For the third time that morning, Simone looked up to find Chester staring at her via the rearview mirror of the Chatam sisters’ long sedan, or so it seemed. It could have been her imagination. He’d said nothing beyond a polite “Good morning” when he’d opened the car door for her at Chatam House earlier on that Thursday. As the elegant town car had moved over the gracefully shaded streets toward the college, however, he’d seemed to be keeping an eye on her.
She tried not to squirm, not to let her heart race with the fear of discovery, but she couldn’t help wishing that Morgan had come to take her to her classes again, even though she’d vowed to keep her distance from the handsome professor. She hadn’t seen him since Monday, except in the lecture hall on Wednesday. He’d come to class in a black leather jacket and jeans, carrying a motorcycle helmet, his hair looking rumpled and windblown. The girl next to Simone had whispered that Professor Chatam was hot. Simone had pretended not to hear her, but a tiny part of her wondered if she was playing second fiddle to a motorbike. Was she subjected to Chester’s too-curious stares because Morgan preferred riding his motorcycle to giving her a lift?
It was a depressing thought and patently absurd. She had no claim on Morgan Chatam’s attention. Even if having her uncle drive her to and from the campus was unnerving.
Pushing Morgan from her mind, she concentrated on what mattered most. If her full identity became known, her family might enter a state of shock for a time, but they’d quickly begin to ask questions—and dislike the answers. Eventually, most likely sooner rather than later, they’d turn her out. She, after all, had abandoned them first, running away to live her own life, so sure that she knew best and could do better without them.
How she had resented them all! Her selfish, self-centered mother had blown apart their family with her quest for “fulfillment” and “appreciation.” Her unassuming, plodding father had stubbornly refused to be more, have more, provide more. After years of struggle, Alexandra, her mother, had wanted excitement and excess, while Marshall, her father, had wanted contentment and simplicity. They were each so entrenched in their positions that they had never even considered meeting somewhere in the middle. Worse, each had been determined to win their daughters to a particular viewpoint. Carissa had escaped into an early marriage, leaving her baby sister trapped between them in a tug-of-war that seemed both endless and pointless. Oh, how Simone had resented Carissa for that!
Well, she’d showed them. She’d gotten out of the middle, finally—and into one rotten mess after another. Every time she’d told herself that she’d go home as soon as she fixed things, but something or someone always got in the way, and before she’d known it, she’d been too ashamed to show her face in Texas again. She’d tried to do better, to make something of herself. When she’d met Aaron Guilland, she’d thought he was her ticket back into the bosom of her family. She’d envisioned herself returning home, a well-dressed wife and mother, a member of the Baton Rouge upper echelon. She’d imagined that both of her parents and Carissa would be pleasantly surprised, and that eventually all of her sins would be forgiven. What largesse she had planned to shower on them! Instead, she’d spent eighteen months fighting cancer and making her peace with God while gathering the courage to return home alone, broken, humbled, a shadow of her former self. And too late.
Her father might have welcomed her, but he was gone. In all likelihood, her mother would only mock her. Her sister could only resent her. No, Simone told herself, she had nothing to offer but too much of the wrong kind of experience, a mountain of regret and a tale of woe. She looked away from her uncle’s curious, unknowing gaze and stared blindly out the window.
“Would you like me to drop you at the administration building again today, miss?”
“That will be fine.”
Within moments, he had pulled the car to the curb. As she got out, her backpack slung over one shoulder, he asked, “What time would you like to be picked up?”
“I wouldn’t,” she said automatically, quickly adding, “That is, it’s not necessary.”
He twisted in his seat, his face puckered in concern. “Are you sure? The Chatams wouldn’t like you to walk.”
“No, no, I won’t.” She hoped. Surely she could find someone to give her a ride. She did have a few friends, and it wasn’t far. She just didn’t think she could bear another ride in the car with Chester today. If worst came to worst, she’d call a taxi. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure, miss.”
