mess in Paradise
Part Two
Big Mess in Paradise
Part Three
Big Mess in Paradise
Part Four
Lies of Love
Enjoy Hannovah’s novels on Amazon and please leave a review.
CHAPTER ZERO
Just So You Know . . .
Brenda Ingram was surprised beyond imagination that her writing could have created such a big mess.
When her book, Lies of Love, was made into a movie, it ruined the health of her husband, Andrew, and inadvertently caused them to leave their family and friends in Savannah, Georgia, and hide out in Palm Beach, Florida. Added to that, the flick almost totaled the marriage of their adopted son, Christopher. And all of this occurred despite the fact that she had changed names of people and places to protect everyone involved.
In the pages that follow, Brenda, or Edna Berg as she pen-named herself, presents Lies of Love, her first work, her debut into the literary world: in short, how it all began.
CHAPTER ONE
My first class started at 9:00 a.m.
At 8:30, I stood outside my lab with my syllabi hugged to my waist, greeting students, staff, and colleagues as they walked down the bustling hallway.
“Hey, Dr. Rayburn,” a former student said to me.
“Hey, Lisa.” We embraced. “Had a nice Christmas?”
“It was too short as always, but this is my last semester . . . thanks to you.” She squeezed me again and continued, “Thanks for staying back all those afternoons and working with me till I got it right.”
“Well you did say it was your third attempt,” I chuckled. “I was determined to make it your last.” As she walked off, I shouted, “Have a great semester!”
“You too!”
“Excuse me,” one young gentleman said to me as he stopped with his book-bag in one hand and a printed schedule in the other. “Can you tell me where to find this class? The room number is not printed out clearly.”
That had been a problem with printouts from our registration desk.
I scanned his paper and, because I knew the professors and their preferred locations, I wrote in the room number for him along with the room numbers of his other two classes. “You’re almost there,” I told him. “The classroom is around the corner.” I escorted him to the room and then returned to my self-appointed post outside of my lab.
The first of my new students arrived. I shook his hand and said, “Welcome to Chemistry Two.”
I smiled, handed him a syllabus and said, “Feel free to sit anywhere.”
Then two giggling ladies approached. Handing each a syllabus, I added my usual “Feel free to sit anywhere.”
As this first Monday of our Spring Term went by, I continued greeting my students and assisting disoriented souls. I love my job – few persons can say so – but I proudly acknowledge that I was born to teach. And the personal touch that I gave seemed to motivate the students to perform better, at least from my perspective.
I usually leave my campus, South Campus, at three, but today I had to stay back for a faculty meeting and to explain a few particulars to my new lab assistant. So it was later than usual when I closed my office door to head home, and I was anxious. I had left home in darkness to get to work for eight this morning, and now I was hoping to get home while it was still light outside. That way I wouldn’t feel like a slave. But at five thirty in the evening, the bumper-to-bumper drive back home to Miami Shores on the north side of the city, was an unbearable ninety minutes or more. So I did what I had to do to make it happen.
“Damn it! Damn it! Damn it.” I found myself swearing as a Florida Highway Patrol car with flashing lights came right behind me, out of nowhere, on the Palmetto Expressway.
I sucked my teeth and pulled my Volvo station wagon onto the shoulder, knowing exactly why he had targeted me: for weaving in and out of traffic. I am blessed with the patience of Job for my students in the classroom, but conversely, I have no tolerance what-so-ever with the road, and over the last three years I had earned five tickets on the way to or from work. When I was younger and lived in the Canada, I had never gotten a ticket. Sure I had been pulled over a few times, but I would project a sexy smile, working my three A’s (Approachable, Available, Agreeable) on the officers and would always wiggle my way out of a fine. But that didn’t work here in the USA. Believe me, I’ve tried. I’m guessing that the police officers here were used to those tactics or I was just getting old and losing my charms.
My eyes were glued to my rearview mirror as the young Hispanic officer approached cautiously while fixing his tucked-in shirt. It had been rumored that Cubans excused other Cubans and Latinos, but I was white – and pale – not blessed with a sexy tan like most people who live in the sunshine state. I made the sign of the cross quickly, willing good fortune my way.
As the officer walked towards my car, he looked familiar, so I inched closer to the mirror. Maybe he pulled me over before.
“Driver’s license and registra . . .” The officer angled his head and smiled. “Dr. Rayburn?”
“Yes,” I responded, feeling a sense of hope now that I recognized him. He had been my lab assistant, many semesters ago at Dade Seminole University. I could not remember his name, but I put on my broadest smile. “How are you?” Please set me free.
