Arlene James - The Bachelor Meets His Match

Morgan chuckled. “You know how they feel about the college.”

“Indeed, I do. What blessings they have been to us.”

“I’ll be sure to tell them you said so.” With that, Morgan pushed open the multipaned glass door and passed into the cheery sunroom. A long, narrow space filled with greenery and colorful tropical-print cushions that softened the sturdy bamboo furniture, the bright area could be warmed by a large rock fireplace at one end, so it was used year-round as a breakfast room.

As Morgan moved toward the butler’s pantry that separated the sunroom from the kitchen, he saw a young woman sitting quietly at a glass-topped table, nursing a disposable cup of lemonade. Slight and pale, with short, spiky reddish-brown hair, she had the biggest, most soulful gray eyes that Morgan had ever seen. Set beneath horizontal brows in an oval face with a delicate, pointed chin, a small, plump mouth and a short, straight nose, they were the color of an overcast sky. Something more than her obvious beauty made Morgan look twice—an aloneness, a solitude set her apart from the others in a way that the walls of the sunroom could not. Arrested by the sight, he found himself at a standstill. He could not, in fact, seem to go forward again without engaging her somehow.

“Heat too much for you?” he asked conversationally.

She tilted her head in noncommittal reply, the slender column of her neck seeming too delicate to support the weight of her pretty head, and ran a fingertip around the rim of her drink. She was young, obviously a student, but she didn’t dress like the other girls in grungy, low-slung jeans and layered tanks or bathing suits and sarongs. He took in the neat white capris and simple shapeless pale green collared blouse that she wore buttoned to the throat, the long sleeves rolled to her elbows, tail untucked. Though of good quality, her clothing seemed too large for her. Even her white leather sandals swallowed her dainty feet. Mystery wrapped around her like a shroud, but it was her cool self-possession in the face of his obvious perusal that truly intrigued him. He tried another conversational gambit.

“Not swimming?”

She shook her head, keeping her glance on the table in front of her.

“If you need a suit, I’m sure we have extras. I could ask.”

Meeting his gaze calmly, she said, “No, thank you. I’m fine.” Her voice had a husky quality to it, almost a rusty sound, as if she didn’t use it very often.

He tried to place her among the underclassmen who had passed through his lecture hall and couldn’t. Stepping forward, he put out his hand, aware suddenly of its size. At an even six feet in height and a firm if lanky one hundred and eighty pounds, he wasn’t exactly a giant, but next to her he felt like one.

“I’m Professor Morgan Chatam.”

She smiled wryly, as if secretly amused. “Yes, I know.”

He dropped his hand. “How is it that I don’t know you, then?”

“I recognize you from your online lectures.”

“I see. So, you’re a remote student.”

“I was.”

He backed up to lean against the tall table behind him. “Well, are you going to tell me your name?”

That luminous gray gaze met his. “Simone Guilland.”

Simone Guilland. She gave the name a French pronunciation, Gi-yan. Of course, Simone Guilland of Baton Rouge. The name brought two facts to mind. One, she was a member of his advisory group. The second troubled him: her entrée into the graduate program was conditional upon her completion of his History of the Bible undergraduate course, a course in which Simone Guilland had enrolled remotely and then dropped after the deadline. Normally, as department head, Morgan had to approve for reenrollment any student who had dropped a class under such circumstances, but in this case, he hadn’t even been given the option.

“I have you now,” he told her lightly. “You dropped the course in the middle of a project, as I recall.”

“Yes. I was sorry about that.”

“You left your teammates in a bad spot,” he pointed out.

“It couldn’t be helped,” she told him, her flat inflection implying that he shouldn’t expect any explanation, but then he hadn’t gotten an explanation from the provost, just the last-minute instruction that she 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.