Trevor's Treasures

TREVOR’S TREASURES

BY

KATIE S. WATSON

AuthorHouse™ LLC

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© 2013 Katie S. Watson. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 01/08/2014

ISBN: 978-1-4918-3213-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4918-3212-7 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013919875

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and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chaper 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Epilogue

Written With These Mind…

About The Author

DEDICATION

Dedicated with love to the memory of Rev. Gilbert Hinton Watson; beloved husband, father, grandfather and great-grandfather.

‘God testifying of his gifts: and by it he being dead yet speaketh.’

Hebrews ll:4

***********

Acknowledgements

To: Nick and Beverley

both of whom have

shown love, and

means by which I

continue to write, via

the gift of a Video Eye.

To: my daughters

For their continued

Encouragement.

To: Marge Turner

For the long hours spent

in proof reading and her

positive appraisal of the work.

*********

To: Cris Batson my computer facilitator who put all parts

together. Net result, my book.

To: My son Th omas who put my ideas on paper, and created

the book cover and images.

Cathy, Jeannie, and Alex are featured in the cover image.

CHAPTER 1

T he wheels of Continental flight 327 hit Ben Gurion International tarmac and, while some passengers sighed contentedly… Israeli travelers clapped hands and sang in their native tongue… of love for their country. Singing ceased as the loud speaker squawked … ‘Ben Gurion International, Tel Aviv. Please remain seated until seat belt signs are extinguished. Be careful of shifting luggage when opening luggage bins.’ Instructions over, the enthusiastic singers resumed a cacophony of joy. Language barrier not withstanding, the singers’ message of love for country and happiness at being home, did not escape non-Israeli passen gers.

An unexpected longing for America engulfed Trevor Harding… exchange student at Hebrew University, Jerusalem. He couldn’t remember a time when fellow Americans, returning from abroad, had exhibited such enthusiasm when their plane touched American soil. Are we too sophisticated to show love/devotion, for our country? Was it politically incorrect to sing and emote, when ‘God bless America’ was played. If so, why? Who set the perimeter for patriotic containment? Self appointed elitists had doggedly insinuated their disdain for national zeal, and Americans had succumbed like sheep. Liberals’ mantra… patriotism was gauche… to display old- fashioned idealism, unworthy of politically correct 21st century man. Ruminating along these lines, Trevor replayed the dilemma of opening or not opening a door for a woman. The natural instinct of most males, is to be chivalrous. Now, one’s instinctive politeness was often disdained as male chauvinism. Man’s natural tendencies toward patriotism, kindness etc., sublimated. American standards are shadows of our former selves, he ruminated. Political correctness has muted truth and honesty; truncated basic instincts. To desist adherence to their mantra is to be labeled lest out of touch with modern thinking. Shamed by the Israelis’ zeal for country, Trevor determined that, given the occasion, he would stand tall for America, his country… come hell or high water. Sated with that resolve, he moved to other matters.

Enrolled as an exchange student at Hebrew University, Harding was fulfilling the requirements for a Master degree in archeology. Coming to Israel as a volunteer in undergraduate years, he worked as a volunteer for room and board at Camp Tell Schlomon, south of Jerusalem. The camp furnished room and board; transportation to and from Israel was his responsibility. With undergraduate work behind him, Trevor was hired as a part time trainee by Dr. Albert Johnson, director of the camp. His present schedule: university mornings; work at the dig, afternoons. Studies… squeezed in between. Dr. Johnson assured him of full employment once the Ms program was completed. Trevor had come to love the land of Israel for what it meant spiritually, and the opportunity it presented to dig for biblical treasures.

He turned from watching the singers to watching the seat belt sign. Stretching his long legs under the seat in front, he sought his shoes wedged under his backpack, squashed his feet into the Reeboks and groaned. He finally mastered the feat of getting swollen feet into non-yielding shoes. His left foot went to sleep, it felt like lead. His mind went from feet to luggage. How was he going to handle three suitcases and a backpack by himself? Thanks to Mom, he was returning with three suitcases instead of the two he started out with. Trevor was returning from America after acting as best man at sister Emily’s wedding. His mom informed while he packed, ‘I’m packing some blankets, bed linen and towels, Trevor. You didn’t take enough changes with you when you went.’

