Mike was expected at nine o’clock on Monday morning; he was early—8:45.

The firm’s name was Frankin – Peterson Law Group. The sign, though small, maybe two feet by three, and copper, spoke quietly of the individuals inside. The edifice was a huge brownstone mansion in an old section of Georgetown. Webster paused on the sidewalk, quite impressed with his new workplace, yet wondering if he had gotten in over his head.

Inside, Webster’s sense of appreciation continued. The reception area was large, the furniture substantial, too, to fit the room. The paneling and trim were dark, baring a worn texture and with a smell of age and use. Webster knew his mouth must have been hanging open when the receptionist asked if she could help him.

“Yes, please,” he told her. “I think I work here. I’m supposed to report to Mrs. Collins … Edith Ann Collins?”

The young woman glanced at a paper on her desk, then back at him. Smiling, she said, “You would be Mike Webster then, Mrs. Collins new assistant. She’s expecting you.”

He nodded.

I’m Diane,” she told him. “I expect we will be seeing a lot of each other.” She gave him directions, and pointed, “Down this main hallway to the last door on the right.”

Webster glanced in that direction. “You can’t miss it,” Diane said.

He looked back at her just once as he walked away. She can’t be much older than me, Webster thought. Twenty maybe … and pretty!

Webster’s experience with girls had been limited to his friend from high school. Just the one kiss, he remembered, and the one touch she had initiated. In his young life, he hadn’t had time for the female species. Webster had been busy just learning to exist.

The last door on the right was open, but Webster stopped and knocked. He heard her voice from somewhere inside. “Come,” was the command. And there she was—Mrs. Collins—the little lady who had taken him into her home and had now given him a job.