Thirsty Pelican: 2018-Sarah

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance by any character or situation to any actual person or event is purely coincidental. All characters presented in this narrative are over the age of 18.

Copyright 2025 Royce F. Houton

Last Call at the Thirsty Pelican

Chapter Four:

2018-Sarah

By Royce F. Houton

By the time I got back to my office after the stunning morning meeting with Waymon, Larry and his legal eagles, my mouth was dry and it seemed no amount of water could quench it. My hands were sweaty and shaking. For the first time I could recall, the idea of morning coffee was unbearable to me.

I closed my office door, opened the messaging app on my iPhone, texted Darlice Dunton and did something very dangerous:

Pls txt Sarah Z & ask her to meet me 4 lunch

today @ Urban Cookhouse downtown @ noon.

Don't have her contact info.

She texted back a thumbs up and a smiley emoji. Then she added:

That took long enough.

Told U you'd like her!

Darlice didn't need to know that this was no date, no romantic entreaty. If she thought she was in Cupid mode, she would gladly do it and that was all that mattered right now. So I let her keep on thinking that.

I was standing outside the restaurant by 11:45, which is fortunate because Sarah was 10 minutes early. She was in shorts and a t-shirt, indicating she had dressed hurriedly and had not gone into an office today. Her hair was hastily pulled into a ponytail. The fear on her face was plain from 50 feet down the sidewalk. I didn't wait for her to reach the door.

"Sarah, I am so sorry," I said. "I wish I could have called you, but I've been under strict orders to keep silent."

She nodded nervously, unable to muster words quite yet. She was irritated, yes, but more than that, she was terrified.

"Should we walk a little before we eat?" I said. Again, she nodded and we walked briskly past the restaurant door for a block and a half into Kelly Ingram Park, a memorial to four Black children killed in the murderous Klan bombing of the 16th Street Baptist Church in 1963. I spotted a bench in a quiet corner of the park near a statue honoring the children and sat with her there.

It took her a moment to speak.

"I've never been so scared in my life," she said, her voice and on the verge of crying. "Why... why did the FBI show up at my office and start asking me about what I knew about your bank and what they thought was some courtship I had with you? It was as if they were accusing me of sleeping around with bank execs to get the contract."

I started to gather my thoughts to speak, but she continued before I could.

"They tell us nothing. They told me they were investigating possible corporate espionage, but that's it. Do I look like a spy? Where did I ever do or say anything that is even remotely close to spying?"

There was a frightened, pleading quality to her voice, but it was tinged with anger. She was confused that in this country, harm could come looking for her from the government through no fault of her own. I wanted to reach for her, to hold her and try to calm her, to tell her all that I knew to convince her that everything would be OK. But for all I knew, the feds were following and watching us right now, and doing something like that could get us deeper in trouble.

"I'm sure the feds told you not to discuss the case or what they asked you about, right?"

She nodded silently.

"Every urge in me wants to tell you everything I know right now so you would know why you are in no jeopardy. But if I explained all of that to you, that knowledge could drag you deep into this matter and it most certainly would cost me my job and probably get me arrested," I said. "Please believe me."

"I'm trying, Kirk. I know you didn't cause this mess, but neither did I. The worst run-in I've ever had with the law before this is a parking ticket. I don't' know whether to get a lawyer or..." Her chin began to quiver. She dabbed at the corner of her eye.

"Sarah, I personally can't say anything, but let's try something. Do you have your smart phone?"

She nodded. "In my purse."

"Do you subscribe to any news feeds or follow any news websites like CNN or the Wall Street Journal or local TV stations?"

"I have the CNN app and I have the WBMA app mostly for local weather alerts," she said, retrieving her iPhone.

"Open one of them up or just Google 'LoanFast,' 'Birmingham' and 'FBI.'"

In less than 10 seconds, her screen was filled with alarming headlines preceded by "BREAKING NEWS" or "BULLETIN." She tapped one from WBMA-TV and began reading the headline: "FBI arrests Birmingham bank exec's aide on financial spying charges"

Sarah began to read a wire dispatch aloud. Her eyes widened as she took it in.

"FBI agents arrested the aide to the top executive of a major regional bank Wednesday on corporate espionage and eavesdropping charges as she tried to board a flight to Mexico with tens thousands of dollars in cash concealed on her body and in her luggage, federal prosecutors said today."

She scrolled upward and gasped as she started the second paragraph of the Associated Press dispatch.

"Glenda Ferry, the executive assistant to Anchor Bank CEO Waymon McClendon, faced arraignment before a magistrate in U. S. District Court in Birmingham on 47 felony counts including conspiracy, electronic eavesdropping, espionage, financial spying and theft of honest services, said U. S. Attorney Everett Scales."

Sarah stared at me in disbelief, her hand over mouth. "I dealt with Glenda Ferry several times every day on all kinds of different things. She asked all kinds of questions... oh my God!"

She returned to her phone but began softly reading aloud, as though saying the words would make the stunning news more believable.

"According to Ferry's arrest warrant, she secretly received thousands of dollars a month from LoanFast, a Tiawan-based provider of software and information technology services for the lending industry, in exchange for stealing proprietary information and confidential bank communications. She sent the stolen data to LoanFast to help its bid for a lucrative Anchor digital services contract over a competitor, Scales said."

Sarah paused for a moment, drawing deep breaths in an effort to calm herself.

Deeper in the story, she learned that because of the Birmingham case, arrest warrants had been issued for up to a dozen other LoanFast operatives. The brief story didn't go into the part about the federal regulatory bulletin that went out to LoanFast services users globally warning them of features hidden in their software that allowed LoanFast to view, steal, delete or change their data. Nor did it address the convulsions it would cause almost overnight among lending institutions, rattling the economy and likely posing a significant threat to American national security. I am sure those stories would be leading newscasts by the dinner hour.