She said a swift prayer as she walked to her first class, and by the end of the day, she’d arranged a ride home and transportation for Friday. She’d even agreed to join some friends for breakfast at the coffee shop on Saturday morning, which would give her a chance to pick up her last paycheck and get out of Chatam House on a day when she didn’t have classes.
It felt good, after keeping to her room all Friday afternoon and evening, to go out with friends on Saturday morning and talk of nothing more pressing than assignments and projects. Simone felt older than the other single graduate students, two girls and a guy from the old boardinghouse, but she didn’t let that stop her from hopping into a rattletrap car with them and heading down to the coffeehouse for muffins and lattes. Everyone was curious about her living arrangements, but she fobbed them off by saying that her arrangement with the Chatam sisters, who were well known for their support of Buffalo Creek Bible College, was only temporary.
As they drew near the door of the coffee shop, she noticed a green-and-white moped chained to a light pole out front. A big For Sale sign had been taped to the handlebars, and a neat little helmet had been parked upon the seat. When she stopped to look, so did her friends. A fellow sitting at one of the sidewalk tables noticed and came over to make a sales pitch. The moped had belonged to him and then his son, but the boy had recently bought his first car and was selling the “old ’ped” to raise money for new rims. Her guy friend knew more about such things than she did, and he asked some intelligent questions, eliciting useful information, including a cash price that seemed more than reasonable to Simone.
After a few minutes, their group wandered on inside to place their orders. Simone received her paycheck. The proprietor apologized because he couldn’t hold Simone’s job for her, but she was surprised and pleased to find that the check was more than she’d expected—more than enough, in fact, to buy that moped and possibly put an end to her transportation quandaries once and for all. She chewed her bottom lip, uncertain.
Motorbikes could be dangerous, but a moped wasn’t a real motorcycle. The man had said that it had a top speed of thirty miles per hour. Yet it was perfectly legal to ride on city streets, the same as a bicycle. She’d need a permit, a license and insurance, of course, but he’d said all were easy and inexpensive to obtain, especially for an adult. Her friends could see that she was seriously considering it.
“Do you want to pray about it?” one of them asked.
Simone smiled. That was the great thing about attending a Christian college. No one would have dared ask her that question at her old school. “I would, yes.”
They all linked hands and bowed their heads. After a moment, Simone realized that they were waiting for her to speak the prayer.
She stumbled uncertainly through it, then looked up to find the gentleman with the moped coming through the door. He held a cell phone to his ear and was speaking to someone on the other end.
“I’ll see,” he said, walking up next to her. “Miss,” he said, “if you’re interested, we could come down on the price maybe twenty-five dollars and throw in the helmet and security chain with the deal.”
Simone blinked and smiled at her friends. “That sounds like confirmation to me.” She nodded at the man. “I’ll take it.”
He spoke into the phone again. “Go ahead, son. Make the deal on the rims.” Pocketing the phone, he smiled at Simone and said, “You’ve just made a sixteen-year-old very happy.”
She laughed, and they agreed to meet at the local Department of Motor Vehicles office the following Tuesday morning to complete the deal.
On Tuesday afternoon, after easily acquiring her driving permit, she puttered onto campus on her moped a little saddened that God had made it possible for her to minimize contact with her aunt and uncle while living at Chatam House. Obviously, she was not meant to reveal herself to her family, at least not yet. Strangely, that did not bother her as much as had Morgan barely seeming to register her presence in class that week.
By the time the weekend rolled around, she was feeling almost invisible. Then the Chatams made it plain that they expected her to attend church on Sunday. She was nervous about going until one of them mentioned that their nephew Phillip, Carissa’s husband, was the only local Chatam who did not attend the Downtown Bible Church. Instead, he and his family attended Buffalo Creek Christian Church with Chester and Hilda.
Relieved, Simone happily went along and enjoyed the service. Morgan, however, was not in attendance. She did meet his father, Hub, though, a sweet older gentleman. He said something about Morgan visiting his younger brother for the weekend.
