Second Chance Sister

by Linda Kepner

  “Or perhaps you do,” she said seriously. “That’s where the true sportsmen come from, but there’s only one or two of those per generation.”

  Pierre Castelle joked, “I don’t think I’m up to breathing this rarefied air of academia.”

  “You’re the best example of the philosophy,” Bishou told him.

  He blinked. “Pardon? Quoi? Moi?”

  “You were in the student riots, weren’t you?”

  “Well, yes, I was.”

  “Why were you protesting?”

  “We had wretched conditions — ”

  Bishou interrupted him, very civilly. “No, I didn’t ask you what you were protesting. I asked why.”

  Thoughtfully, he replied, “Because it seemed like the right thing to do. All right, I get your point. Do you think that will prevent equally violent riots here?”

  “I don’t know. But students are more likely to work within the system if they feel the administration is open to communication, don’t you think? And Paris certainly has its hands full.”

  The other professors looked thoughtful, too. Dr. Rubin, however, looked vindicated. “All right, Dr. Dessant, you’ve got openers. Can you work in some information on how to study and how to delegate time to homework?”

  “That’s part of it,” she agreed.

  “Bon. This will leave the gentlemen free for some other necessary courses, so it would be nice if I have you in the fundamentals. I want a Modern Réunionnais Literature course this semester — Theo, see if you can get Gamaleya as a guest speaker, or other réunionnais authors — free if they’ll come to your class, if they want an evening on stage, we’ll start looking for sources of honoraria.”

  Theo duVerger almost dived for his notebook. “Wonderful.”

  “We need to break down Literature of the Middle Ages — I want Literature of the Capetian Dynasty, Literature of the Valois and Orleans Dynasties, Literature of the 16th and 17th Centuries, Literature of the 18th Century, on into the Republics.”

  “Can’t some of that wait until the next semester?” Pierre objected. “We should be doing some Moderns, too, and that’s going to fill all our schedules with old stuff.”

  “We need to do some individual authors, as well,” Dukette objected.

  “All right,” said the Dean. “Pick your topics, then.”

  It really is like a card game, Bishou thought. The professors happily chose what they would teach this term, under the guidance of the Dean. Out popped Literature of the 1950s, American Literature, Canadian Literature, Modern French Fiction, Modern French Poetry, Heritage of Jewish Literature, as well as Peguy, Cocteau, Saint-Exupery, Maupassant, Maeterlinck, Voltaire, Anouilh, Hugo, Dumas. They shuffled them all into a working schedule as best they could, and threw the rest of their cards back in the deck for the next hand.

  “What will the History Department do this semester?” Dr. Weis asked.

  “Consult us,” Rubin chuckled. He started dealing cards. “Now, these are your new advisees. You’ll see them each, at least once. I know some of you like group meetings, some of you prefer individual ones. The choice is yours. Just log in the meetings, please, so they appear on the students’ records. Then, if something happens, we’re documented. Dr. Dessant. Is this your first time as an advisor?”

  “Non, Monsieur le Doyen. I advised undergraduates when I was a graduate assistant and tutor at East Virginia University.”

  “Bon. But you will report back to me on each advisory session, at least for this first semester, in writing or in person, before I give you a free hand. You are still on probation.”

  “Oui, Monsieur le Doyen.”

  “Here are academic calendars for all of you. I must emphasize that Convocation is a week from Wednesday, at 7:00 P.M. as all students should be arriving or registering that day. That means be here, in the lobby of this building, at 6:45 for the processional, in full academicals. Do you have yours, Dr. Dessant?”

  “Oui, Monsieur le Doyen.”

  He eyed Pierre. “And you, Dr. Castelle? With no plaid or print shirt visible, I hasten to add.”

  Pierre grinned. “Oui, Monsieur le Doyen.”

  “Very well. Convocation, and the opening reception after, and the academic year officially starts. Be there. I will take attendance.” Then he dismissed them, and rose to return to his own office.

  As they left the meeting, Bishou murmured to Pierre, “I see why you like it here.”

  Pierre Castelle nodded. “Everything is a blank slate. It’s all new. Dr. Rubin is from the Sorbonne. You’d expect him to be a hide-bound and conservative Dean, and he’s not. He is tremendously innovative. He’s always pushing where it gives. He’s nothing like one expects. When I come out of these meetings, I feel like I’ve been at a sports rally.”

  Bishou laughed quietly. “I feel the same way.” She glanced toward the front lobby, and saw a familiar figure. She touched Pierre’s arm. “Stay a moment.”

