Professor Garner glanced down at his watch again, irritation sprouting in his mind. In a way, he had begun to anticipate meeting the precocious young woman from South Carolina about whom he had heard so much. He would have described the young lady, Marissa, as extremely enterprising based on what he had heard of her. Though the girl's father had not garnered enough influence to enroll her in a university, the man had allowed his daughter to move halfway across the country to seek her own way. On the one hand, Professor Garner respected such forward thinking, but on the other, he questioned the man's wisdom.

Even though Mr. Ellenwood, the bookstore proprietor, had spoken highly of her intelligence, his description also implied that she retained a naivety that boded ill for her continued well-being in the big city. Independence meshed poorly with innocence. Professor Garner selfishly wanted to keep her in town, eager to encounter anyone who seemed so full of ideas; but his reason upbraided him where his selfish pleasure did not. The girl needed an authority to look out for her.

If the professor could find a way to take on the role of surrogate father in all propriety, he would do so, though he had no right to assume such a responsibility. Still, if his Florence had survived the birth of their third son, she had wanted to keep trying until they had a daughter. The professor had considered the thought absurd at the time, but now that his head wore more grey than black, he would have welcomed the affections of a daughter to comfort his older age. His heart somehow foresaw the possibility of the enthusiastic new young lady as a filial substitute for what could have been.

Silly, sentimental claptrap, he chastised himself. He had no real reason, other than Mr. Ellenwood's enthusiasm, to consider this girl anything special, and how could he assume she would want any help, anyway? Just a few words about her spoken by his friend and a fanciful mind likely to foresee too much. At his age, Paul Garner felt he knew better than to get too excited over novelty.

Glancing back at his watch, the professor rose from his seat, arresting his reverie and forcing himself back to the present. If he waited any longer for the young woman, he would start his evening classes behind schedule, and nowadays, he much preferred an earlier bedtime. Gone was the time when he stayed up for hours pondering the complexities of life. He now spent much more time pining over days gone by, especially his Florence.

"Excuse me, Professor Garner?" came the urgent call, and his office door swung open just as he reached for the handle.

"Marissa!" he replied familiarly, suppressing his irritation. Mr. Ellenwood had described her to a tee, down to the bright, soulful eyes that shone with so much expectation.

"I'm so sorry I'm late!" she panted. "I had a little..."

"Marissa!" the professor exclaimed again, suddenly aghast. "What happened?" All of his frustration vanished when he took in her disheveled appearance.

The well-manicured hair that Mr. Ellenwood had described now hung loosely around the girl's neck, her cloche hat perched atop a mass of wavy light-brown hair. The mess contrasted with the neat bun he had expected, knotted in silent rebellion against the current feminine trend of shorn hair. Blood leaked from a gash on Marissa's knee, and her sweater wore a stain that indicated a matching scrape on her elbow. Even if she had shown no signs of physical upset, the unnatural excitement in her eyes would have caused Professor Garner some alarm.

"Come in, child," he commanded. "Sit down and tell me what happened."

He could see her war within herself, longing to unload her own frustrations to someone, but for some reason restraining herself. Instead, she pulled her book-laden cart into the room and pressed it forward. An offering to distract from her miseries, he imagined.

"I couldn't," her tone grew administrative. "You have a class, and I have already made you late. You need to go immediately."

Stifling a smirk at her tone of authority, Professor Garner made a small concession to her, feigning acquiescence. You catch more flies with honey than vinegar, he reasoned silently, donning a smile and a pleasant, indifferent expression. "You're right," he agreed. "You're right, of course," he repeated amiably. "Just sit here for a moment, then. Catch your breath. I have a couple of minutes before class officially starts." In truth, he wanted to insist that the girl sit down in his wingback chair and receive the assistance that he offered. The impertinence of her thinking that she knew what he "needed" to do! He liked her even more than he had anticipated.

So much so, the professor realized, that he wished that he could wrap her up in a hug and pat her head until she felt better, much as he used to do for his sons. Poor, unfortunate girl! Marissa had left her home, and now she faced an unknown city without the natural defenses of street smarts. Without friends, too, he frowned to himself, and the thought brought his amusement down to reality. How could she survive in a big city so entirely isolated from all resources?

Still, coupled with her vulnerability came an apparent tenacity and determination which might serve her as substitute for other resources. In fact, that determination had propelled her from her safe home into an unwelcoming university system that would, he knew, never accept her. Surely she knew that as well. Yet, here she sat, and he could see in her eye that despite her temporary setback, Marissa Erinson, whatever the cost, had decided that she would accomplish what she had set out to do.

"Anthony?" Professor Garner called melodiously into the hallway. He didn't wish to excite any protests from Marissa. "Anthony!" he yelled again, this time more insistently.

"Professor..." he heard the feminine note from behind him.

"No, Marissa. It's okay. Just give me a minute." Though he knew it would irritate her, he shut his office door at his back, effectively cutting off any verbal protest from his appropriated charge. He knew he had only seconds to effect his plan before she bolted, and the more Marissa heard, the more she would protest.

Finally, a brown head popped up from a nearby cubbyhole.