“Just an excuse to ride his motorcycle on the open road, most likely,” said Morgan’s brother-in-law, Stephen. Kaylie, Stephen’s wife and Morgan’s sister, made a face.
“Oh, as if you wouldn’t jump at the chance if I’d let you.” She winked at Simone, adding, “Hockey isn’t dangerous enough for him.” Patting her rounded middle, she confided, “I want my baby’s father in one large piece, thank you very much.”
Simone smiled around the pain blossoming in her chest. Morgan hadn’t mentioned that his sister and her husband were expecting, but then he wouldn’t, knowing what he did about her. Obviously, he hadn’t told anyone else about her problem, or at least not very many people. She had hoped he wouldn’t. It was too personal a secret, too poignant a loss to share with just anyone.
Perhaps it was silly of her, but she couldn’t help feeling a little glad that she could trust him with her secrets. He hadn’t told the university about her cancer, after all, and he hadn’t spread it around that she was half a woman, unable to bear children and so unfit for marriage that the man who had professed to love her, the man she’d thought to be her ticket back into her family’s good graces, had annulled their marriage while she was still in the hospital recovering from the surgery that had taken any chance of motherhood from her.
Yes, it was nice to be able to trust Morgan with her secrets, some of them, anyway. It was nice everything seemed to be working out.
If only it didn’t all hurt so much.
* * *
Mentally congratulating himself on his nonchalance, Morgan hailed Simone after class on the next to last Monday in September. He’d managed to keep away from her for nearly two whole weeks, though he had picked up the phone countless times, only to put it down again without dialing, and had talked himself out of dropping by Chatam House on a daily basis.
“Do you have a minute? I need to speak to you about a ministry assignment.”
She gave him a taut smile and spoke in that husky voice that seemed to dance across his nerve endings. “Of course.” Stepping out of the queue that filed through the door, she slipped her backpack from her shoulders and let it drop to the floor.
He parked himself on the corner of the desk in the lecture hall and took stock. She seemed none the worse for wear. She’d put on weight, her face had gained a bit of color and her hair had grown enough to lie down, framing her big gray eyes with delicate wisps and the faintest bit of curl. She looked achingly lovely. He couldn’t help noticing that she had the most delicate ears he’d ever seen on a grown woman.
Clearing his throat, he glanced down at the pencil in his hand. “I’ve given it some thought, and considering your major and your interests, I wonder if you would like to work with my father in one of DBC’s new ministries. Let me explain.”
He went on to detail the Downtown Bible Church program for youth and young adults that his father had spearheaded. Those involved ran the gamut from teens without adequate supervision and guidance to a few who literally lived on the street. The latter they mostly moved into the foster system or group homes as soon as they confirmed the situation. Some, however, were too old for foster care, so they were transitioned into adult homeless shelters.
“The ministry isn’t licensed to house anyone, you understand, except on a short-term emergency basis, but it does try to match resources with needs, and it gives them a safe place to go for much of the day and some of the evening.”
“Sounds interesting,” Simone said. “Knowing your father, I assume that he’s easy to work with.”
Surprised, Morgan grinned at her. “You know my dad?”
“I met Pastor Hub at church. Your aunts introduced us.”
“Of course.”
If he’d been there, he’d have known that, but he’d thought it best to keep out of her way by running off to visit his kid brother. Chandler and Bethany were doing very well on their horse ranch in Stephenville. Their little boy was still a toddler, but he was absolutely fearless on horseback, just like his dad. They were talking about having another child, but Morgan wouldn’t share that bit of news with Simone for anything. He’d thought of her when the subject had come up, and his heart had ached for her.
He wondered suddenly if she’d met his sister, Kaylie. She and Stephen were expecting their first. His heart in his throat, he fixed his mind on the matter at hand.
“Well, should I tell Dad you’re interested?”