"Now you know the big details, the huge stakes and why I was forbidden to tell you anything," I told her. "There's a lot more I could tell you but I can't. It will come out publicly in time, maybe very soon. Suffice it to say this has been a crazy morning back at my office. But none of it is in any way a threat to you or to WAS. That much I can say."

I could see relief wash across her face, though tears continued to spill from her eyes and down her cheek.

"Kirk, this is the first time in a week I've felt like I could exhale," she said.

"I can imagine, and I've felt awful about that all along. I hated knowing that you were probably worried sick and that I was strictly forbidden by the bank and the FBI from reaching out," I said. "It really broke my heart."

With both of her hands, Sarah grasped my hand on the bench closest to her and held it.

"Thank you, Kirk. Hearing that means a lot to me."

My free hand joined my other hand and both of hers, and at last I allowed myself a weak smile.

"Wish I could have done more, Sarah," I said. "And there's probably more good news coming your way today, too. As you might have already figured out, LoanFast is no longer in the picture. I'd be surprised if they don't collapse over this. But bottom line: I expect Waymon will notify WAS today that y'all got the Anchor contract."

Now, Sarah was smiling unreservedly -- something I had never seen before, and it was unforgettable.

"Of course you can't tell anybody. Waymon says the PR folks from the bank and your company will craft a joint news release and probably make the official public announcement on Monday. But y'all won the business fair and square, and that would have been true even if LoanFast didn't get caught cheating."

In moments, Sarah's countenance had gone from all-consuming fear to stunned disbelief to relief and finally something approaching euphoria. Now she reminded me of my Butterbean when she was a little girl on Christmas mornings. Out of giddy impulse, I suppose, she leaned quickly forward and pressed a kiss onto my cheek. That made me feel like a high school sophomore on his first date.

"I'm glad this day seemed to turn around for you," I said, my smile matching hers.

"You have no idea," she said. "I haven't been able to sleep, haven't been able to eat -- all of that. Now it's over and I don't really know what to do with myself."

"Well, let's try eating, provided your appetite's back?" I said.

"That's right, you asked me to lunch, didn't you?"

"I did."

"Well, what do you say that I buy you lunch? Let's go back to the Cookhouse," she said.

I nodded. "I could go for that."

She bounded up from the bench, grabbed my hand and pulled me up. She continued holding it as we strolled out of Kelly Ingram Park and down Fifth Avenue North.

▼ ▼ ▼

Within a week, most of my predictions about what would happen regarding the investigation came true.

Waymon McClendon had gotten the green light from the board of directors to notify WAS -- just before I met Sarah for our park conversation and lunch -- that it was the successful bidder for Anchor's new software and IT services for loan origination and servicing. Waymon would have delivered the news earlier had the FBI not asked him to sit on it until it had cracked the case.

Not only was Sarah Zanone in the clear, she promptly received a promotion and a pay raise.

The arrests didn't stop with the baker's dozen warrants that were executed within 24 hours after Glenda Ferry was taken into custody. The FBI had arrested almost 60 people -- all paid by LoanFast, including its top-ranking U. S. official -- with more expected as the investigation broadened beyond the United States. Many of those charged were in positions of high trust at banks or savings and loan institutions comparable to the one Glenda held. One had been a C-suite executive with a small bank in northeastern Alabama.

The FBI's intimidating insistence on secrecy notwithstanding, journalists quickly peeled the onion back to expose even more gritty corruption than I had ever known. Most of the reporting was sourced to unidentified sources ranging from the Justice Department to the White House "who spoke on the condition of confidentiality."

One report in the New York Times cited "high-ranking U. S. intelligence officials" who said LoanFast was indeed a Taiwanese front for a huge operation run by the government of the People's Republic of China, and that the risk that it could destabilize the economies of Western democracies was a clear and present danger.

The story had led network newscasts, dominated the cable news and talking-head shows, was the top trending story on social media for days. It had seen banks by the scores temporarily freeze lending services as the FBI and FINRA scrutinized their systems for bugs and leaks and Internet security firms scrambled to close the vulnerabilities that were exposed.

The news had staggered American markets. The Dow Jones Industrial Average lost one quarter of its value in just two days in response to the news but had regained much of the lost ground in the days since as it became clear that it would not precipitate widespread bank failures.

Not surprisingly, financial institutions sued seeking billions in compensatory and punitive damages from LoanFast, and federal courts seized and froze LoanFast assets in the United States and overseas. LoanFast responded by seeking bankruptcy protection while suspending its U. S. operations. Most likely, LoanFast's Chapter 11 bankruptcy reorganization petition would be followed soon by a Chapter 7 liquidation filing. Given how much of the company's assets were held overseas and controlled in Beijing, it was unlikely that plaintiffs would get more than pennies on the dollars they lost.

None of this would have come to light, at least not when it did, were it not for miscommunication between Glenda Ferry and her handlers at LoanFast over reports Ron and I wrote that sided with WAS over LoanFast.

Glenda -- at 57 years of age -- had concluded with her attorney that her best chance for ever seeing the outside of a prison lay in cooperating with investigators and testifying for the government against other LoanFast officials in their criminal trials and in related civil lawsuits against the company and its leadership.

Fortunately, neither my name nor Ron's nor Sarah's had surfaced in any of the reporting to date. My children, upon learning the role Anchor played in the origin of the investigation, both reached out to make sure I was OK, and I reassured them that I was. Even my ex, Siobhan, texted to ask if I was involved: I replied back that I am fine but under orders not to discuss it.

What I had not predicted was how fast I became irrelevant to the FBI. Once the investigation got its hands on Glenda's burner phone, cracked the immediate case and saw how it unlocked the broader, year-old investigation of LoanSafe's corrupt practices, we saw or heard very little from the G-men. I did get a text from agent Mike Holton, but he wanted to know how to get on Tide Club watch party invitation list. I shot him Darlice Dunton's cell number.