"Father?" a familiar voice spoke, and the professor pulled up his hurried rush to the outer door.

"Mario, oh," the professor deliberated. "Have you seen Anthony?"

"No, father. Last I heard, he was headed into town to find the Brewster brothers. I believe he said something about a raid."

Professor Garner tried to reign in his huff of frustration, but the astute Mario detected it without trouble.

"Father, whatever you need, I can help," the young, mousy man insisted to his father.

"Of course, you can," the professor agreed. "You, however, have worthwhile things to which to attend. Your brother gave up his degree almost a year ago and wiles away his time in worthless occupations. I would much rather send him on a mission for me. At least I would know that he had something useful to do."

"Father," the young man began respectfully, though with a slight tone of reproach.

"Professor," came the lilting voice from behind Professor Garner. When he swung around, he realized his opportunity had ended. He must act quickly.

"Mario, I hate to ask this of you, but would you deliver these books to my next class? Write on the board for them to begin reading chapter four and take notes. I will get there as soon as I can."

"Of course, father. It's no problem. I can take my work with me while I oversee the class."

"Just know, you'll be helping a young lady in need," the professor shrugged wistfully at his middle son. The older man noted with pleasure a spark of interest in his young son's eye when Mario took in the sight of the disheveled Marissa. Perhaps one would not call her the belle of the ball, the professor reasoned, but she would definitely garner a runner-up position.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

Though out of fashion, the long waves of her hair framed her face in somewhat of a halo, and her eyes, wide and sincere, could have melted a man of stone when they held as much insecurity as they currently held.

As for Mario, the professor had lamented numerous times that his middle son had followed so closely in the path of his elder brother, Carlo. The two older sons had shown interest in nothing but studies, and at the rate they moved, the professor would never find a daughter-in-law, much less have grandchildren. Something about Marissa, however, seemed to draw Mario as much as it did Mario's father. Perhaps in a much less fatherly way, Professor Garner smirked. He could only hope.

Collecting himself, Mario grabbed the handle of the trolley full of books and rapidly turned his back on the young woman without a word.

"I could go instead," the professor began upon registering his son's interest, but Mario had swung himself and his load around the corner and out of sight before the old man could finish his offer. Shrugging, the professor turned back to Marissa. "There," he comforted her. "All taken care of."

"I really can't keep you here," the higher pitched voice rose insistently as the dear little girl stared up at him. "I will be fine, and you have a class that you need to attend to."

"And who," the professor corrected in his most professorial tone, "is going to attend to you?"

Looking startled, Marissa took a hesitant step backwards, suddenly unsure of her proper response.

"Relax, sweet girl. If you will only have a seat behind Miss Crenshaw's desk, I am sure that she always keeps handy a supply of first-aid tools."

Marissa seemed to calm, and, while he began a seemingly random knocking on the walls of the room, she sat as the professor had directed. Though she wouldn't say so, the strange knocking caused Marissa to question the professor's sanity.

"Miss Crenshaw?" he kept calling solicitously. "Miss Crenshaw, could you help me a moment please?"

From apparently nowhere, a young lady appeared, and Marissa tried to hide her shock at the suddenness of the appearing. So, the professor hadn't lost his mind.

"Hello, professor," came a mellow voice, warm and caramel and soothing. "I heard you calling for Anthony earlier," the lady acknowledged. "Did you find him?"

"Do I ever find him when I need him?" the professor sighed mournfully.

"How can I help you?" Miss Crenshaw redirected the professor, and the man seemed to remember himself.

Turning to Marissa, he placed a hand gingerly on her shoulder. "Miss Erinson seems to have had a spot of trouble, and I think I need a woman's touch to properly offer assistance. Do you mind?"

Miss Crenshaw pursed her lips sardonically at the young lady sprawled awkwardly in the desk chair. "I think, Professor, that maybe you should go to class and leave her in my care," the woman announced ironically.

Cringing, Marissa imagined a note of derision in Miss Crenshaw's amusement. After all, Miss Crenshaw looked as neat as a pin, and highly fashionable as well. Marissa's legs twitched with an urge to flee from what had begun to feel like confines. She could handle the professor and his cerebral concern, but she didn't like feeling like Miss Crenshaw's personal renovation project.

"Of course, Miss Crenshaw," the professor didn't notice Marissa's distraction. "I will leave you alone with her for a few minutes while you help her clean up, but I feel I must talk to her before she leaves. If her delivery of my books in any way caused her harm..."

"I assure you, professor," Marissa cut him off. "It had nothing to do with..."

"Now Marissa, settle down," Miss Crenshaw cut her off forcefully, and Marissa felt powerless to resist. "Professor, you can return to your office for a few minutes, and I will take care of Marissa. Marissa," the young blond continued, turning back to the even younger Marissa. "Just give me a few minutes, and I'll have you back as good as new."

"But..." Marissa began.

"No," Miss Crenshaw insisted. "I promise, it's no trouble. Here I've got my first aid kit, and while I clean these little cuts, you tell me about your day."

"Miss Crenshaw..." Marissa tried again.

"Barbara," the lady corrected, and the warmth of the secretary's smile began to ease some of Marissa's concern.