“Yes, please.”
“Excellent. I’ll fix it with him and drive you over there, say, tomorrow evening.”
“Oh, that won’t be necessary,” she said, bending down to snag the straps of her backpack and haul it up into her arms. “I have transportation now. I’ll be fine.” With that, she reached into the top of the pack and withdrew a simple little pot-style scooter helmet.
Morgan came off the desk in a flying leap and snatched the thing out of her hands. It didn’t weigh eight ounces, barely enough to protect her skull. Horror flashed through him.
“You’re riding a cycle?”
“Just a moped,” she said with a chuckle. “A little old ancient thing hardly bigger than a bicycle.”
Morgan nearly swallowed his tongue. “What? That’s insane! You’d be better off on a bicycle. No, wait. You’re not strong enough for a bicycle. What are you thinking?”
She tossed her backpack to the floor again and glared at him, her hands at her hips. “I’m thinking that it’s none of your business.”
“None of my—” Aware that he’d raised his voice, he broke off in midsentence and closed his eyes, slowly counting to ten. “Motorized two-wheeled vehicles are dangerous,” he said, quite reasonably.
“You ride one,” she pointed out, most rudely, he thought.
“I am an expert. I race the things. I am certainly qualified to ride them on city streets.”
Sticking out her chin, she said mulishly, “So am I. I have a permit and everything.”
“That’s beside the point! You’re still recovering. You’re—” she glanced around them wildly, but they were quite alone now “—still weak,” he went on doggedly.
“I don’t even have to pedal,” she pointed out, reaching for the helmet.
He set it on the desk behind him, out of her reach. Shaking his head, he said, “I have to speak to Brooks about this.”
She folded her arms. “You are the most arrogant, heavy-handed, presumptuous—”
“Faculty adviser,” he reminded her. He didn’t need her to tell him that he was overstepping his bounds, but given the circumstances, he just didn’t see what else he could do. The thought of her riding off on that tiny death trap gave him the shudders. If this was what came from keeping his distance, well, he’d just have to do better. “I’ll drive you home,” he stated flatly, leaving no room for argument. Nevertheless, he thought he might well be in for a fight.
For several long seconds, she glared at him, holding herself so rigidly that he expected to see steam start leaking from her ears at any moment. Finally, she turned and marched to the door, leaving him to retrieve the backpack and bring it along.
A smile caught Morgan as he bent to snag the straps of the backpack. He didn’t know why, really. The woman was as frail as eggshells, but she’d been out zipping around town on a moped that couldn’t get out of the way of a paper bag blowing in the wind, her only protection a pathetic little helmet that might have saved her from a minor concussion but nothing more. Still, she had gumption. She’d found herself some transportation—inadequate, but transportation—and she didn’t like being told what to do one little bit. But he couldn’t let her go chugging off on her own, especially not after he hefted that backpack.
The thing was heavy, too heavy for her to be lugging around by herself and certainly too heavy for her to be hauling about on “a little old ancient” moped. It was a wonder she hadn’t fallen over on the thing already. As he couldn’t very well go schlepping around campus after her, toting her books like some lovesick swain, and drive her everywhere she needed to go, he’d have to get her a wheeled tote and provide her with proper transportation somehow. Obviously Chester had other things to do besides drive her around; either that or Simone couldn’t bring herself to impose on him and the aunties when she needed to go somewhere. Well, they’d see about that.
“What about my moped?” she grumbled as they walked to his car.
“Give me the key. I’ll have someone drive it over to Chatam House and park it,” he said.
“And then what?”
“We’ll decide that later.” After he had spoken to Brooks about her. One way or another, he was going to get an accounting of her physical condition.
She didn’t utter a word all the way to Chatam House. She didn’t even look at him, and she didn’t wait for him to come around the car and open the door for her, either. Instead, she bailed out of the Beemer the instant it stopped and reached back in to pull out the backpack before he could get to her.