And what was now true that hadn't been when I was interrogated by Holton was that I had acquired Sarah Zanone's contact information. We exchanged it during our lunch a week earlier. So I sent her a congratulatory text about her promotion, announced just the day before.

I expected a text response, but what I got was a call.

"Kirk! I should have texted you right after I got the news! Your report had a lot to do with that!" she said.

"You earned that promotion with the work you did for your company and ours in those two weeks. I just passed along facts," I said. "You were a major factor in the advantage WAS held on the client-service end. Ron said the same thing."

"Aw, you're sweet," she said.

"So what's the reaction been at your company to your chief competitor's meltdown?"

"Chaos. We've got a waiting list of LoanFast institutions desperate to switch over ASAP. We can't even reach out to all of them with possible start dates for conversions now because we don't have enough personnel.

"So you're hiring," I said.

"Yes, but that's tough. We've been under pressure to hire some LoanFast folks to staff up fast, but so many of us who've competed with them in the field have put our foot down against it because we know how dirty they play. They lie to prospects and customers. They hide flaws. They overbill. A lot of them are just criminals. Not all of them, but the good ones don't stay there long."

"Are you doing double shifts? Are they going to make you move with your new position?"

The new job, she explained, was to supervise a dozen direct reports who oversee about a half-dozen staff each in a four-state region -- Georgia, Florida, South Carolina and Alabama -- who do her old job recruiting new business, analyzing their needs and then acting as a liaison and resource person between WAS and the financial institution in product trials. Given LoanFast's imminent demise, she said, her team would need to nearly double to two dozen to keep up.

"Things are busy, but I'm not having to do overtime. I'm considered management now so I can sort of control my own hours. I'm on a set salary without overtime pay but more subject to being called any hour of the day. But it's a very nice raise, I'm eligible for performance plus and year-end bonuses, for stock options, and I don't have to worry about paying the bills every month."

"Do you have to relocate to Atlanta?" As soon as I asked the question, I realized how crassly direct it sounded. I'm sure the motive behind my question was clear to her.

"Not unless I want to."

What the hell. In for a penny, in for a pound. "Well, do you want to?"

"I suppose I'd have to analyze the advantages and drawbacks of each option," she said. "Look at what it means for me professionally and personally. If there was really anything tying me to Birmingham..."

"Be a shame if you chose to go."

"Really?"

"For me, anyway."

"Well, it's not a decision I have to make anytime soon."

"Good."

The moment of truth was at hand.

"What are you doing Saturday?" I asked.

"Sleeping late. Other than that, nothing."

"How late?"

"Depends on the reason for getting up."

"Watching Alabama play football. Against Tennessee."

"That's not a problem. We can meet at the Pelican. What time is the game?"

"It's 2:30, but I'm not talking about the Pelican."

"Huh?"

"I'm talking about Tuscaloosa. I've got two passes to watch the game at Bryant-Denny."

"You mean going... to an actual Alabama game?"

"Yes. Ever been to a game there before?" I said, forgetting for a moment she was a North Alabama alumna.

"Never have," she said. "Are you serious? A game at Alabama?"

"I am. We'd need to leave around 10 to navigate the traffic around campus, park, go to our tailgate and meet up with my son, Perry, and find our seats in the stadium by kickoff."

"Your son? Will that be a little awkward?"

"Not really. I've brought friends and colleagues with me to games before."

"Have the 'friends and colleagues' you've brought there before been women?"

"Yes. But, to your point, none as pretty as you."

To that, she had no immediate comeback. I could hear what sounded like muffled snickering. I would bet she rolled her eyes.

"How about it?"

"How can I turn down an invitation that smooth?" she said, her tone bearing the slightest whiff of good-natured sarcasm.

"Great. I'll come pick you up a little before 10. Be sure to bring a sweatshirt or jacket. It's supposed to be mild during the day, but it can get chilly once the sun dips behind the stadium."

She was silent for a second.

"Well," she said. "I guess it's a date."

He words made me smile. "I guess it is."

▼ ▼ ▼

Perry met me at our usual spot on the Quad near Denny Chimes in the heart of the Alabama campus. It's the ancestral tailgate spot the Weeks family has claimed for four generations with Perry in position to make it the fifth. I remember attending games here with my grandfather and my dad in the late 1970s and '80s.

I had told Perry a little about Sarah in a Facetime chat on Thursday night. Showing up with her unannounced might have been jarring for him, even though it had been nearly two years since my divorce with Siobhan became final. I sensed no surprise, resentment or reluctance in him during the nearly half-hour call, though he was curious and asked what, for Perry, seemed to be a lot of questions.

My explanation was truthful. She was a friend, I said, and explained how we interacted during the new lending IT services side-by-side trial -- the one that had blown up into a major international news story because of criminal actions by the company competing for the contract against Sarah's company. That got Perry's attention.

There for the tailgate were my older sister, several cousins and some of those cousins' children, two of whom were approximately Perry's age. They were all there when Sarah and I arrived a bit late and I introduced her to them. Instantly, she was the star of the show, my kin clearly fascinated with her. I introduced her as a friend and colleague, explaining our prior working relationship as I did to Perry earlier. But it was clear after just 10 minutes that they weren't buying it and sensed more to the story than a working relationship. That included Perry.

The fact that tailgating at major college football venues was new to Sarah made her refreshing and interesting. She had worn a crimson beret over her naturally coppery red hair in homage to the home team, but she alone in our group was without regalia bearing trademarked Bama insignia or face paint. She was also unique among adults there -- or close enough to legal drinking age for the police not to bother -- in eschewing the bourbon the men sipped and the vodka-heavy Bloody Mary concoctions the women preferred (another longstanding Weeks game day tradition).

When it became clear that she knew less about the LoanFast scandal than they had read in the paper or seen on TV, questions turned to her family, her hometown, her education and work history. She was very general in her answers, leery of exposing too much too early.

