The Bachelor Meets His Match

Parked on the corner of his desk, he flashed that suave smile at her and nodded. She turned away, wishing that her heart wasn’t beating just a little faster than it ought to and that so many others weren’t following the brief conversation with such avid curiosity. The last thing she needed was speculation about her and a man, any man, but especially a Chatam. She’d had enough trouble with men in her lifetime. What she needed now was to forget that the male of the species existed. Moreover, she had to keep her distance from the Chatams and anyone else with a connection to her sister and family. All she wanted, all that was left to her, was to finish her education and make a difference in this world.

The chaplain at the hospital in Baton Rouge had told her that she had a destiny to fulfill in Christ, and she believed it with all her heart. Why else would He spare her life when all hope had seemed lost? Perhaps when He was done punishing her for past mistakes, He would make His purpose known to her. Until then, she would just have to bear up under the pain of her father’s death and the losses she had dealt herself with her own foolish, selfish behavior.

* * *

Anyone who knew Morgan Chatam well would list observation and a keen intelligence among his key virtues, so when Friday showed the opposite of marked improvement in Simone Guilland’s condition, he noticed. Her carefully applied cosmetics no longer fooled him in the least, and the neat tailoring of her cotton slacks and matching print blouse failed to disguise the fragility of the slight form that he had so effortlessly carried in his arms only days earlier. As before, she chose a seat in the rear of the room, and as before, he let her know that she was on his radar. This obviously irritated her, and that wore his much-vaunted patience surprisingly thin, so he decided to take a direct approach, asking her to stay after class.

She didn’t like it one bit. Those gray eyes stormed as she stood quietly before his desk. He let her stew a moment before dropping his glasses onto the desk blotter and leaning back in his chair to peg her with a level gaze.

“What’s wrong?”

“Don’t ask me. You’re the one who seems to have a problem.”

She was a cheeky miss, not at all impressed by his consequence. He heaved a silent sigh, toying idly with the glasses.

“Are we going to play games, or are we going to be adults about this?”

That pointed little chin ratcheted up a notch. He might have smiled if the impulse to do so hadn’t alarmed him so. As it was, the beauty of those plump lips and that stubby little nose and those enormous gray eyes troubled him at the strangest times. He couldn’t afford to be enamored of her chin as well, not to mention her streak of stubborn independence.

“Adults mind their own business, Professor Chatam.”

“Which, as your adviser, is exactly what I’m doing, Ms. Guilland. There is something wrong with you, and I mean to find out what it is.”

He wanted Simone Guilland’s problems, whatever they were, solved; otherwise, he feared she would give him no peace.

She stared him straight in the eye, as immutable as the Sphinx, neither confirming nor denying, simply giving away nothing. He tried a different tack.

“Simone, I’m not your enemy. You have no reason to fear me.”

Yes, I do.

Though unspoken, he saw it clearly in her eyes and on her face just before she turned and headed swiftly to the door.

There she paused and glanced back, softly saying, “Thank you, but I’m as fine as I can be.”

As fine as I can be.

Morgan gnashed his teeth. Well, that was just not good enough.

Chapter Three

Rising, Morgan gathered his things and walked through the building to his department suite. His administrative assistant, Vicki Marble, sat at her desk downloading online syllabi to see who had completed the week’s reading and first assignment, due by midnight. They did everything electronically these days, which cut paperwork in half and quadrupled computer time.

“Hey, Morg.”

“Vic. What are the girls doing this weekend?”

“Shopping for prom dresses.”

“All three of them?”

“All three of them.”

“Give my condolences to Dwight. He’s a better man than me. Three teenaged daughters.” He gave a shudder just to see Vicki laugh. Redheaded, freckle-faced and as plain as a mud fence, she seemed to have been born good-natured and laughing, as well as efficient and organized. Her husband and astonishingly beautiful daughters adored her. “Speaking of Dwight,” he said, “I need a favor.”

“Name it.”

Dwight Marble worked in the provost’s office, handling admissions. Morgan explained what he needed then went into his office, closed the door and sat down at his desktop computer. Quickly, he brought up Simone’s complete file.

She was older than he’d assumed—twenty-six as of the twentieth of this past August. She had completed her undergraduate work—all but his class—in Colorado and via remote study in Baton Rouge. Her next of kin was listed as Laverne Davenport Worth, whose address was in Fort Worth. The name Worth struck a chord with him, given that Hilda and Chester Worth comprised two-thirds of the staff at Chatam House. The name was fairly common in the area, however, and he’d never heard any mention of a Laverne, so he discounted any connection, especially when he read that the Guilland family, of Baton Rouge, had paid Simone’s tuition in full, for the entire course of her graduate degree, via an unusual trust account.

Morgan sat back in his chair with a thump. He had seen scholarships and endowments of every variety, but he’d never seen anything like this. What on earth was going on here? He decided that he’d be eating breakfast at the Campus Gate Coffee House, where Simone worked, bright and early the next morning, and at some point he was going to have a frank discussion with Simone Guilland.

How much he looked forward to that breakfast at the Campus Gate Coffee House troubled Morgan all that evening. He told himself that he was just doing his duty by pigeonholing Simone Guilland, but he couldn’t quite convince himself. He’d gone to greater lengths for other students. Why, he’d driven one young man all the way to California and enjoyed a delightful summer respite with his aunt Dorinda Latimer and her family while he was at it. Still, he’d never lain awake in the night picturing another student’s face or remembering how his heart had quivered with the flutter of her eyelashes as she’d regained consciousness after he’d carried her limp body in his arms.

He was quite put out with himself by the time he tucked his newspaper under his arm and slid into the Beemer around nine the next morning. He’d meant to be up and about earlier, but his restlessness had made for a late night. Besides, by his estimation, the coffee shop shouldn’t be too busy on a Saturday morning.

Wrong. The place was popping when he arrived, so much so that he had to park around the corner and walk nearly a block. All of the al fresco tables were taken, he noted as he pushed his way inside and caught the eye of the owner and manager, Frank Upton. He’d hoped to have a quiet word with the fellow. Instead, he got a nod and a point in the direction of a tiny table at the end of the bakery counter where Frank usually did his paperwork.

“Be glad to visit if you have a minute.”

“Sure. If I have a minute.”

Shaking his head, Morgan walked over to the table. A cup of steaming-hot black coffee and a small cruet of cold cream laced with cinnamon appeared almost as soon as he sat down. He smiled at the waitress, Frank’s wife, Loretta.

“Simone will be over to take your order in a moment.”

“She’s here, then?”

“Simone? Yes. You know her?”

“She’s one of my students. Tell me, is she all right?”

Loretta shrugged her ample shoulders. “I assume so. She’s a quiet one, never complains. Gets right to work. Stays busy. She’s awfully tired at the end of her shift, but that’s not surprising, a little thing like her.”

“I hope that’s all it is,” Morgan muttered, opening his newspaper.

Loretta went off to manage the coffee counter, and presently Simone showed up, clad in blue jeans, a bright orange T-shirt and a yellow apron.

“Professor Chatam.” She produced an order pad from an apron pocket. “What can I get you?”

“I’ll have one of those crusty cinnamon muffins and a couple hard-boiled eggs.”

“Coming right up.”

She swept off, returning moments later with a gargantuan muffin and two peeled eggs in a bowl.

“Loretta says the coffee is on the house,” she said, slapping down the ticket.