“I’m fine.” He leaned into my car with his forearms on my window frame and said, “Wow. It’s been seven years and you look the same.”
“That long, eh?” Please be merciful.
“Easy to figure: I left DSU the same year that I got married. Are you still teaching there?”
“Where else?” I still held the smile. Please set me free.
Then as if remembering that he was on duty, he roped in his chumminess, cupped his chin in a hand and asked, “So you’re in a hurry getting somewhere?”
Slouching, I put on my take-pity-on-me face and, with a tremor in my voice, said, “Today was our first day back and it was a long, looong day of classes and meetings. I’m just tired and trying to get home before dark.” My puppy eyes looked up into his.
He placed a hand on my shoulder and said, “I can’t give you a ticket. You wrote me the best letter of recommendation ever. I still have it in my portfolio, you kn
ow.” He tapped my steering wheel. “Get home safely, Dr. Rayburn. Try and stick to one lane as much as possible.”
“Thank you.”
I breathed a sigh of relief and as I cautiously merged back into the frustrating traffic, I muttered, “Note to self: pray every day and thank God for small mercies.” Obeying all the traffic laws, I arrived home with the setting sun. Not too bad.
“You got lucky,” my husband said, after I related my experience with the Florida Highway Patrol officer. “But Eddie, you’ll have to calm down on the road. Our car insurance went up last year and the year before that. Let us not hike it up anymore.” By us he meant me, I’m sure. Brandon Rayburn could hold it together; he could sit in stalled traffic for mindless hours and not complain. I don’t think he ever got a ticket.
“Okay. I’ll do my best.” I meant it.
My regular hours at the university were eight till three, and I started my day with an office hour at eight and a class at nine. I usually left home at seven, but with the increase in traffic, I hardly ever got there at eight. If I arrived at eight thirty I was fortunate.
The second Tuesday of the semester was the day that Dean Byam planned to come to my nine o’clock CHM3037 class for my annual classroom observation. She does her evaluations early in the semester. Why? I don’t know; that was just her style.
That observation day I left home at six thirty, but as fate would have it, there were two serious accidents on the expressway, both in my south-bound direction. Sitting all flustered in the traffic jam, I tapped my left foot in an unconscious attempt to prod the cars on, but it was like trying to push a stalled train. Why couldn’t I be more like Ray? I had planned on getting to the university early because I wanted to print out more handouts for my class and I wanted to pretty-up my power-point too.
Finally at eight fifteen, my exit ramp was in sight. Hallelujah! It seemed like I was the only car that needed that exit. The way was clear. If I try, I could get to the campus in fifteen minutes, I reasoned. I pressed the accelerator pedal down to board while I planned for every minute when I got through my office door.
“Jesus no!” I grimaced when I spotted flashing red-and-blue lights behind me. “Nooo. Not again?” It seemed like they were out to get me. I pulled over and eyed the police officer in my rearview mirror as he exited his car. I didn’t know this one, and he was an older man.
“Flying mighty low,” he said to me, flipping open his ticket book.
I couldn’t say anything. I fastened on a seductive smile and tried to bring out my three A’s, but I was half-hearted.
“License and registration please.”
This ancient-looking cop moved as fast as a snail. I just wanted to get my stupid ticket and get it over with, but Barney Fife here felt the need to explain every word on the shitty piece of paper, and I dared not show my impatience. Twenty anxious minutes later, he stuck me with a $120 speeding fine.
As one comedian said, “If not for bad luck, I’d have no luck at all.” I gave up the fight. I threw in my towel, defeated. All ambition deserted me. I’ll get there whenever the hell I get there. I drove slower than the speed limit toward the campus and parked with only ten minutes left for class. Without my handouts and power-point, I nonchalantly strolled across the busy courtyard and up the stairs to my laboratory.
I knew the lesson by heart – I had taught it every semester for fourteen years, and I had taught it the day before with a different class, for which I had handouts and my power-point. But now? I lost my will. I didn’t care. Whatever. What the hell ever. I didn’t give a rat’s ass.
I met a few students along the way. “Hi, Dr. Rayburn.” “Hey, Professor.” I acknowledged them as pleasantly as I could. Then I stood crushed outside the lab and waited until the last stragglers entered and got seated. Taking a couple deep breaths to change my attitude, I masked on a smile of contentment, perked my head high over my narrow shoulders and marched in, jolly and ready to educate the inquiring minds.
“Good morning everyone.” I beamed at my students, and at Dean Byam who was seated front right and armed with her Observation Form and pen.
I answered homework questions first, and then got directly to teaching about Conservation of Matter, the old fashioned way, with chalk-and-duster. I loved the classroom and the students, and as far as I could tell, the students loved me also. So after a few anxious minutes, I became so engaged in the lesson and the students that I almost forgot about my personal woes.