I knew from conversation on the drive from Birmingham that she was born in Savannah, Tennessee, and that her family moved to Tuscumbia, Alabama, near Florence, when she was in the third grade after her father died in an accident at the Tennessee lumber mill where he worked.

She said her only sibling, a much younger brother, Derek, was born with severe disabilities from Down syndrome. Sarah and her mother took care of him rather than place him in a group home until he passed away four years ago at the age of 19. That's when she left northwestern Alabama, where she had remained after graduating from UNA, and moved to Birmingham. Two years after Derek died, her mother was diagnosed with a fast-moving form of amyotrophic lateral sclerosis, better known as Lou Gehrig's disease. Soon she was bedfast and too much for her second husband, Sarah's stepfather, to physically manage so she moved her to an extended care facility in Birmingham where she could be near her, guarantee her better medical and palliative care than she could find around Muscle Shoals and Florence, and continue her promising sales job with WAS. Sarah said it was merciful that her mom died after only eight months in the nursing home.

"So here I am at the age of 41 the only member of our family still here," she had said on the ride to Tuscaloosa in a tone so remarkably matter of fact that I suspected she'd had lots of practice reciting it -- her standard elevator speech version of a very sad life story. She smiled blankly and shrugged, body language for "that's all I want to say right now." I took the cue and moved on.

Now, at the pregame tailgate with Weeks family members around her in camp chairs and perched atop coolers, she rendered an even more truncated version of it all. This was no time for a woe-is-me tell-all, she reasoned, and she kept it upbeat. I sensed her underlying discomfort, however, and steered the conversation in other directions.

By the time we split up to head into the stadium for the late afternoon nationally televised game, it was clear to me that Sarah had been a hit. I saw it in the greetings she received as we broke camp on the Quad. I saw it more clearly from my sister, who commented to me that Sarah was "a gem," and from Perry, my son of few words, who said it all with a discreet thumbs-up before I hugged him. Those affirmations were important. A half-dozen autumns earlier, Siobhan occupied the spot beside me that Sarah now did, and that isn't forgotten.

I grabbed Sarah's hand as we neared the stadium, not just because I wanted to but I know how easy it is to get separated in the swarm of Tide fans pushing through the turnstiles and navigating the series of turns and ramps required to find our seats about midway up the first deck on the west side of the stadium on the 20 yard line nearest the south end zone. There was a time when the ticket stub in your hand would guide you to the right seat if you got pulled apart, but these were electronic tickets that existed only on my iPhone.

Sarah was awed by what she saw. Grass as perfect as the finest greens at Augusta National. The two marching bands were each nearly 200 members strong. Towering upper decks seemed built on an impossibly steep grade necessary to afford spectators a full view of the field below. Massive screens that replayed every play in stunning high definition. And, on the field, impossibly large men moved much faster than humans that size had any right to, hitting one another with bone-breaking force.

The game wasn't competitive. It was out of reach well before halftime and would end in a 45-7 rout with Bama dominating every phase of it. And, as I had warned Sarah, the October chill set in when the sun slid out of sight and, by the fourth quarter, yielded to dusk. She had a light cardigan, but it wasn't doing the trick, so she leaned into me, and I draped my jacket around her shoulders until finally we had both seen enough this massacre and made for the exits with about eight minutes left on the game clock.

Once outside the illuminated, still-roaring Bryant-Denny Stadium, our pace slowed as we walked through the early evening darkness to my parking spot nearly half a mile away. The cool, clean air and the relative silence compared to the constant thunder and noise of the stadium for the past three hours was relaxing, almost intoxicating. Sarah let go of my hand and snaked her arm around my waist. I reciprocated by putting mine around her shoulders, my jacket still draped over them.

"That was wonderful, Kirk. Thank you very much," she said on our stroll along the sidewalks and occasionally across a lawn sparsely scattered with the season's first gold and orange leaves.

"I'm happy you could be here. You made everything so much better, and the Weeks clan loved you," I said.

"Really?" she said, looking at me hopefully. "I felt welcomed, but I don't have any, you know, historical context. I'm glad you told me."

"I knew you'd be a hit. All you had to do is be you."

And with that, we walked the rest of the way to the car in a comfortable silence.

Except for dispirited Tennessee fans fleeing their beatdown and heading for the freeway, traffic was light compared to what it would be in these same locations in just 20 minutes. Tide fans like to watch til the very end of victories and taunt the vanquished, even in blowouts. Especially in blowouts.

I asked Sarah what music she liked as we began our hourlong ride back to Birmingham.

"Why don't I show you. OK to pair my phone with your car Bluetooth?"

I nodded. And within a minute, slow, wistful Norah Jones blues suffused the cabin. There was some Bonnie Raitt. Some Tracy Chapman, Allison Krauss, Gillian Welch. There was Gladys Knight and Diana Ross, old-school R&B. Even some latter day Stevie Nicks. All of it women. All of it mellow.

"I like it. Very soothing. Just right."

Krauss's slow love ballad, "When You Say Nothing at All," came on. I reached over and turned up the volume. Sarah gave an appreciative smile and whispered, "One of my favorites... ever."

Her smile continued as she stared into the distance. She could have been tired, but more likely something was on her mind.

"Night's still young. How about dinner?" I said.

"Yeah. I'd like that."

"You pick."

"Something simple. I don't know. Olive Garden? There's an Applebee's near my apartment."

"Either. Whatever you want."

We glutted ourselves on the Olive Garden's endless salad bowl and then picked at our grilled chicken Parmesan. We said little during dinner; Sarah seemed reserved, perhaps distracted, but I detected a sadness. Something seemed off.

It was on the two-mile drive to her apartment complex in Birmingham's northern suburbs that I found out.

▼ ▼ ▼

"Kirk, not everything I told you or said about myself during the drive down to the game or at the tailgate was accurate. Part of it isn't true," she said.

I could tell by the strain in her voice now that this was seriously troubling her.

"OK...," I said.