"Barbara, then. I hate causing this much inconvenience to the professor."

"Sweetie," Barbara offered in an offhand way, "I don't think the professor minds the inconvenience. You're the new girl at the bookstore, right?"

Marissa silently cursed the familiarity of a university community. How did everyone know about her? She must have betrayed something of her thoughts on her face, because Barbara smiled knowingly while dabbing some gauze at Marissa's knee.

"It's not that I'm overly nosy," the older girl assured Marissa. "The professor has talked an inordinate amount about you over the last few days. Don't act shocked," Barbara smiled. "Mr. Ellenwood and the professor are close friends, and Professor Garner feels a personal interest in all goings on at the bookstore. Besides," she grinned. "I think he hopes you'll marry one of his older sons."

At this, Marissa nearly jumped out of the chair, alarm finally giving legs to her desire to flee. "Marry? He doesn't even know me! I've never even met his sons!"

Barbara literally laughed out loud at Marissa's sudden terror, stopping her gentle ministrations to Marissa's knee and throwing her own head back with a deep chuckle. "Oh, dear Marissa," the velvet tone thrummed. "I assure you; the professor knows that arranged marriages went out of fashion a century ago. He has no sinister ambitions for you." Barbara's eyes softened in a very appealing way as she spoke, and Marissa began to think she could like the usually sassy little blond sitting across from her.

"The professor has given to marrying off his two older sons every time he meets a new girl. He is just a bit lonely," Barbara sighed, shrugging her shoulders at Marissa. "His wife died twenty years ago, and he had hoped that his sons would have given him some access to a family by now. Instead," Barbara gestured grandly around the office, "the older two have dedicated themselves almost entirely to the halls of academia, and the youngest..." Barbara trailed off mysteriously. An instant later she continued, "The professor sees only his students, his sons, and me. He always gets a little excited by the prospect of meeting someone new."

"Well, you seem to help him a lot," Marissa asserted as she watched Barbara glide gracefully across to the desk and open a drawer. "And he hasn't married you to one of his sons."

"No, he hasn't" the older girl agreed, a sardonic gaze sweeping over Marissa. Marissa got the feeling that no one could have pressured Barbara into any decision she didn't wholeheartedly agree with. "I help where I can," she continued, "but my father needs me as well to help with his political campaigns, and so I divide my time between my studies, my father, and, on occasion, the professor."

Marissa noted with shock that Barbara had removed a paper bag from the desk drawer and then began to withdraw a pair of nylon stockings from within it. "I couldn't," Marissa began, feeling viciously awkward.

"Please," Barbara rolled her eyes sarcastically. "I always keep an extra pair in the drawer in case I snag one. These things are better than long skirts, but terribly prone to destruction."

"But if I take your pair, then you won't have an extra."

"Oh, I have a stash at home. One can never be too prepared," Barbara retorted, and her lips twisted in amusement again. "I even have an extra here in my purse," she asserted and produced an identical paper bag to the one from her desk drawer.

Though she wanted to protest, Marissa merely cleared her throat. "I see you're well taken care of."

"You really are new to town, aren't you?" Barbara laughed. "How charming you are!"

Marissa wanted to feel insulted, but she sensed that, though Barbara held a general air of superiority, she seemed to genuinely like Marissa.

"My father is Marshall Crenshaw," Barbara informed Marissa, as if that name held some meaning. At Marissa's blank look, Barbara explained. "Let's just say, he's into Missouri politics. Has been my whole life, and pretty much everyone wants to make me happy."

For a moment, Marissa mistook her new friend's honesty for arrogance, and the statement almost repealed the favorable opinion Marissa had begun toward Barbara. The young woman eradicated any hint of dislike, though, when she continued, "That's why I like the professor so much. Since his head is so stuffed with ideas, he doesn't have the mental capacity to think about who my father is or what I can offer as a connection. He's also from out of town, somewhere in the northern Midwest, I think, and so he doesn't think of everyone in town according to our histories. According to him, we are just individuals, not 'the Crenshaws of Bellfontaine.'"

Again, Marissa found herself drawn to the short, spirited blond sitting before her. Marissa would normally have associated her type with superficiality, then tried to inure herself to Barbara's inevitable rejection. In the present case, however, Marissa sensed in Barbara an openness, almost a longing, for a close and meaningful friendship. Maybe she and Barbara could get along after all.

"How is our patient?" came the professor's voice from across the office. Marissa smiled with amusement when she noticed that the voice came through the slightest crack in the office door. Such deference to propriety seemed to confirm Barbara's description of his kind intention. Despite that decorum, Marissa imagined the forced waiting suited him ill.

"Give us one minute, and then she's all yours," replied Barbara with an outright grin. Waving her hand toward a panel of wall, she commanded, "That's a restroom. Run slip these on," she motioned to the bag of nylons, "and then you'll have to sit under the penetrating analysis of the professor." This time, Barbara's smile blossomed into a pleasant display of lovely white teeth.

Marissa felt compelled to obey both of her caretakers, and so within a short period of time, she found herself seated back in the professor's office with two pairs of bright and inquiring eyes aimed in her direction, recounting her misadventures to the responsive and revealing reactions of her small audience.