‘Mom, I’m fine. I’ve got all the bedding I need. Besides I don’t have room in my cases for extras.’

‘I know that! I’m giving you Dad’s old suitcase. It’ll hold everything. I’m putting in extra socks and underwear, and washcloths and handkerchiefs. You can’t have too many of those.’

‘But Mom, I can’t handle three cases; I only have two hands. And Dad’s case’s so big. It has wheels, yeah, but you have to pull it by a strap. I used it once and it drove me crazy tipping over all the time.’ Mom, unperturbed as usual came back with. ‘Worry about that when you get there. Your guardian angel will give you a hand. Now quit fussing.’ The merits of a change of lines were once more emphasized. Trevor shut up, shut the suit cases and rolled his eyes upward. Mom had kissed his cheek, patted his back, and sent him off… packing. Now he was trying to figure out which way he’d go… public transport, or hire a cab. The thought of the cost of a cab made him ill. The thought of taking three suitcases to the bus made him ever sicker. ‘Well Mom, I hope you petitioned my guardian angel; I’ll be needing him very soon.’

He stretched and focused his eyes on the seat belt signs, acutely aware of his leaden left foot. The seat belt signs went off and the cacophony of released metal reverberated through the cabin. Passengers were on their feet; overhead compartments opened; hands grabbed suitcases, bags, jackets, etc. and stood impatiently triumphant, ready to move on out. Trevor grabbed his backpack and maneuvered as gingerly as possible into the aisle but had no way of letting the two passengers beside him exit. He felt their irritation boring into his back, but was helpless to move. He did not look at them. The aisle was a parking lot and he was sandwiched in with leaden feet. A woman, in her thirties, was struggling to juggle her suitcase from the overhead bin, with no luck. It was directly across from Trevor. Meeting her eyes, he signaled… need help? She nodded. The suitcase filled the entire length and breadth of the compartment. Trevor tugged and pushed and maneuvered this way and that without even a budge. She must’ve hammered it in, he thought. Finally locating a side zipper he said. ‘You’ll have to get some of your stuff out of the case before it’ll come down.’ She looked doubtfully at him, shrugged, and unzipped more of an opening, and stuck her hand in. She began removing things. With nothing else to do but stand and stare, the passengers took great interest in the unbelievable capacity of the case: Books, books, books; shoes and more shoes. A leather coat was pulled from the case; one passenger said ‘Wow.’ Each onlooker had private thoughts regarding the amazing volume of articles the suitcase had endured. Trevor rocked the case to level the remaining contents, and after a gigantic pull, rescued the case from its mooring. The passengers applauded. Trevor felt stupid and blushed. The woman said ‘Thanks’ and began refilling her suitcase. He turned his attention to moving so the two passengers in his row could move into the aisle. He looked at neither of them nor at the woman. His knighthood had been established. He had no stomach for more accolades re chivalry. The lady in distress was on her own. The line was a mass of unmoving bodies. He’d forgotten his feet in his effort to be macho. Now they screamed at him. His left foot was dead. He had to grab his leg and lift it up in order to take a step. He stamped and stamped the foot till it began to get the message and circulation came back, whimpering. He sighed with relief. Now the problem of getting his luggage to Jerusalem loomed. Movement was felt; the line became alive. It moved steadily only to be interrupted by passengers who took their time dilly and dallying at their seats making sure they’d left nothing behind. ‘Why on earth didn’t they do that when we were standing still?’ grumbled an impatient traveler. All who heard agreed. No one said a word. It was politically incorrect to point out idiocy these days. Nevertheless, the queue behind the stragglers wanted to shout ‘Get a move on, mate.’ The line finally moved in earnest. Trevor watched a father, dressed in religious black, with a big brimmed hat, escort his three children from their row. Trevor gasped at the rubbish the kids had left behind. Papers, half eaten hamburgers ground into the floor… a Pepsi can still emptying its contents on top of the garbage. The father seemed oblivious to the mess his kids had left behind, as he piloted them out of the plane. Trevor was disgusted. What a role model, he thought. The line moved to the exit. Trevor smiled and thanked the flight attendant. She nodded and he moved up the ramp to the airport. With his feet misbehaving, he pondered his next move. Should he call Ida. She’d instructed him to, when his plane landed. His van was at their place. No, he didn’t want Ida in all this traffic. After all she was his mom’s age. He’d manage. He grinned and wondered where his mom’s promised angel was. He trudged after fellow passengers following the TO LUGGAGE signs. As he descended the last bit of ramp, a cart, turned loose by a passenger, careened across his path. Grabbing it triumphantly, Trevor put his carryall on top and whispered. ‘Thanks Mom, your angel’s at work here.’ Clutching the cart he made his way to the carousel where his flight number was posted. He watched the opening that disgorged luggage, till he saw one and then the other of his cases. Grabbing them, he deposited them on the lower rung of the cart. A buzzer went off… the carousel stopped. He saw suitcases piling up one on top of another obstructing normal flow. His heart sank. Was it his behemoth? An attendant hurried to the piled luggage, grabbed a monster bag and set it savagely on the floor. Yep, Trevor recognized his monster. A bell rang and the carousel was off and running. Gingerly and as unobtrusively as possible, he made his way to claim his errant monster. He hoped no one noticed. The huge case proved difficult to get on the top of the cart. A good Samaritan gave him a hand. Trevor thanked him profusely. Mom’s angel was still at work. Behemoth blotted out his view as he pushed the cart to Customs. Trevor walked with his neck stretched to one side of the cart, guiding it with his right hand. A crick was developing in his neck when he finally reached Customs. Lifting the huge case onto the moving platform was a Herculean task. Behemoth had to be maneuvered this way and that to get it under the screening tent. The Custom’s officer, was not pleased at the inconvenience the size of the case caused in the normal flow of regular sized luggage. He looked at its contents: sheets, blankets, towels, underwear, socks, then at Trevor. He raised his eyebrows. ‘My Mom’s idea,’ apologized Trevor. The corners of the agent’s mouth quivered, just a little. He barely looked through the other cases. I guess, thought Trevor, he figured any guy who still has his mom pack for him, doesn’t fit the profile of a terrorist. The agent waved Trevor through. Aiming his cart toward the exit, he caught sight of a large cardboard sign sticking up in the air: TREVOR HARDING. The crowd prevented him from seeing who was holding up the sign. Surely not his angel in whites, he joked. He moved with gusto in the direction of the placard and a hand grabbed the front of his cart and pulled forward. Trevor pushed from behind. When the crowd thinned, he recognized the burley figure of Dr. Paul Adams… second in command at the camp, Dr. Al Johnson, was head honcho. Trevor relieved, acted like a little kid. He kicked up his heels while pushing the cart. Adams signaled the direction. Trevor followed, tickled to have his transportation problem solved. And, he reminded himself; I’m low man on the camp totem pole. Two blocks away from the airport, the company jeep sat in all its dusty glory. What a sight for his sore eyes. Paul opened the back of the jeep, hoisted the two cases into the back. When he lifted behemoth he laughed. ‘Don’t tell me you brought rocks back from America. Haven’t we enough rocks here in Israel?’ He put the monster in the back and said, ‘Take your backpack up front.’ Trevor nodded, then grabbed the cart handle and ran back to the airport to return it. The jeep was running when Trevor got back. He slid into the passenger’s seat, breathed deeply and started to thank Paul. Adams held up his hand. ‘Buckle up, little buddy. Let’s get out of this mess before we start jawing.’ He eased the jeep into the highway after signaling his intent. The congestion around the airport was fierce and dangerous. Pedestrians ran across the highway to waiting cars unconcerned about oncoming traffic. Paul made his way around cars, stopping abruptly as people darted out. ‘Must think death’s taken a holiday or they’re immortal,’ muttered Paul through gritted teeth and tightening jaws. He maneuvered the jeep through the mass of humanity spilling into the highway. ‘My insurance premium will skyrocket if I hit any of ‘em, in the butt while they’re illegally jaywalking.’ Dialogue sprinkled with colorful pronouncements of doom continued till the jeep skirted around slow drivers, on its way up to Jerusalem. Trevor breathed more easily. Paul looked over at him. ‘You OK? little buddy?’ ‘Yeah. Boy that was pretty scary back there.’ Nothing was said until Trevor began to laugh. Paul frowned over at him. ‘Hope that laugh’s not got my name on it.’ ‘No, no,’ laughed Trevor. ‘But in a way it’s about you.’ Paul raised his eyebrows and tried to look mean. ‘Well, let’s have it little buddy.’ ‘You handled that big case I came back with?’ Adams nodded. ‘Well I told Mom I’d never be able to maneuver it and my other cases when I got to Tel Aviv. You know what she said?’ Paul shook his head. ‘Mom said my guardian angel would be there to help me. I told her to pray for one with muscles.’ Trevor looked at Paul and laughed again. ‘Get it?’ ‘Oh aye. I’m the angel your mom prayed for. That it?’ Trevor nodded still laughing. Adams smiled ruefully. ‘Well, Trevor, I’ve been called many an off- beat thing, but no one’s ever called me a guardian angel. I don’t know if I fit the profile, but then why not.’ He grinned and shook his head. ‘Your mom’s got a grand sense of humor. Tell her I appreciate the compliment. Your van’s at the Shermans? ‘Yeah.’ ‘Well let’s get this show on the road. I’ve another errand to run for Johnson before I drive back to camp. Now, tell me about that wedding. Bride beautiful?’ ‘Boy was she ever,’ sighed Trevor. ‘Never thought my sister could look that gorgeous. The groom was something else. He almost passed out but I held on to him.’ ‘Yeah,’ said Paul Adams softly, ‘brides always look beautiful on their wedding day.’ There was wistfulness in his voice. ‘Good attendance?’ ‘Oh golly, the church was packed,’ replied Trevor. ‘But the crowning touch of the whole show came after the minister, who incidentally was Sam’s father, said I now pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss your bride. Boy oh boy, did Sam take him up on that! He kissed her so long that the guests began to titer, snicker… then laugh out loud. Some even whistled. It took a word from the preacher in Sam’s ear for him to turn her loose. By then the whole church was in an uproar. Now mind you, these folk are well disciplined and as a rule a bit stodgy. Not that day. When Sam stopped kissing Emmie, he grabbed her and practically dragged her down the aisle. The guests were hooting, hollering, laughing and as I said, some whistled. They hooted as Sam and Emmie came by them. I’d never seen anything like it. It was awesome.’ Trevor looked over at Paul, who was staring ahead; not a muscle moving in his face. The inner man seemed to have departed from the present… wandering somewhere… somewhere in the past. Trevor felt as if he were sharing Paul’s memories… so palpable was the pathos in the jeep. He changed the subject. ‘Anything interesting turn up while I was gone?’

