The Bachelor Meets His Match

They walked to the head of the stairs before he slipped his arms about each of their shoulders and said, “Have I mentioned lately that I thank God for my special aunties?”

Hypatia smiled fondly up at him. “Not lately.”

“Well, I do,” he told her with a squeeze. “Routinely. This world would be a much more difficult place without you. I’m especially thankful for you today. Simone needs a safe, quiet, comfortable haven right now.”

“She has it,” Magnolia told him.

“She has more than that,” Hypatia added. “God is going to be hearing from us routinely about Miss Simone Guilland.”

“I was counting on that,” he told her with a smile.

“As you should. Now, will you stay to lunch?”

“I think I just might,” he agreed, winking. “After all, you’ve got the best cook in town.”

Hypatia smiled. Morgan was in and out of Chatam House all the time, and he often stayed for meals. Hypatia wondered if they’d be seeing him even more often now that Simone Guilland was in residence, however. She only hoped that it wouldn’t lead to heartbreak. He’d already lost two women he’d loved to cancer—his stepmother and the woman he’d intended to marry. Surely God wouldn’t raise that number.

Would He?

Chapter Four

An itch pulled her out of a dense fog and into a feeling of light. Only as she stirred in an effort to reach that place between her shoulder blades where the skin begged to be scratched did she come to realize that she was awakening from sleep. Rolling onto her back with a little noise of exasperation, she wiggled her shoulders to alleviate that bothersome niggle once and for all, only to find herself assailed with a fearful disorientation.

This was not her bed, not the too-hard mattress in the boardinghouse, not the thin, lumpy pad in the hospital, not even the cool, impersonal guest bed at the Guilland house in Baton Rouge. This was the warmest, softest, most comfortable bed she’d ever known. Simone sat up and opened her eyes in the same swift movement, and found the creams and gold and royal-blues of Chatam House all around her.

Memory came rushing back, how she had fainted at the coffeehouse, been rushed to the emergency room in an ambulance, drugged by that nice Dr. Leland and then bullied into coming here by Morgan Chatam. She vaguely recalled her aunt bringing in a tea tray at some point and gobbling down those delicious ginger muffins that had been such a highlight of her childhood, and she vividly remembered being carried up the stairs by Morgan Chatam. College professors weren’t supposed to be that strong and fit, that masculine. They were supposed to be bookish and stuffy and...not wildly attractive.

She flopped down onto the pillows with a huff. Her life wasn’t going at all according to plan. When had it ever?

No matter. She felt fully recovered now. In fact, she felt wonderful. And ravenous. It was time to go home and back to work. Or possibly to class.

She looked around for a clock and found the backpack that she carried in lieu of a handbag on the nightstand next to the four-poster bed. Evidently, someone had fetched it from the coffeehouse. Reaching inside the partially unzipped front pocket, she pulled out her seldom-used cell phone and flicked the screen with her thumb. Six a.m. Oh, my. Apparently she had slept nearly around the clock. No wonder she was so hungry. A casual glance at the calendar icon brought her bolt upright in bed again.

Monday! Monday? How could it be Monday? That would mean that she’d slept completely through Saturday and Sunday.

“You were more tired than you thought,” said an amused voice.

Simone jerked to her right. At the same time, she grabbed for the covers, yanking them up around her throat. Hypatia Chatam smiled at her from the wing chair at her bedside. Garbed in a white silk dressing gown piped in navy and matching pajamas, she had caught her long, silver hair at the nape of her neck with a narrow white ribbon.

“My apologies. I didn’t mean to frighten you. We were concerned because you slept so long and thought someone should sit with you.”

Clapping a hand over her galloping heart, Simone huffed out a relieved breath. “I’m so sorry to have worried you.”

“It’s of no matter. You look much refreshed. I’ll have your breakfast sent up. You can shower and dress whenever you like, and Chester will drive you over to the rooming house to pack your belongings.”

“No!” Simone insisted automatically. The last thing she wanted was for her uncle to drive her around town. “That is, I—I should be going to class. Dr. Leland said particularly that I am able to attend school a-and master my studies.”