  The lobby windows silhouetted the man as he peered down the corridor, and walked toward them uncertainly. Of course, the corridor appeared dark to him, since the light was behind him. He could not see them well.

  “Louis,” said Bishou.

  The man stopped for a moment, then walked toward them with more confidence. It was, indeed, Louis. He came up to her and smiled. “It’s lunchtime. I came to take you home.”

  “Bon. Our meeting just finished. Mon cher, allow me to introduce Dr. Pierre Castelle, who shares an office with me. Pierre, my husband, Louis Dessant.”

  The men shook hands. “I remember you,” said Louis, “from the lecture. It is good to meet you again.”

  “Aussi,” said Pierre. “Care to come admire our coat-closet?”

  Bishou laughed, and walked with the men to the tiny office. Pierre opened the door. They stepped inside.

  “Well, at least three can stand inside the door,” said Louis.

  “True,” Bishou agreed, “now that we have re-arranged it.”

  “Regardez!” Pierre pointed. There were now hangers neatly inserted in portions of the cement wall. “Spaces for the Paris poster and for our diplomas! The janitor has been busy. Those bribes are working, Dr. Dessant!”

  Louis chuckled. “Carton of cigarettes in the bottom drawer, eh?”

  “But of course,” said Pierre. “And now we have picture hooks.”

  Louis was already staring at the desks and saw his own photograph on one, but he said nothing.

  Out in the car, Louis said, “I never expected to see my picture on an office desk.”

  “I’m sorry. Does it offend you?”

  “No. It merely feels — strange to me. My wife,” he mused, “has her husband’s picture on her desk at work. Such an ordinary thing.”

  Bishou leaned over and kissed him. “It’s the next best thing to having you there.”

  “What did Pierre mean about seeing you Wednesday night?”

  “There is a university ceremony next week Wednesday. Convocation. The start of the new academic year.”

  “It’s September.”

  “That’s when an academic year starts,” Bishou replied. “Our guest speaker will be the university Chancellor. All faculty will be in attendance, in full academicals.”

  “Meaning?”

  “I will wear my doctoral gown, which you bought for me and have not yet seen.”

  Louis started up the car, and pulled out of the space before he smiled at her. “Oh, it will be worth it just for that. Or may outsiders attend this?”

  “Outsiders may attend this, but you are not an outsider. You are a faculty spouse.”

  Louis glanced at her. “This is new territory for both of us, isn’t it? You as a professor and me as a professor’s spouse.”

  “Yes, it is. We might need to tread carefully for a while, until we learn our places in all this.”

  “If you could do it in East Virginia University, I can do it here,” Louis replied. “I will try not to embarrass you.”

  “You won’t,” s
he said. “If anything, I might embarrass you.”

  “Nous verrons.” We’ll see.

  Chapter 16

  “You would think we didn’t own a couch,” Denise chided, as she brought coffee over to the Dessants, seated on her rug. She gave Etien his cup, and sat in a chair near Louis and Bishou.

  “We can cuddle better this way.” Louis wrapped his arms around his wife. “Besides, it’s a nice rug.”

  “So you are now an official university professor,” Etien said, sipping his coffee. “Teaching classes, and everything.” Unlike Louis, he had attended university.

  “Are you coming to Convocation next Wednesday?” Bishou asked them.

  “That’s the official opening of the academic year, isn’t it?” Denise asked. “Mme. Cantrell was saying something about attending.”

  “I will be there,” said Louis, “a thorn in a field of roses.”

  “Or vice versa,” said his wife, with a sly look, and he grinned.

  “Do you have a teaching schedule yet?” Etien asked Bishou.

  “I do, and it’s a rough one,” Bishou replied. “Not just because I’m a beginning teacher. This is the largest freshman class they’ve ever admitted, over a thousand students, and I’m the only lecturer in their only required Arts and Humanities course.”

  “Merde de merde! A thousand students!” Etien exclaimed. “No wonder they were happy to get your application.”

  “Bien dit,” Bishou agreed. “I teach just the sort of thing they need, and I have a voice that can reach a lecture hall of 300 students. They’re supposed to get me a grad assistant, but I’ll believe that when I see it. I think I’m in this all alone.”

  “Including quizzes and examinations?” Etien stared.

  “I think Monsieur le Doyen will help me out on those, since I’m technically on probation. But I’ve got something at 0800 every day of the week. On Monday and Wednesday, I’ll be going until 1530 heures, but the other days, I’ll be done by noon. Thank goodness.”

  “You’ll still come over on Friday nights, then,” said Denise.

  Bishou and Louis looked at each other, and smiled. “That was non-negotiable,” said Louis. “We have discussed this.”

