had been provisionally admitted to the graduate program and enrolled in his History of the Bible section for this fall semester. Whatever had happened, her admission had been approved by the highest echelon at the university. He couldn’t help being curious, however, and as her adviser, he was entitled to some answers.
“I believe you’re from Baton Rouge, Louisiana. Is that correct?”
“I moved here from Baton Rouge.”
“Funny, you don’t sound much like Baton Rouge.”
“And have you spent a lot of time in Baton Rouge, Professor Chatam?” she challenged.
She had him there. “One visit only.”
Her small smile of victory proclaimed that Simone Guilland was not as fragile as she appeared.
“You must go again sometime. The Guilland family is old and storied in the area. I’m sure you would find your visit interesting.”
“Perhaps I will.” Why the next words fell out of his mouth, he would never know, but he heard himself say, quite suggestively, “Perhaps you would induce your family to give me a personal tour?”
She froze, simply stopped, as if everything about her—her heart, her pulse, her breath, her thoughts—simply switched off. Then, abruptly, she switched on again. She turned her head and stared through the glass wall at the busy patio and pool beyond, saying calmly, “I haven’t spoken to any member of my family in years. We...fell apart. Our connections just disappeared.”
“I am sorry,” Morgan murmured, assuming that she was one of the foster children he’d seen come through BCBC over his lengthy tenure there. Removed from their families for any number of reasons, they were often among the hardest working and the most motivated and successful students. They frequently required counseling and extra help, however.
“Tell me, Ms. Guilland, what are your goals, your plans?”
She lifted her chin. “I’m not entirely sure. I’d like to work with the homeless in some capacity, so I’m taking an advanced degree in social services.”
She slid from her chair and went to lean against the cold rock fireplace. He was surprised to find her taller than he’d expected, maybe five and a half feet. She made a pretty picture standing there against the rustic backdrop of pale, rough stone.
“You have a lovely home,” she said, smiling slightly as if to disguise the fact that she’d changed the subject.
Morgan chuckled, letting her get away with it. “I don’t live here. My aunts own the house, which was built in 1860. They’re triplets, by the way. My aunts, that is.”
“Triplets.” She shook her head. “I don’t think I knew that.”
She wouldn’t, of course, not being a local. Nodding, he smiled. “Hypatia, Magnolia and Odelia. They’ve lived here their whole lives and are universally adored, especially by the family.”
For the first time, Simone Guilland truly smiled, showing him a set of white, even teeth and pert apple cheeks. For just an instant, those cheeks struck a chord in him, a memory of a memory, something he couldn’t place. Then she whispered, “That’s lovely,” and he felt a flush of...something.
“They’re lovely,” he told her, feeling as thrilled as he did at the end of a race. “Kind, dear Christian ladies. They’ve made Chatam House a haven. I can’t tell you how many they’ve taken in.” He cleared his throat and rushed on. “Just recently they gave a home to the family of some longtime friends and household staff.”
“Oh?”
Naturally that would interest her, given her concern for the homeless. He mentally congratulated himself. He pointed through the glass to Hilda and Chester.
“The Worths have been with my aunts for, oh, twenty years or more. Hilda is the most amazing cook. Anyway, when Chester’s brother died recently, my aunts moved his widowed daughter and her children into the house. She married my cousin Phillip.” He chuckled again, thinking how often that sort of thing seemed to happen at Chatam House. “They started a business together, and—” He broke off, realizing that Simone had straightened away from the fireplace, a pained look on her face. “Is something wrong?”
“Died?” She put a hand to her temple. “Y-you’re saying that, um...Chester’s brother...”
“Are you all right?” Morgan asked, edging forward.
She shook her head as if to clear it. “Sorry. I—I seem to have bees in my head. Guess I should’ve eaten. Um, did...did I hear that correctly? He died?”
“Yes. Chester’s brother, Marshall, died,” Morgan muttered, moving closer.
She swallowed audibly. “And, ah, you said something about his daughter being a widow?”
“With three kids,” Morgan confirmed offhandedly, watching Simone as she swayed. “But not anymore. She married my cousin Phillip last month.”
Simone smiled slightly and nodded. “I see. Sorry. It’s...confusing.” Then her eyes simply rolled back in her head, and she melted like hot wax left too near a flame.
Morgan leaped forward, catching her in his arms before the back of her head could connect with the edge of the stone hearth. It was like catching smoke. She felt weightless, boneless.
Scooping her up, he rushed outside with her, shouting, “Need help here!”
People swarmed them. Going down on one knee, he dropped her on a quickly vacated chaise lounge. His aunts appeared at his elbows, and Chester handed him a towel that had been dipped in the pool.
“What happened?” Uncle Kent, his aunt Odelia’s rotund husband, asked as Morgan wiped Simone’s face with the wet towel.
“We were just talking and she fainted.”
A retired pharmacist, Kent knew a bit about medical matters, so when he told someone to get her a soft drink, something with sugar in it, Morgan simply added, “And put some food on a plate. She said she hadn’t eaten.”
Already rousing, she moaned. Morgan wiped the wet towel over her face again, taking away the makeup that had concealed the freckles across the bridge of her nose and the dark circles beneath those gorgeous eyes. Suddenly, Morgan wanted to shove away everyone else and hold her close. He told himself that she was just a kid, no more than twenty-one, probably, and a student, strictly off-limits for a professor. That was a line he had never crossed, one he had never even been tempted to cross, despite ample opportunity over the years. Until now. But why?
She had already proved herself untrustworthy, having dropped a class after the deadline and leaving her project teammates in the lurch. She had likely been a foster child and could well be anorexic, given her frailty and lack of eating. Moreover, she seemed to be a loner and something of a mystery, probably one of those kids with a tough past that she hadn’t quite left behind. He should have wanted to wash his hands of her, right then and there, but as her adviser and host he was responsible for her to a point, and until he was satisfied that she was well, he couldn’t relinquish supervision of her. More to the point, he didn’t want to.
It was that simple and, alas, that complicated.