“Here,” he said, reaching for the thing, “I’ll carry that in for you.”
“No, thank you,” she retorted snippily, swinging it up onto her shoulder. “I can manage.”
Morgan resisted the urge to grind his teeth. “Simone, I’m just trying to—”
“Yes, yes, trying to help and all that,” she said, moving up the walkway. She muttered something about “petty tyrants” and marched up the steps to the porch.
Morgan considered going after her, glanced at his wristwatch and decided against it. Let her stew, if that made her happy. He was going to catch Brooks before he made midmorning rounds. She slammed the front door of Chatam House just as Morgan dropped back down behind the steering wheel of his beloved BMW Z4.
He let off some steam getting to the doctor’s office across the street from the hospital. It was a short trip from Chatam House made all the shorter by his venting of his irritation. His timing proved impeccable. Brooks came out of the side door marked Private just as Morgan pulled the rumbling Beemer into the reserved space that he always claimed as his own.
Brooks shoved his hands into the pockets of his white coat and grinned. “To what do I owe the honor of this ambush?” he asked as Morgan climbed out of the car.
“To one very stubborn graduate student.”
“What has Ms. Guilland done now?”
“She’s riding a moped.”
Brooks gave him a bland look. “And?”
“And I’m worried that she isn’t strong enough. She’s carting around a backpack that weighs almost as much as she does and wearing a little soup pot of a helmet that wouldn’t protect the brain box of a gerbil.”
“Well, what do you want me to do about it?”
“I want you to tell her to cut it out. That she’s not healthy enough for riding around on a two-wheeled motorized vehicle. Or tell me that so I can tell her. I am her faculty adviser, and...” The grin that Brooks tried to hide behind a raised hand and a bowed head set Morgan off. “What? I am her faculty adviser, and she has had cancer.”
“So she told you, did she?”
“I guessed. She confirmed it. What I don’t know,” he went on, trying not to fidget, “is how likely it is to come back.”
Brooks got that mulish look he always got when a patient’s confidentiality was at risk, but Morgan waited, not even daring to breathe, and just when he was at the point of prayer, pleading or pounding, Brooks caved.
“Not very. I got her records, and from what I can tell, they took all the affected organs.”
Morgan nodded, saying softly, “She told me what that cost her.”
“The treatment was very aggressive, but it had to be. In time, she’ll regain her strength and be fine, I think.”
“But she’ll never have children.”
“No. She’ll never have children.”
“She wanted to.”
“Yes, I know. It’s in the records.”
“Should she be riding a moped?”
Brooks shrugged. “I don’t know, Morgan. Bring her to see me, if you’re so concerned, and I’ll make an evaluation then.”
“What about driving a car?”
“Has she been passing out?”
Morgan considered and shook his head. “No. Someone would have called me.”
“Well, then, provided she has a license, I don’t see why not.”
Rubbing his chin, Morgan weighed the options. “Maybe I should get her a car.” To his chagrin, Brooks burst out laughing. “Now what’s your problem? I just don’t want the girl to kill herself getting to school. I am—”
“Her faculty adviser. Sure. And her self-appointed white knight all rolled into one, apparently.”
Morgan felt heat rise in his throat and face, but he tried to brazen it out. “Oh, come on. She’s a student.”
“And beautiful and brave and wounded.”
He tried not to, but Morgan couldn’t help bristling. Of course she was beautiful. And brave. And wounded. When he thought of all she’d been through, he ached for her, but here she was starting a new life for herself when so many others would have curled into a ball and tried to make the world go away. Naturally Brooks would notice those things, but Morgan didn’t want him to. Especially Brooks. His friend. The man who had married the woman Morgan had loved, the woman they had both loved.
This was not, however, history repeating itself. This was duty. Morgan knew that because he had prayed that it be so. He had prayed for the purest of motives where Simone Guilland was concerned, and he trusted that God would give him nothing less.
Anytime now.