"Derek wasn't my brother. I'm an only child," she said. I could hear her sniffling. I glanced at her and saw her wiping away a tear. I nodded and popped open the compartment in the center console, noting tissues were inside.

"Take your time, Sarah. It's OK," I said. "Who was Derek?"

"He was my son."

The words hit like a sledgehammer. I tried not to cringe, but Sarah saw it and began to sob. Evidently she construed my reaction as disapproval of her. It was not. Quite to the contrary, I knew, as a father of two, how incalculably painful losing a child must be. That's a sorrow that never leaves a parent.

My mind searched frantically for reassuring words but could find none. As we approached the exit ramp that leads to her apartment, I dared not immediately take either of my hands off the steering wheel to reach out and offer a soothing touch. I let her continue, leaning forward in her seat, her face buried in her hands.

She was still crying when we pulled into the parking lot outside her two-story unit overlooking a swimming pool and a tennis court. I parked, killed the engine, unbuckled my seatbelt and turned toward her.

"Sarah, I am so sorry. You don't have to...," I said before she cut me off.

"No, if I don't get this out...," she said, "... it's just best to do this now. For me and for you."

I nodded. She took several deep, shuddering breaths, trying to control her emotions.

"I had just turned 19 when I had Derek, the same age he was when he passed away," she said. "The summer after I graduated from high school, my boyfriend since middle school proposed and I accepted. Just before I started my first semester at UNA, we got careless and I got pregnant."

She paused for a moment to compose herself and draw another tissue from the console.

"I was scared to death when I found out. David, my fiancé, was two years older and had graduated from high school a year before I did. He couldn't afford to go right to college so he worked for his father's car-repair business for a year before he joined the Navy so he could come back after serving a hitch and attend UNA on the G. I. Bill. He was assigned to a base in San Diego just before I started college and found out I was pregnant at about the same time. When I was finally able to get word to him, David wanted to have the baby and get married next time he got to come home. Mama liked David and wanted me to marry David and have the baby. I was happy with that. I could live with Mama and my stepdad, and she would help me with the baby while I got my degree. I finished my freshman year living at home with her."

Her words tumbled out, carried on a river of sorrow.

"David was on drills at a Marine base in California when the helicopter he was in crashed and killed everybody on it," she said, trying to steady herself. "That was July the seventh, 1995 -- two days before Derek was born."

Sarah paused again. I handed her a fresh tissue.

"We never got married," she said. "David never saw his son. I continued raising him with Mama's help. And because he was born outside wedlock, we told everybody but close family he was my brother because I looked so young."

She stopped again, her composure crumbling.

"It's OK," I whispered and took her left hand in mine to reassure her. She glanced back at me and saw that I was listening, focused on her.

"We knew right away something wasn't right. The doctor who delivered Derek entered my room a couple of hours after he was born and said he was in the neonatal intensive care unit, that his heart wasn't functioning fully, his lungs were not fully developed and that he believed my baby was born with Down Syndrome."

Sarah had struggled for years to shove these memories to the back of her consciousness, memories that bullied her in her dreams. I ran my hand reassuringly over her shoulders as she bravely gathered herself again.

"It was a hard life for my baby. We knew he would never have a childhood that wasn't free of almost round-the-clock care. He never got to walk. He couldn't speak in words. But I cherish every one of those 19 years God gave me with Derek. He was a precious, loving child and it saddened me that people who never really got to know him, including some of the doctors and nurses who were so often around him, could only see the disabilities and not who he was. He was my special, shining gift from God," Sarah said.

With that profession, she again bent forward in her seat and wept inconsolably. I brushed her hair from her face and kept her supplied in tissues.

"It's OK, Sarah. Take as long as you need," I whispered. "I'm right here."

She cried for quite a while; how long I don't know. I didn't care. When she seemed to be mostly cried out, she gathered herself again and mustered the nerve to look me in the eyes. I extended my hands toward her and smiled, and she put her hands in mine.

"I'm sorry, Kirk," she said.

"Don't ever be sorry for that, Sarah. You have no reason to apologize. You've overcome what would crush most people. I can't imagine how I would cope with that. I am touched at the way you loved Derek and cherish his memory," I said.

"But...," she said.

"If anything, be proud. Proud that during his short and challenged life, you made sure your son knew he was needed and loved. That he was your world," I said.

"You should be proud that you earned your degree, helped support your mom and raised Derek after you lost your fiancé. Proud that you took charge when a brutal disease struck down your mother," I said.

It was the first time that she and I looked deeply into each other's eyes for an extended moment.

"What you told my family and me is understandable. Don't let that concern you. Thank you for sharing such difficult truths with me, Sarah."

Neither of us could look away from the other as we sat in silence. I could tell her mind was spinning, probably assessing the moment we were in, perhaps taking the measure of me as a person. She seemed perplexed. Eventually, she nodded, still holding me in her gaze. When she broke the silence, it was barely above a whisper.

"You're a good and kind man, Kirk Weeks," she said. "You're still here. That's more than I can say for the few guys who've heard me tell the truth about Derek."

I shrugged. "I can't speak for them. I see you as a sweet, beautiful soul, Sarah."

She smiled modestly. Then she silently mouthed the words, "thank you."

▼ ▼ ▼

Was it a missed opportunity not to kiss Sarah after our day together and her wrenching confession to me outside her apartment? I mean really kiss her.

Oh, I did the gentlemanly thing and walked her to her door. Then I placed a quick, chaste peck on her lips as I bade her good night and departed. I believe she was not sure whether it would be appropriate to invite me inside, so I took that dilemma off of her. I knew that from my position, it would feel exploitative. I didn't tarry after our friend-zone parting kiss but I did promise to call her the following day. I suspect a lot of guys would almost consider it their right: come on in and spend an hour or so groping and grinding. I suspect there had been men who attempted exactly that, and she may have been wondering if I, too, expected a payoff after a showing her a grand time. She didn't need or want that uncertainty, certainly not after the rare and vulnerable moment of emotional intimacy we had shared.

