***Chapter One***
August 2004

Noah looked up from his paperwork at the sound of someone knocking on his office door.

"Enter," he called out, even if he didn't appreciate the intrusion into his preparations. Feeling ready reviewing everything at home was not the same as feeling ready reviewing things in his office he'd come to find.

He had little choice, unless he was going to pretend he wasn't here. That would go over splendidly, being the newest professor in the department, he was sure. So, he went with the more acceptable response and invited whomever it was in.

It wasn't a student, thankfully, as they weren't here yet. Well, the undergraduate students he would be teaching weren't. There were graduate students around, but he wouldn't be their instructor. He doubted any of them would have any reason to visit him. They didn't even know him at this point. And, even if one might be inclined to, his office hours were clearly posted on the door. Nine o'clock Monday morning, before he'd had his second cup of coffee, wasn't among the listed hours.

"Good morning," he said with a slight frown.

He recognized the professor but, as Noah was new, didn't remember his name. He'd learn them all eventually. They weren't friends, and hadn't spoken much at the most recent department meeting. So that left him with no idea why the other professor was here. Had he done something wrong already?

"Good morning, Professor Davies. It was mentioned at this week's department meeting that you are planning on covering the Salem witch trials in your North American History course this term."

He scowled. He remembered. He was at the aforementioned meeting.

If this man had been sent to tell him that he couldn't teach such a subject, he would complain to their superior immediately. He'd had a hard enough time getting anyone to understand that this course was, in fact, a credible offering. These were university students, not children. They could handle it. He knew they could.

Why the idea of teaching that particular subject was of interest to him, he wasn't sure. It wasn't until recently, the past four or five years he supposed, that he'd even thought much of the Salem witch trials to start researching them. He'd studied them like it was a life's purpose since that urge struck him, though. He'd always loved history, but this particular topic hadn't come up on his radar before recently. Relatively speaking. Five or six years to some wouldn't be recent. When it had, though, it had gripped him like a vice, and wouldn't let go.

He liked the idea of teaching students about things beyond wars and what various monarchs did for the country eight hundred years ago. No, the witch trials weren't recent history, or even British history, but it was still relevant.

He thought it was part of his job to expose them to things in history that weren't pleasant. And weren't always personally relatable. Or so they thought. To allow them to see how easy lynch mobs were to get swept up with. He didn't want to teach the same thing that every teacher or professor prior to him had covered. If he was going to teach history to university students, most of whom were not majoring in it, he wanted his classes to be spoken of positively. He wanted them to look for the next class of his they could take because the lessons he taught were interesting. … or at the very least different.

"I am," he said, sounding stoic and defensive.

He was trying not to be that, but it was hard being the new man on campus. Literally. He was one of only two new hires this year, and the other one was in the Marketing department. The other professor didn't seem offended or to find the subject matter something he shouldn't be teaching, so that was good.

He hoped.

Certainly no one at the meeting had seemed to think that way. He knew how it worked though. Together, without him present, negativity toward the subject matter could have been offered.

"I have a graduate student who has done a lot of research on that topic herself. Might I request she sit in when you get to that unit? Maybe she could even take some pressure off of you. You know, give a lecture. She hasn't expressed interest in the academic field yet, so that may not interest her."

He grimaced, running his left hand through his hair. Then dropped his hand quickly. He hated drawing attention to his hair. He was overall all right with his God given attributes. His hair was very fine, and had the tendency to appear greasy as a result. As a child, he'd been teased about it more than once. It had taken his parents months to find the right combination of shampoos and hair products to curb that issue into being manageable. Still, all these years later, though, the instinct to avoid drawing someone's attention to it was strong.

He had to be careful how he responded to this request. It could set a bad tone for his time here. His knee jerk reaction was to say no. The very idea that he might need … assistance was preposterous. And, yet, this was an educational institution. He was talking about a graduate student, not a first year fresh out of secondary school.

How bad could that be? And having a female teach a portion of a unit about (primarily) women being persecuted and burned at the stake might not be such a bad idea.

"I'm not opposed to the idea, Professor…" he trailed off, hoping the other man would supply his name to him.

"Andrews," he said.

"Thank you, I'm still learning names. You can have her schedule an appointment with me when it's convenient for her within the next week or so. I have already begun my planning on that topic so please encourage her not to delay an appointment too long."