Hypatia inclined her head. “In that case, I’ll call Morgan.”

Simone opened her mouth to protest but could think of no better option, so she closed it again.

“Your clothing has been laundered and put away,” Hypatia informed her, rising from the chair. “You’ll find toiletries in the bathroom. Is there anything else you need at the moment?”

Escape, Simone thought. She said, “No, thank you.”

Nodding, Hypatia moved toward the foot of the bed. “As you’ve been working in a coffeehouse, I take it you drink the stuff.”

“Yes, of course, but if you don’t mind, I prefer tea this morning. My stomach’s been empty too long, I think, for coffee.”

Hypatia beamed at her. “I prefer tea every morning. It is more soothing, isn’t it?”

“I think so,” Simone said.

“I’m sure you would know,” Hypatia told her kindly before turning away.

That comment seemed a little odd, but Simone put the thought aside for the moment. Slipping from the high bed, she padded on bare feet to the antique dresser, surprised to find her legs a little shaky. A few moments later, as she undressed to shower in the small but richly appointed bath, she glanced up into the mirror and saw the many scars that she bore on her too-thin body. She hazily recalled undressing in front of the Chatam sisters, and a little shiver of foreboding went through her. Her secrets, she feared, were no longer entirely her own.

Returning to the outer chamber minutes later, dressed and clean, she felt strong but starved. The sight of Hypatia fussing over a heavily laden round tray was welcome indeed. Simone gave her short hair a final rub before draping the towel over the back of the nearest chair. She plopped herself onto the seat and surveyed the contents of the tray in wonder. Fluffy scrambled eggs, crisp bacon, toast, fruit salad, apple juice, a pot of tea and two cups, butter, jelly and—unless her nose and memory deceived her—Aunt Hilda’s famous ginger muffins, warm from the oven.

“I hope you didn’t carry this upstairs yourself,” she declared, quickly filling one of a pair of delicate china plates.

“No, no. We are blessed with a dumbwaiter just along the landing,” Hypatia told her. “When you are done here, we’ll send everything back downstairs, and anytime you want anything from the kitchen, all you have to do is call down.” She pointed to the bedside table, where she had laid a paper with telephone numbers written on it. A sharp rap on the door had her bustling in that direction. “That will be Morgan,” she said over her shoulder. “He was already on his way when I phoned.”

As Simone realized for whom that second plate was intended, her stomach fluttered. She told herself that it was hunger, but she was not as good at lying to herself as she had used to be. Morgan came through the door wearing khakis and a collared knit shirt about the same color of rusty brown as his eyes. He carried a disposable cup of coffee in one hand and seemed as cheery and robust as it was possible to be before seven in the morning.

“Good morning, all.” He bent to give his aunt a kiss on the cheek before nodding to Simone. “You look well rested.”

She touched her damp hair self-consciously, murmuring, “I should.”

He chuckled as his aunt reached for the extra teacup. “Since you brought coffee,” she said, “I’ll just help myself to some tea, if you don’t mind.”

“Please do,” Simone replied.

At the same time, Morgan pulled out the other chair, saying, “Allow me.”

Hypatia waved away the chair, chose a muffin and wandered toward the sofa, teacup and saucer in hand. “No, no, don’t mind me. I’ll just relax over here while the two of you enjoy your breakfast.”

Morgan waited until she had lowered herself onto the couch, then he parked himself on the chair, rubbed his hands together enthusiastically and dove in. “Good thing I brought an appetite.”

Simone gave him a noncommittal “um” and began to eat. The eggs were delicious.

“Sour cream,” he said.

“What?”

“Hilda whips them with a dollop of sour cream,” he explained, as if reading Simone’s mind, “and parsley. I stole the recipe ages ago. At home, I add a touch of paprika and garlic powder.” He winked, deepening his voice to add, “More manly that way.”

Simone laughed. She couldn’t help it. “Don’t let Hilda hear you say that. She can’t abide garlic powder.” He straightened at that. Realizing what she’d let slip, she hastily added, “I imagine. Most real cooks can’t.”