It took a few minutes before Adams replied. When he did, his voice was normal. ‘Nothing to speak of. Lots of bric-a-brac; nothing outstanding. What we need kiddo, are new toys to help us look through the Tell. We need Alice’s looking glass to give us a heads up; save our backs and hands digging till we hit something. Johnson’s written the company asking for equipment that’s advertised in new archeology catalogues. The answer’s the same. No money. Big donors make their appearances when something extraordinary turns up; photo ops with them giving checks to the company big shots. If they’d get us what we needed, we’d be able to have lots of photo ops for them. If something biblical turns up, the public goes wild, wants to know whether the artifacts are Bible friendly. Such finds bring renewed interest; renewed interest, more money. It’s a conundrum. There is an insatiable interest in artifacts with biblical connotation. Updated equipment could do wonders for our Tell yields. It’s the same old story; what comes first the chicken or the egg. Right now we’re waiting for the chicken or the egg… with egg of anticipation on our faces. He laughed. So did Trevor. Adams continued. ‘It’s been a while since we made headlines with any significant discovery. If they’d open their wallets we’d give them both chicken and egg.’’

A tall, bronzed, well built man sporting a grey goatee, Paul Adams was the layman’s idea of what an archeologist should look like… in kaki shorts and shirt, wearing a broad brimmed leather hat. Discussing Paul Adams with Jeff Greenberg, third archeologist on the totem pole, Trevor had asked Jeff. ‘Paul a widower; never hear him talk about a wife.’ ‘Divorced,’ Greenberg replied reluctantly. ‘Wife went to visit her mother in Pennsylvania. When she was due back, Paul got a ‘Dear John’ telegram; she wasn’t coming back. She hated the desert and wanted a divorce. Paul got the next available flight to the States. It didn’t do any good. Helen had made up her mind. He offered to quit the field and apply for a teaching position. She’d have none of that either. Six months later a no-contested divorce was granted. Paul was like a man lost. Ellen and I had been married just a few months when it happened. I literally ached for him; thinking how I’d feel if Ellen had left me’

Adams put his right hand signal on and moved off the road onto a stretch of cement in front of the Sherman’s house; an ordinary stone house, with no lawn to speak of; a small stone porch with three steps leading to the front door. At the end of the driveway, sat Trevor’s dark blue van. He grinned with pleasure at the sight of it. ‘Apologist for Biblical Artifacts’ was painted on both side panels; the gift from 2 home churches, and he was proud of it. ‘Tell Ida I won’t stop ‘cause I’ve an errand to run for Johnson. Speaking of angels, here she comes.’ Ida was coming down the steps and advancing toward the jeep. ‘Coming in, aren’t you, Paul?’ ‘Sorry, Ida. Just telling Trev I’ve something to do for Al before going back. Will take you up on your hospitality very shortly if that’s okay with you.’ ‘Of course it is. Anytime. Thanks for bringing our boy from the airport. I figured he wouldn’t call me to come and get him.’ Ida Sherman was short, plump, but not fat. Her stylish salt and pepper haircut gave her a chic appearance. She was attractive in her middle age, with plenty of zestful determination. ‘Trev,’ said Paul, ‘leave your bags in the back; just take your backpack. You sure you’ve got your wallet and keys before I go?’ Trevor searched, nodded, and thanked him for looking after his luggage. Paul leaned over and closed the passenger’s door, tooted the horn. ‘See you at camp, little buddy.’ They stood watching him edge into on-coming traffic. Brakes squealed and horns honked as Paul inserted his jeep into the traffic fray. He was, or pretended to be, oblivious of the road rage he created whenever he drove on any highway.

Ida put her arms round Trevor and hugged him. ‘Welcome home,’ she said. ‘Come in and tell me all about the wedding.’ The outside of Sherman’s home belied the fashionable furnishings inside. Moving from a huge home to a small one, necessitated a complete overhaul of the interior. Three bedrooms became four rooms: two bedrooms; one small office, and one sewing room. The house had two bathrooms one in the master bedroom. A huge kitchen, at the back of the house served as dining room, family room, stretching the width of the house. The small formal sitting room, its walls graced with fine paintings, many originals, was off the hallway. It was seldom used. The kitchen was the focus and heart of the house… the pleasure of its occupants. Trevor vowed he’d duplicate this setting if he were ever fortunate to own a home of his own. The walls were pale sandstone; cupboards a hint of yellow: The appliances were a soft yellow: the double enamel sinks the color of the appliances: the eating area was at the right of the work area: the family room with sofa, chairs and entertainment center, at the left. In between both were the appliances and the area wherein Ida brought forth edible, culinary achievements. The kitchen table and chairs were from their former home. The huge oak table had been reduced in size by removing all its leaves. Ida’s handmade needlepoint chair covers were elegant. The furnishings, the ornaments, window arrangements and paintings reflected the life style the Shermans had once enjoyed. When Trevor stayed overnight or in between church services, he occupied Joel Sherman’s bedroom… furnished with Joel’s old bedroom furniture. Captain Joel Sherman, age 26, died in combat when Israel was at war with Lebanon. It had been some time before Trevor knew the story of Joel and of the Shermans forced move. He watched as Ida cut homemade bread and brought it to the table with butter and preserves. Putting two mugs on the table, she reached for the coffee pot and filled the mugs; pushing the bread toward him. She bowed her head and thanked God for bringing Trevor safely home to them. Trevor was doing his own thanking. He thanked God over and over for leading him to this family away from home.

‘Good of Paul to bring you home,’ Ida said reaching for her coffee. ‘He’s one good man. I’ve been praying that God would send him a good woman. A man like Paul Adams, is too good to live without a good woman to talk to.’ She swallowed her coffee, picked up a sandwich and asked. ‘You know about his broken marriage?’ ‘Yeah, Jeff told me a while ago. She sure did a number on him, from what Jeff said.’

‘That’s putting it gently. He almost died… probably

would have if it hadn’t been for Al and Ruth Johnson.’

