Free The Third Grace by Deb Elkink Page A

so I’ll let you go.”
    Chancellor Wadsworth’s granddaughter? Lou castigated herself for failing to recognize the student, and this time she ushered her into her office with deference.
    â€œDr. Chapman, I’ve been reading your book about women regaining power.” Her obsequious flattery left Lou unmoved; she expected to be read. But she assumed false appreciation and tried to recall if they’d ever met.
    â€œHow can I help you?”
    â€œWell, um, you might not remember me from winter semester, but I had a, like, session with you here in the office.”
    At that Lou examined her more closely. Funny she couldn’t recall the meeting, particularly in light of the girl’s connections. There’d been so many encounters in this office, with so many girls who needed “consoling,” that she sometimes got them mixed up.
    â€œCertainly, Ms. Wadsworth.” She guessed that the girl went by the chancellor’s last name.
    â€œWhitney,” the girl reminded her. “Could we maybe talk? If you have, like, a few minutes?”
    â€œI always have time for a student.” In truth Lou was impatient to get back to her condo; she had a lot to do in the next few days. But she was always mindful to keep her options open when it came to potential alliances, and a plum like this didn’t fall into her lap every day.
    â€œIt’s about the quiz last week. I’ve got it here,” Whitney said, rifling around in her book bag. “I was so busy with my poetry assignment that I didn’t have time to study.”
    â€œI don’t review marks given on examinations, and I can’t start making exceptions now. But given your obvious aptitude,” Lou exaggerated, “you might bring up your grade by writing an extra paper for me.”
    â€œI can do that. What topic should it be on?”
    Lou was thoughtful, wanting to set the tone for future interactions. “Perhaps you could merge women’s issues with your predilection for verse by focusing on the lyrical style developed by the Greek poet Sappho, who was exiled from her beloved island of Lesbos.” Lou withdrew a key from her desk drawer and swiveled her chair to face the wall of streak-free glass-fronted bookshelves. “You strike me as a reliable person, Whitney. I’ll lend you a resource that might start the juices flowing, and then we can meet to discuss the subject further.” Lou often found Sappho stimulating to more than the intellect of her students.
    â€œThanks, Dr. Chapman.”
    â€œCall me Lou,” she said. The girl smiled at the floor. “Let’s set a date, then,” Lou said as she consulted her electronic calendar. “I’m clearing my schedule for next week and am unavailable, but we can meet in the week following.”
    As Whitney left, Lou pondered the state of young women these days. Something about them always got to her, maybe their vulnerability or their awe. She wasn’t fooled into thinking that Whitney was intrinsically different, although her family tree set her apart. But all these girls began to look the same, all voiced the same shallow thoughts with a cloying dedication to quoting her out of context. She admitted some personal benefit from the relationships she cultivated—a consciousness that she was making a difference, having a small influence on lives in a fashion lecturing and publishing could never quite accomplish. An emotional impact.
    Of course, Whitney Wadsworth’s lineage changed the scenario slightly, and their interaction might go well beyond the one-on-one mentorship that was Lou’s signature. Chancellor Wadsworth was merely a figurehead in the structure of the university, but one could never foretell all the repercussions of bridge building when it came to social contacts. She’d keep Whitney as the ace up her sleeve.
    Lou had no close acquaintances in her own age group, just academic associates and