"Very well. Good," he said, moving to take his leave then. "I'll have her come by today or tomorrow then."

"Sure, anytime, I'll be here."

Noah hoped he wasn't making the biggest mistake of his life.

How bad could it be?

And it wasn't as if he was committed to keeping her. If they met and she was annoyingly ridiculous. Well, he could say he'd rethought the assistance being necessary. It would prove to be a short unit, he was sure, based on the notes he'd already made. Four or five class days at the most, possibly six. So, he'd only have to tolerate someone for a short while. A week, maybe a second one.

He glanced at his bookshelves, an impressive collection that he knew other professors here (even those at the graduate course level) were envious of.

He'd always loved books.

As a child, they were a way to escape from not quite fitting in with the other children around him. Sometimes even his teachers. He recalled one of his teachers in secondary school hadn't known the proper pronunciation of some characters in Romeo and Juliet . He'd gone home, asking his father how he was supposed to know he was learning correctly from someone who couldn't do something as basic as that.

His father had told him to keep his mouth shut and do what he needed to do to pass his schooling without incident. No one, fellow students or teachers, liked a know-it-all. He also told him that not everyone was as well read as he was. He did as told, and bit his tongue, a lot. It taught him patience. (He did eventually, at the end of the school year, tell the teacher the correct pronunciation of the names. He'd done it privately, though, and she'd seemed so … grateful. Obviously embarrassed to be corrected by a sixteen year old. Still grateful.)

Characters in books became his friends, his confidantes, and the people he took guidance from. They helped him develop an imagination and creativity. They helped hone his intellect. In addition to his parents anyway.

He had a few real life friends, not many. A couple of neighbor boys he'd grown up with. He still kept in touch with them today, so he supposed his childhood wasn't as lonely as it could have been. The two neighbor boys were more popular than him, which meant Noah got included in games of ball and whatever that took place at the park near their house until he left for university. He was not overly good at football, but was acceptable at baseball. (For some reason, they all preferred baseball to cricket. He supposed because the space available to them at the park was more conducive to it. Who knew?)

His mother found his thirst for the written word a bit off putting. His father had not, being a bit of a scholar himself. Dad just didn't have much time with the work hours he put in. He gave a soft sigh, wishing he could have all of his books here in his office. They wouldn't all fit, though, so the most important ones were here. The others were at home.

He returned his attention to his paperwork. Though, the thought of his parents made him realize that he hadn't seen them since the beginning of summer. He'd gotten this job and immediately went to work on his lesson plans. Thankfully, they knew him well enough by now, so hadn't taken offense to his seclusion.

He pulled out his cell phone as a result of that realization and sent a text message to his father, the more technical savvy of his parents.

DINNER THIS WEEK BEFORE CLASSES START? I'M FREE ANY EVENING, SO LET ME KNOW WHAT WORKS FOR THE TWO OF YOU. HOPE YOU'RE WELL. LOVE TO MUM.

He hit SEND with a soft huff. His father would no doubt murmur to himself at the words in his son's text. Forty-four - nearly forty-five - and not married, with no prospects for a wife … Well, it made his father believe he'd erred somehow in raising his son.

Not so.

He very much wished to marry. He just hadn't met anyone who made him want to get to know them well enough to begin to consider marriage. Thus him being single at nearly forty-five. He'd had a good example to learn from, so liked to think that made him pickier than others he'd gone to school with who were married and divorced. Or married and divorced multiple times. Not that there was anything wrong with that. it just wasn't what he believed in or wanted for himself. He'd been fortunate in having his parents as an example, a couple he (and others) aspired to be like. He'd contented himself a while ago now that he would likely die a bachelor with no offspring to carry on the Davies name.

Coming to that conclusion didn't sting as badly as he thought it might. Some people lived a solitary life and were okay for it. Until he'd hit about thirty-eight, he held onto hope that maybe somewhere, someday. He didn't lack for friends, just no one very close to do things like travel or take in a show with. Certainly, no one he knew well enough to set him up on dates or anything. So his trips abroad were never filled with humorous or memory-invoking anecdotes. His mum traveled with him when she could, but it wasn't the same as a partner.

He checked his phone. No response yet from his father. Not unexpected. He set his phone aside then, and returned to his paperwork. Graduate student teaching assistants no longer a concern for the moment.

Story ©Susan Falk/APCKRFAN/PhantomRoses.com