Dean Byam held an M.S. in English and a Doctorate in Educational Leadership. Each year, she had admitted to not being able to follow any of my chemistry lessons, and had always been amazed at the students’ knowledge, enthusiasm, and participation. Today, she listened attentively to my lecture and to the discussion, and jotted down a few notes. Then, after thirty minutes, she threw me a thumbs-up, and left.
But depression revisited me when the class was over, so I went to my office and called my dear Brandon, and a few tears escaped as I relayed my chaotic morning to him.
“Eddie, it will be alright. But we’ll have to do something or they will suspend your license for too many tickets. Yes, the officer told me so.”
“But what can I do? I like this university.”
“I don’t know, but this is too much water in the flour.”
Hearing Brandon’s soothing voice was therapeutic, and consequently I wiped the traces of mascara from my cheeks and prepared for my other classes. Interestingly enough, I ended up having a good day.
“Well done as usual,” Dean Byam said to me when I sat in her large fancy office the next week for the results of my evaluation. “And it’s remarkable as always how the students keep up with you. Good job.”
“Thank you.”
She passed the documents for me to examine and sign, and as usual, I had earned Outstanding or Exemplary in all areas.
Passing the papers back, I initiated a dreary conversation with, “It’s tough for me to tell you this, but I’ll have to.”
She sat upright in her thick leather chair and gave me her full attention.
Ignoring the butterflies that fluttered in my stomach, I came right out and announced, “I’ll be looking for another job.”
Her baby blues bulged at me and as a distraction, she reached for her coffee mug. All the deans had the same mug: it was navy blue with a gold engraving of a tomahawk, the university’s motif.
I explained, “I love it here, but I live in Miami Shores, many miles away . . . and the traffic getting to and from work is horrendous, at best. When I started here fourteen years ago, I took forty-five relaxing minutes to get here. These days, it’s a maddening hour and a half, sometimes two. Each way.”
“I see.” She was still taken by surprised, but played it off.
“I’ve been debating leaving for some time, but the truth is that I really love the students and this administration. But I can’t do it for much longer. It’s wearing me out.” I ignored Dean Byam’s heavy sighs and spoke on. “My husband and I have decided that it would be better if I worked closer to home.” Once the disappointing news was broken, my butterflies quieted down.
Taking a sip of her coffee, she said, “You are one of my best professors . . . the students love you. We love you. By God, the students have voted you The Professor of the Year every other year . . . and we’ve voted you Most Outstanding Faculty quite a few times. I’ll hate to lose you.” She exhaled, “But I understand your situation. I suppose that I would’ve come to that decision myself.” She placed the mug on her desk and stared into the distance. “The institution will be handicapped without you, Edna. How about a transfer to the North Campus? How far is that from your home?”
Raising lethargic shoulders, I made a weak estimate. “About eight or ten miles. But I haven’t seen a transfer position for Chemistry in years.”
“I’ll make a few calls.”
I left Dean Byam’s office feeling under the weather. I really valued the administration at South because they allowed us
to pick our classes, days and times. It was rumored that the North Campus deans dished out timetables and classes willy-nilly. But there was just so much traffic one could take before shouting “No more!” I had reached my limit. I’ll agree to almost any schedule in exchange for a short easy commute.
Brandon was so supportive and hopeful for me getting a transfer, that every afternoon when I got home, he asked, “Anything yet?”
“No-no. Nothing yet.”
And we would check our email every night just before we turned in.
To my surprise, one night towards the end of January, there was a transfer posting for a Chemistry professor at Dade Seminole University, North Campus. I jumped on it and applied immediately.
The next day I visited Dean Byam and thanked her. “North campus is only a few miles away from our home and I guess that even in heavy traffic, I could get there in less than thirty minutes.”
“While we’ll miss you, I’m happy for you and your family.” Then she hugged me and gave a sweet gentle pat to my back.
Transfer positions in my area of expertise did not come up often and in the past when they had, I’d not applied because South Campus, though many miles away, had a redeeming practice: faculty was given full autonomy. As a result, I arranged to be off every Friday and all summer long. As with most professors in the United States of America, I was grossly underpaid; therefore, I saw a three-day weekend and a few months off in the summer as perks. But I understood that I couldn’t play that game at North Campus; I had been forewarned that their professors were micromanaged by the deans.
Most Friday mornings, I lay lazily in bed until about nine as opposed to the usual six. And my landlord husband, when he was not playing hanky-panky with me under the covers, would leave me to rest while he began his day in our home-office.