So, here on Sunday morning around 9:30, the pending question: was this the right time to make that promised call? A lot of working folk who aren't in Sunday School classes like to sleep late on Sundays, and I'd hate to rouse Sarah out of her slumber after a very long, busy day with me on Saturday. But I did promise her I'd call.

She answered on the third ring. She was shopping for groceries at the Forrestdale Piggly Wiggly. She'd already swung by Walmart and picked up a small, patio-sized barbecue grill (just $29.95 on an end-of-season closeout, 75 percent off its normal retail price, Sarah proudly informed me). And before she even started her car, she had purchased some new 500-count Egyptian cotton sheets for her queen size bed on Amazon, "because the old ones are worn thin and ratty and I can afford it now."

"OK then," I said. "And here I was worried about waking you on your sleep-in Sunday."

She chuckled. "I feel guilty if I'm still in the bed at 8 unless I'm down with the flu or something. Besides, I slept like a baby last night."

"Good to hear," I said, looking for a quick segue. "Got anything on your calendar today?"

"Yeah, I might."

"Oh...," I said, a slight shiver of apprehension slithering down my spine.

"Depends on how you answer this question: Do you like pork ribs?"

"Love them."

"Then yes, I have plans: I'm planning to invite you over and grill some ribs for you if you don't have anything else on your calendar. I do have an ulterior motive, though. I need help setting up this new grill. Do you have a pair of pliers and a Phillips screwdriver?"

"I've got a toolbox and I'm pretty sure I've got those tools in there. Haven't opened it up since I've been in my apartment," I said. "I'll give it a shot. If nothing else, you'll get a good laugh out of watching me. And that's mighty sweet of you to have me over for dinner."

"It's puny compared to taking me to Tuscaloosa to see my first in-person Bama ballgame, but I figure there's a favor to be returned," she said.

"What time and what can I bring besides the toolbox?"

"Nothing really. I picked up some Modelo Gold beer if you're good with that. Seems to go pretty well with grilled meat," she said.

"And what time?"

"Well, we need to assemble the grill, so I'll let you be the judge of how long that might take," she said. "Say... anytime after three?"

"All right. See you then."

▼ ▼ ▼

Sarah's two-story apartment is cozy. It's immaculately clean and tastefully appointed with furniture she chose and bought. She keeps the plantings in the window boxes -- flowers on the front facing the east that get the morning sun; herbs to the rear that get the afternoon sun -- healthy and lush, though the growing season is over and the first frost is expected any day. The kitchen, a tiny eating area, a half-bath and a den are on the first floor. Two bedrooms that share a full bath are upstairs.

She gave me the grand tour just before I began unpacking the grill on her concrete rear patio, which is separated on both sides by a six-foot privacy fence from her neighbors, just a few inches and a couple of sheets of drywall away. It reminded me of apartments students would rent in Tuscaloosa, some of which were venues for some legendary parties. But I digress.

After reading the instructions -- clearly written by someone on the far side of the Pacific with a tenuous grasp of English -- I got a vague idea of what goes where, which screws fit in which holes and played it by ear the rest of the way. I finished it with bolts in all the holes yet with one bolt, two washers and a nut left over. Oh well.

By 4:30, the charcoal briquets were put into the circular burn bowl. Once they were white and glowing I covered them with a couple of handfuls of wet mesquite wood that I had brought with me to produce a rich, flavorful smoke. I suspended the gridiron over it and -- voila! -- we were ready to grill.

Sarah knew her way around the kitchen. It was clear from her efficient handling of several things at once, her acumen with spices and seasonings, her proficiency with surgically sharp knives, tongs, a spatula and several bowls of what would be other dishes she was preparing to pair with the pork ribs that she had cooked for others.

By 5, it was all ready. I indulged the notion that I was cooking the ribs when all I was really doing is sitting next to the smoking grill with tongs and a meat fork in my hand as Sarah kept tabs on whether the ribs needed to be flipped and how close they were to being done.

We ate on a small table with steel mesh top -- part of the ensemble of patio furniture that came with each apartment unit -- as the setting sun's last streaks colored the clear sky. A single candle burned in a glass jar, imbuing the table with a warm glow as we each pulled our light jackets tight around us against a chill breeze. The clean, fresh air made the repast Sarah alone had prepared -- cheddar-infused twice-baked potatoes, steamed asparagus in a lemon-basil cream sauce and carrot cake for dessert -- exquisite. I thought the smoked ribs she had basted and packed in salt and pepper rivaled those served at Birmingham's legendary Dreamland Barbecue.

"May I get you another beer," she asked after I polished off my last bite of carrot cake.

"I've had two and I have to drive, so I think I'll pass. Besides, I want the last taste from this wonderful dinner to be your carrot cake," I said.

A silence hung over us for a moment.

"Sarah?"

"Mmm hmm."

"As I said last night, what you told me took amazing courage and character. I could tell it was hard. I'm honored you told me. But... why did you?"

She stared at the flickering candle on the table in front of her.

"I felt like I had to," she said. "I wanted to do right by you because I like you. A lot."

She stopped again. I'm not sure if it was the golden glow of the candle or the chill air, but she seemed to blush a little.

"I never know how people will react to it. I've only told, at most, a handful of people. Three of them were guys, not counting you. One of them got up and left me at the restaurant we were in and I never saw him again. Another showed a lot of fake empathy and said he understood, but I only saw him a couple of times after that and then he just went dark. So, as you can see, I had no way of knowing how last night would turn out and whether I'd ever see you again. Either way, I thought you deserved to know."

I smiled. I reached across the table and took her hand in mine.

"Still here," I said to her. "I very much want to be here."

Again, silence. She took a cleansing breath and looked me in the eyes again.

"Good," she said, nodding as a smile formed on her lips. "I like that."

"Let me help you clean this up. Least I can do after you put together this culinary delight."