  “And included Bettina and Madeleine in the discussions,” Bishou added.

  “Friday nights, we are here. If we invite guests over to our home, we will try to do it on Wednesday nights. More likely, people who invite us to their homes tend to do so on Saturday nights.”

  “That’s when the Prefect and his wife tend to hold dinners, and we are obliged,” said Bishou.

  “Mm, oui,” her husband agreed. “But there are enough people — you know, Etien, salesmen and their wives from work, and Bishou’s new office-mate and his girlfriend, and others — that we want to be able to invite over for dinner some time.”

  “A normal life,” Etien murmured. Then he asked, “So how big is the staff, to advise a thousand students?”

  “Oh, they’re not all Arts & Humanities. It’s not as daunting as it looks at first glance.”

  “But surely, with as much work as you’re doing, it’s not part-time, as you planned,” said Etien.

  “Well,” Bishou admitted uncomfortably, “no. I’ve got a full academic load, but that’s only for now. We’re going to take it one semester at a time.”

  “Then you aren’t getting benefits you are entitled to, as a full-time employee.” Etien frowned.

  “Pfah,” said Louis.

  “Pfah, my sugar daddy,” she agreed, kissing his cheek. “And it means that I can take a semester off with no courses, because it averages out as part-time, do you see?”

  “Why would you want to take a semester off?” asked Etien. However, Denise smiled to herself and drank coffee.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Bishou replied easily. “Perhaps I would take some time off and travel around this beautiful island. Perhaps I would write a textbook. Perhaps I would volunteer somewhere.”

  “Perhaps you might have a child,” Louis suggested, in a soft voice.

  Bishou smiled into his eyes. “Having a child! What an idea!”

  Louis’s eyes and smile were as gentle as his voice had been. “One never knows.”

  “Well,” Etien prodded, “are you?”

  Bishou blinked at him. “Am I what?”

  “Enciente.”

  “Even if I was, Etien Campard,” said Bishou, “do you think you would be the first person I told?”

  Denise giggled. “Especially if we’re going to a special occasion where nothing must be said about it.”

  “I am not a good liar,” Etien said, “so I’m lucky you aren’t pregnant, so I won’t have to attempt to lie.”

  “That’s the spirit,” said Bishou.

  Gently, Louis kissed her cheek. He did not appear confused, shocked, or stunned. He wrapped his arms around her. Etien and Denise smiled down at them.

  • • •

  In the car, in the dark, on the way home, Louis said, “You are, aren’t you?”

  “I was pretty certain you knew all along,” Bishou replied.

  “I thought about why you called me Papa.” His hand rubbed her thigh. “You wanted me to father a child.”

  “Not a child, Louis. Your child.”

  “For how long have you been enceinte?”

  “Since the beginning.”

  “Since the beginning,” he mused, rubbing her thigh again while he drove. “And yet you planned all this, the university and your teaching.”

  “Oui, I did.”

  “Why? Just so you would not be a burden to me, another parasite?”

  “That, and also, to justify the time and money I have spent on my education, and to honor my promises to my family.”

  “To Bat, you mean.”

  “Oui, to Bat.”

  “And you have not broken your promises to him.”

  “Non.”

  “To whom else have you made promises?”

  “To you, mon treasor.”

  They pulled up in front of the house. “Any other promises?”

  “No, only the one to love and cherish mon mari all my life. Just that one.”

  Louis did not move to get out of the car. It took Bishou a moment to realize why. She felt for her purse, pulled out her handkerchief, and wiped tears from his face. He stopped her hand. His voice was very quiet and calm. “Non, ma Bishou, don’t bother. I am just — enjoying the feeling — that I could die happy at this moment.”

  “I sincerely hope not, Papa. There are many more years for us.”

  “Oui. But they will be years of — caring for our children, commuting to work, trading letters and telephone calls with friends and family, even — even growing old together. Those ordinary pleasures that I thought were forever denied me.” He leaned over. Those soft lips touched hers. “Thank you.”

  “Non, mon cheri. Thank you. For reaching out and welcoming me.”

  About the Author

  Linda Kepner is a genre fiction author living in New Hampshire, and employed at America’s oldest public library. Her other books include Second Chance, the previous volume of Bishou’s story. Linda has worked as a librarian, college instructor, magazine editor, and brokerage clerk. Second Chance Sister is her fourth novel. For more information about the author, please see her web site: www.lindatkepner.com.

  In the mood for more Crimson Romance?

  Check out The Abolitionist’s Secret

  by Becky Lower

  at CrimsonRomance.com.