‘How’s that?’ Trevor asked.

‘The Johnsons picked Paul up on his return flight from America and took him to his apartment. It’s in that town about 40 miles southeast of the camp. Helen wouldn’t live at the camp so Paul rented this apartment. Well when the Johnsons left him, he said he’d be at camp in a couple of days. When three days went by and no Paul, Ruth got worried and made Al drive them to see Paul. They had a key to his apartment, and found him in a semi-conscious state… a bottle of sleeping pills beside him. He was incoherent. Al called my David at the hospital, told him what he’d found. David said; ‘Get him to Hadassah right away; I’ll be on the lookout.’ They did. Ruth was wise enough to get his wallet with his ID’s and car keys. David took one look at Paul, got him on a gurney and headed for the ER. Ruth stayed at Admittance filling in forms; showing Paul’s ID’s and giving necessary data. It was almost three hours before David came out and told them they could see Paul. He was hooked up to tubes; he was dehydrated. They stayed till they were assured that he was out of danger. The next day before visiting him, Al and Ruth cleaned out his apartment, gave back the key to the landlord; that was the last Paul saw of his old apartment. They moved his clothes and what furniture was worth saving into the cabin he used before marrying Helen. Paul wasn’t seriously ill, but David said one more day, and they would have found a corpse instead of a half conscious man. Paul never looked back. He worked all hours; never stopped until it was time for bed. Ruth and Al saved his life. Then the next year Ruth was killed when she visited Pearl, and it was Paul’s turn to help Al over his loss. They’re bosom buddies those two.’

‘Who’s Pearl?’ asked Trevor.

‘She’s the Johnson’s daughter… in college in Pennsylvania. I believe she’s studying epigraphy, wants to be an epigrapher like her mom was. Pearl was born here in Israel. My David delivered her for that matter. Lovely girl, the apple of her daddy’s eye. She should be graduating soon. Now, Trevor, tell me all about that wedding.’ Ida topped his coffee, sat down and over the brim of her cup, waited. ‘Well, began Trevor, it was one wedding the guests will never forget.’

CHAPTER 2

H e’d watched her two days in a row. She intrigued him; hiding behind a book, eating a sandwich from a paper bag. He watched as she put out her hand and searched for the small milk carton and bring it round to her mouth. The process seldom varied and it fascinated voyeur, Dennis Z. His last name was Montgomery. But even so, he was harmless. Yet Joe Wilson, head CEO of Montgomery Electronic Engineering, was wont to say, Dennis Z. was worthless. Dennis at present was on ‘vacation’ from stress of too much schooling. ‘A likely story, it’s been two years,’ grumbled Joe when this excuse was proffered. Dennis approached the table, pulled out a chair and said. ‘Mind if I sit down; cafeteria’s full.’ No movement from behind the book. ‘Thanks,’ he answered himself and pulled out the chair noisily. Still the book held its reader. ‘Must be some great book to get that much attention. What’s its title?’ The hand came out and searched for the milk carton; found it and brought it round the front of the book. Dennis grinned mischievously. The carton replaced on the table, the next time the hand came out, he’d moved it away from her reach. He chuckled as the hand sought the carton in vain. The book came down and Pearl gave a little gasp at seeing Dennis across from her, holding up her milk ca rton.

‘I thought that’d get your attention,’ and handed it to her. ‘Sorry if I startled you. But honestly I didn’t know I looked that bad.’ He smiled broadly across the table showing a set of well manicured teeth.

‘No, no,’ said Pearl. ‘I just wasn’t expecting to see anyone, that’s all.’ She smiled and his heart flipped.

‘That book must be a best seller the way you’re into it.’

‘Not really,’ she said. ‘It’s a text book and I’m cramming for a mid-term, I have this evening.’

‘So you’re a student?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘What’s your major?’ ‘Archeology,’ she replied and returned to her book.

‘Wait just a minute, you’re putting me on; archeology’s not for the likes of you!’

Pearl lowered her book. ‘You got a problem with a woman majoring in archeology?’ she asked coolly.

‘No, no, nothing like that. Hey, I just meant you’re too little to be wielding a pick and shovel… you know, moving rocks and things.’

She relaxed and smiled.