I brought her the dishes that she rinsed and put into the unit's small dishwasher. Then I cleaned the patio, put away the half-used bag of charcoal and made sure the vents to the grill were closed so that the live coals inside would suffocate and die. Then I joined Sarah in the kitchen where I took a dish towel and dried the last of the cooking pots she had washed.

Time had sped by. It was nearly 9 p. m. I did some quick math in my head and realized that I had spent nearly 18 of the past 36 hours with Sarah Zanone, someone I had first met a year and a half ago in a blind pairing made by Darlice Dunton.

This was the awkward part. For both of us. Do I excuse myself for an early night and busy week ahead and end it with another peck. Does she ask me to stay and watch TV or listen to music or... whatever.

Sarah bent over, closed the dishwasher and hit the start button. I was standing just a step or so away, and when she stood and whirled around, her face was almost in my chest. It caught her by surprise and she started to stumble backward so I put my hands on her shoulders to brace her.

"I better watch where I'm going," she said with a giggle before her eyes met mine and time stopped.

Our gaze held for an eternal, uncertain moment before an ancient interpersonal gravity drew us slowly, tentatively together. My hand moved slowly from her shoulder, fingers grazing her neck until they gently traced her delicate jawline. Then her face tilted up toward mine until our lips met slowly, tenderly, fully. My hands framed her cheeks as our first real kiss asked and answered more questions than all our conversation over the past two days. It was sweet, unhurried, mutually needful. It ignited a blaze in my chest, one that had smoldered and gained heat for weeks if not months.

When the kiss ended, the look of blessed disbelief in her eyes matched the feeling coursing through me. As was becoming common between us, when there was too much to say, we said it best when we said nothing at all. She reached her arms around my neck as mine enveloped her waist as each pulled the other into a tighter embrace and an even more passionate, searching kiss. This time, our tongues teased and explored for the first time, becoming bolder over time.

The nearly one foot disparity in our height was becoming an issue as our kiss lingered so I lifted her feet off the floor and she instantly locked her legs, encased in form-fitting, skinny blue jeans, around my waist, almost as though she were shimmying up my torso, to add stability to the arrangement as our kiss continued. At perhaps 105 to 115 pounds soaking wet, I was able to support Sarah's lean and lithe form almost indefinitely as she clung to my six-foot-two frame.

My feet moved from time to time as I focused on this sublime kiss. It wasn't until I bumped into the kitchen counter that I became aware that I had perambulated a considerable distance as I clutched Sarah to me.

My incursion with the countertop was a tactile, real-world signal that it was time to come up for air. Since the countertop was almost even with her bottom, I deposited her there. And while she loosened the arms she had locked around my neck, she didn't let go.

Somebody eventually had to break the sacred silence.

"My God, Sarah," I whispered. "No words."

She leaned in and pressed light kisses onto my forehead, my cheeks, my nose, my chin.

"Me either. Kisses like that, I think, probably come along once in a lifetime. I'm glad it was from you, Kirk. Really, really... glad."

"Me too," I whispered just as our lips and open mouths tenderly reconnected. She ran her fingers through my collar-length hair, clasped my head gently in her hands and pulled my face gently into hers. My hands, freed from the necessity of holding her off the floor, ranged along her back and the gentle curves of her flanks between her ribcage and her beltline, not daring to be too forward at so tender a point in whatever relationship would grow from this, but still savoring the feel of her, relishing even the simple feel her breathing. She seemed to melt into me. I could hear soft moans from deep within her. I emitted a few of my own as our osculatory discoveries became bolder and we grew more comfortable with each other's bodies, rhythms and responses.

This was a bonding moment that, for the first time, established us as a couple, at least for a time. Beyond this point, no longer could I say that there is no relationship between us, not without knowing I had lied. On this October night, that river had been forever forded.

▼ ▼ ▼

Thanksgiving used to be my favorite holiday. Siobhan's life choices ended that.

The strain of her faithless lifestyle made a four-day late autumn holiday impossible for Perry and Butterbean to tolerate. By her senior year at Alabama, Meghan found it preferable to go home with college friends, and Perry would spend the weekend with his grandparents -- either Siobhan's mom and dad in Monroeville, who also disapproved of their daughter's deportment, or my widowed mom in Huntsville.

For some reason, both Siobhan and I refused to blink first and take the holiday on the road, and the hours in which we were both in the dwelling over that interminable weekend were tense and miserable. The only peace I found was when she would go out for her assignations with Gary Mack Billings or whomever was "filling her nightly needs" and I would lose myself in a bounty of "rivalry week" season-ending college football games, either at home on the sofa or, in years when the blood feud between Bama and Auburn was played at Auburn, at the Thirsty Pelican with other Tide alumni.

Last year, my first as a newly divorced former cuckold, I just hunkered down in my new condo and reveled in the solitude except for two nights Perry spent with me. It was nice not having the hostility crackling like static electricity between my estranged wife and me in close quarters for hours on end.

Now, with Thanksgiving just two weeks ahead, the holiday presented a wholly new challenge: how to smoothly integrate my present and future, in the person of Sarah, with my past, in the persons of Butterbean and Perry. Perry had met her and knew she was more than just a favored colleague. I had mentioned Sarah to Meghan and she knew Sarah was someone I was very interested in.

To a large extent, Thanksgiving weekend 2018 would be shaped by Butterbean's plans. She didn't know if she would spend the whole weekend with Neil at the Fulmer family's peach farm in northeastern Georgia or whether they would make their first trip together back to Birmingham.

This was Sunday evening, two weeks after my first real kiss with Sarah made me realize that I was falling -- had fallen? -- in love with her. Sunday was also the day of the week when I would call my kids for our weekly check-in. This was the Sunday she had promised to have a decision on her Thanksgiving weekend itinerary.

Sarah sat quietly on my sofa as I muted the television and a new episode of "60 Minutes" and hit the speed dial to call Meghan.

