reached for the door handle, saying, “It doesn’t pay much, but when I’ve finished school, I won’t owe a dime to anyone.”
“Well, that’s a definite plus,” he told her, “but perhaps you should think about applying for a grant or a small loan.”
She shook her head. “That’s not for me.” With that she let herself out of the car, saying, “Thank you for the ride, Professor Chatam.”
Morgan frowned at the way she dismissed his suggestion so casually, but she was already moving away from the car. “Take care of yourself,” he called. “See you in class on Wednesday.”
“I’ll be there,” she promised, waving as she hurried up the walk to the house.
As he drove away, Morgan made a mental vow to keep track of her. He wasn’t yet convinced that she didn’t have an eating disorder. He’d seen bulimia more than once, not usually in young women from foster homes, though. He’d hate to see something like that derail Simone’s education—and it wouldn’t do to let an inappropriate attraction distract him from his duty. That wouldn’t do at all.
* * *
Simone closed the flimsy door of her shabby room and sagged against it. The beat of the bass guitar echoed up the stairwell from the floor below and throbbed inside her aching skull. The narrow bed against the far wall called to her, but she went to the laptop computer atop the rickety desk in the corner and turned it on. That, a pair of low, sparsely filled bookcases, a small lamp, a trash can, an oval rug, a pair of curtains and a desk chair comprised the furnishings of the room. It was little to show for nearly a decade, but such things had ceased to matter to her in a hospital bed in a cancer ward in Baton Rouge.
Without Morgan Chatam to distract her, she could no longer contain her need to know what had happened to her family. A simple internet search brought up her father’s obituary on the computer screen.
Marshall Doyal Worth, fifty-seven, had died on June 20 after a long illness. An old photo of him as a young man, one of her favorites, accompanied the text. Survivors included his mother, listed as Eileen L. Davenport Worth; his older brother, Chester; sister-in-law, Hilda; two daughters, Carissa, of the home, and Lyla—no residence mentioned—grandsons Nathan and Tucker; granddaughter Grace; a niece and a nephew; and several great-nieces and nephews. Marshall had died, it would seem, from cancer, as it was requested that memorials be made in the form of donations to fund research.
Obviously, cancer ran in the family.
At least Carissa and her children had been living with Marshall at the end, so he hadn’t been alone. Tears flowed from her eyes as Simone folded her arms across the edge of the desk and lowered her aching head to pray.
“Oh, Lord, I’m sorry. Please tell my daddy that I’m sorry. It’s too late. I left it too late. I thought I was doing the right thing by coming here now, but maybe I shouldn’t have done it. Show me what to do now, and forgive me. Please forgive me.”
She had more than nine years of “forgive me” stacked up, nearly a decade of penance to pay and mistakes to undo. And now it was too late. With her father gone, what was the point in coming here? Carissa wasn’t likely to want anything to do with her now.
Poor Carissa, to have lost Tom and then to have nursed their dad through cancer all on her own.... No, Carissa wasn’t likely to want anything to do with her wayward little sister now. And who could blame her? Tom had been Carissa’s high school sweetheart. She’d never showed any interest in any other guy. How tough it must have been for her to lose him!
Simone lifted her head and looked up Tom’s obituary. Four years. He had died in an accident of some sort more than four years ago.
Her tears became sobs of grief and shame and regret. Once started, she couldn’t seem to stop them, not even when she impulsively looked up the wedding announcements in the local newspaper and saw a photo of Carissa and her beautiful children posed with a tall, ruggedly handsome, dark-haired man with the Chatam cleft chin. Carissa looked a little older, more capable, healthy and quite stunning.
“Mr. and Mrs. Phillip Chatam,” the caption read, “and family.”
The article beneath detailed that the couple had been “united in holy wedlock” on Friday, August 8, at Chatam House, the home of the groom’s aunts, by the groom’s uncle, Hubner Chatam Jr. Maid of honor was Dallas Chatam, sister of the groom.
Simone felt a pang at that. She had been the maid of honor at Carissa’s marriage to Tom, but she hadn’t been here when Carissa had buried Tom or their father or when she’d married Phillip Chatam. Simone hadn’t even known that she had a niece and nephews. Carissa had been pregnant when Simone had left, but she hadn’t given that much thought at the time. All things considered, that was probably best. Simone tore her gaze away from the photo of the children and continued reading.
Asher Chatam, brother of the groom, had served as best man. The bride was given in marriage by her uncle, Chester Worth. The happy couple’s parents were listed as the late Marshall Worth and Alexandra Hedgespeth and the doctors Murdock Chatam and Maryanne Burdett Chatam.
“Hedgespeth,” Simone murmured, swiping ineffectually at her tears. That was a new one. She couldn’t help wondering how many other last names and husbands her mother had claimed in the past nine years.
Simone hadn’t expected life to stand still in Buffalo Creek while she was gone. It certainly hadn’t stood still for her. But she hadn’t expected this.
Her dad had been only fifty-seven, and Tom had been in his thirties. So young.
Fresh tears gushed from her eyes. She cried for her father, for her late brother-in-law, for Carissa and her children, but she refused to cry for herself. She knew only too well what her dad must have suffered and could only hope that Tom had not suffered anything similar. What Carissa had endured Simone could only imagine. At the same time, Simone prayed, hoped, that Alexandra had not spent the intervening years flitting from man to man, demanding that everyone stop and think of her, put her needs and desires first. Yet that new last name, Hedgespeth, suggested that her mother had not mended her self-indulgent ways. That meant that Carissa had, indeed, dealt with it all alone.
Could Carissa ever forgive her only sister for abandoning her to deal with such tragedies and their demanding mother alone? The very question so smacked of their self-absorbed mother that Simone vowed never to ask it. She had no right to ask it, no right to dump her problems and failures on the sister who had stayed to do what a good daughter should.
Carissa had happily remarried. She didn’t need a prodigal sister turning up to complicate her life just when things were going well for a change. No, it was too late for that.
It would have been better if she hadn’t come to BCBC and Buffalo Creek, but what was done was done. Aaron, her former husband—if he could be called that—had paid her tuition in full, just as she’d requested. It was all Simone had asked for in the settlement, a college education, and his cagey parents had seen to it that the funds they’d dispensed to be rid of her could not be used for any other reason. She had specified Buffalo Creek Bible College, and that’s where they had sent the money, so this was where she would have to attend school. That meant she would just have to keep to herself.
If her own aunt and uncle hadn’t recognized her, then it wasn’t likely that anyone except those closest to her would, at least not in her present condition. She saw no reason, then, for anyone to equate Simone Guilland with Lyla Worth—no one, that was, except her sister and mother.
