Chapter 2

“Are you David Morgan?” the stranger asked me as she approached me, which made me look up from my reference book at the library.

“I am,” I admitted, at which point the girl coughed a bit, turned a bit red, and handed me the petition for divorce.

“You have been served, sir,” the lady had the decency to be a bit embarrassed about it all, “My apologies, sir. Especially so close to Easter.”

“Nothing for you apologize about, miss. You’re just doing your job. I’m a grown man. I’ll deal with it,” I smiled in spite of my pain, actually surprising the girl, even as she could see the hurt in my eyes.

“Well, I really am sorry, anyway. I know that look. It’s the one that Mom got when Dad had her served with divorce papers, too. I really wish ... well, it’s hard to explain,” the girl actually hugged me, to my surprise.

“Thank you. That was ... very kind. Are you sure that you’re in the right business, if you don’t mind such a personal question?” I asked the young lady, “This is going to happen a lot in this job for you, I’m just warning you, and it takes a certain callousness to let it wash over you.”

“Can you ... maybe find me a different one?” the girl asked me, now curious.

“Perhaps. I’m a professor, in fact. Would you be up to working in academia? I have an opening on my staff, if that’s okay with you. Swing by my office next Tuesday at noon or so. I have a working lunch most of the time on Tuesdays and Thursdays. I’ll get us something from the deli. Roast beef or something of that nature. We can interview there. Fair enough?” I offered her, making her dimples come out to play.

“It’s a date! I mean ... sorry, that came out wrong! But ... technically it is a lunch date! I’m Sarah Weiss, by the way. I have to warn you that I’m kosher, at least for now. Will that be an issue?” the lady asked me, unsure of what to expect.

“It’s perfectly fine, miss. Trust me. Compared to the religious issues that just broke up my marriage, keeping kosher is a mild and sensible restriction by far. I’m not sure how or when I’ll explain it, but I think that I owe you the story sooner or later, given how invested you’ve become in it. Call me Dave, by the way,” I offered, writing down my work address on a small notepad that I had on the library table.

“Oh, no, sir. I can’t do that. You’re Professor Morgan, unless you’ve got a Ph.D., in which case you’re Dr. Morgan, but I show respect to intellectuals and academics, trust me. What do you teach, anyway?” she asked me with both curiosity and evident attraction.

“History, Ms. Weiss,” I smiled at her now.

“Call me Sarah, Professor,” she gave her parting shot, giving me just a slight view of her bottom through her tight slacks.

I shook myself, thinking ... what the hell is wrong with you? You’ve just been served divorce papers by this girl, and you’re already practically drooling over her sweet ass! To make matters worse, she’s about to work for you, don’t kid yourself about the outcome of that interview, and so you’ll be her creepy older boss, admiring her lovely butt and legs in her slacks while she probably regrets what little crush or flirtation prompted her to agree to this. She’s probably got a boyfriend close to her own age, Dr. Morgan, and far more appropriate to this sweet ginger than anyone old and dried, fossilized, like you.

As for history, all I knew was that my marriage was history, that I was living in a motel room with my son and daughter because I chose them over my wife, and that my heart was already throbbing with love for a woman half my age that I just met ... after she served me with Tracy’s petition. What the hell was wrong with me?