"Hi Daddy," she said on the speakerphone in a singsong voice not too different from her delivery as a kindergartner, something that always turned me to mush.

"Hey Butterbean. How's your Sunday? What are you and Neil up to?"

They had just gotten back to Atlanta from a weekend visit to Elijay after Neil's dad, Clark Fulmer, underwent hip-replacement surgery a few days earlier. Neil's mom, Anna, needed a break from doing double duty tending to the farm, keeping the house in order, helping Clark with his in-home physical therapy and preparing meals. She said Clark was mending well and would soon be self-sufficient and fully ambulatory without his walker, aided only by a cane, much to Anna's relief.

"Which brings me to Thanksgiving," she said. "Anna doesn't think she can handle a full-on Thanksgiving with all the kids -- Neil was the youngest of the four Fulmer siblings and had one brother and two sisters -- and three grandkids with another expected in February.

"If we come home to Birmingham, do you think it would be OK for us -- Neil and I -- to just bunk in the guest quarters of your condo?"

"I'd be delighted," I said.

"You're OK with Neil and me in, you know, the same bed?"

"You're a grown woman and you make those decisions, not mom or dad. Besides, I've seen you two together enough times. I know love when I see it."

"That's a relief. Thank you, dad," she said.

"You heard from Perry?"

"He drew the short straw and is bunking with mom Wednesday and Thursday, but I believe he's going down to Auburn for the Iron Bowl game," Meghan said. "He's going to bunk with Randy, his high school buddy at Auburn."

I was pleased to hear her refer to a stay with Siobhan as the "short straw" but chose not to pursue the reason for it.

"I know you'll want to share time with your mom, so why don't you and Perry figure out when you want to do what."

"We kind-of have. Nama and Pappaw (my kids' appellations for their maternal grandparents) are coming up from Monroeville Wednesday night, so we'll do Thursday morning with them at mom's place. They've got to get on the road by 3 to get home by 5:30 because Pappaw can't drive after dark, so I thought we'd come over and do the evening with y'all," she said.

I looked over to Sarah, who was beaming. She gave a thumbs up.

"Well, that's good with us," I said, realizing that the mutual use of plural pronouns had stipulated that we were figuring in Sarah.

"Hi Sarah!" Butterbean fairly shouted into her phone, momentarily startling me and surprising Sarah, who had not uttered a peep. Evidently she had a lot more information about my romance than I thought.

"Well hello, Meghan," Sarah said, rising from the sofa to be nearer my phone. "Nice to hear your voice."

I could hear Butterbean giggling on the other end.

"Look forward to seeing you in about ten days," my precocious daughter said.

"Same here," Sarah said.

Butterbean told me to expect her mid- to late afternoon on Wednesday. Neil's firm and her company were both letting employees skip out at noon, but Atlanta traffic was notorious even on normal days, not to mention the year's heaviest travel day.

"K. Text me the make, model and license plate number of the car you'll be in and I'll get a weekend indoor parking pass building management y'all aren't parking on the street or in a pay lot. Love you, Butterbean."

As the call disconnected, my last reservations about incorporating my Sarah into the lives of my children vanished.

Sarah exhaled in a great sigh of relief as days of built-up apprehension departed her.

"Seems we were worried for no reason," she said.

I pulled her to me and kissed her forehead. "Looks that way."

"Weren't you worried about it? Just a little?"

"Maybe just a little, but I have a lot of faith in my kids. I like to think we have a strong relationship. I think that's because I remained steady and faithful while they saw their mom disgrace herself over their repeated objections. It particularly hurt Meghan," I said. "Moms are every little girl's first role model, and no girl wants to see her mom act that way."

I had not told Sarah everything about how my first marriage disintegrated. It's not that I wasn't capable of the same measure of valiant candor that Sarah showed in telling me the truth about her only child, Derek, and the tragic loss of her fiancé, Derek's father. I wanted her to have the chance to hear some of the details from someone else so that it didn't sound one-sided and self-serving. My hopes for that were nested in Meghan's encouragement for me to log in to Match and start dating more than a year earlier and got a significant boost from Butterbean in her "short straw" comment about Perry staying at their mother's house. While she hadn't flatly stated as much, I believe she was heartbroken at the cruel way Siobhan had betrayed me and believed I deserved a second shot at happiness, or at least a safeguard against a lonesome, miserable latter half to my life.

But now, Sarah was asking.

"You loved her and she hurt you. I don't need to know a detailed history to know that. I can feel the scars in you. They're there, just beneath your basic goodness and your kindness. You hide it well, I know they're there," she said.

"I can glimpse it from time to time in your expressions, your body language in your unguarded moments, the way your shoulders will sometimes droop and the look of loss in your eyes. I know you didn't walk away from her or from that past impulsively."

I could feel the emotions welling up within me, from someplace buried and forgotten, and I know Sarah sensed it, too. In only a couple of weeks, she had become that attuned to me. She knew my moods. She could complete my sentences sometimes. Her empathy was boundless.

"You see me too well, Sarah," I said and held her to me even tighter.

"I want you to know you are not bound by your past. I want you to believe in your future, to embrace that future, to find happiness in it. Let yesterday be yesterday. This is today. Embrace it."

She had just tripped the relief valve to that reservoir of suppressed brooding and sorrow, of bitter memories repressed by the mighty gatekeeper of my conscious self. Now it came flooding forth, just as her confession about Derek had left her sobbing in the passenger seat of my car in a painful yet cleansing personal disclosure to me 15 days ago.

"I planned that Siobhan and I would grow old together til death do us part just like we promised to God the day we said 'I do' down in Monroeville," I said.

This was new. I had never exposed my emotional frailty and confided my feelings about them to anyone -- not my mom, not my children, not my pastor, not to any friends, not to my attorney under the impenetrable cloak of legal privilege, not in my most unguarded moments with Phyllis. Now, they flowed freely to Sarah.

As we stood, Sarah held me close and I gave myself permission to fully release to her. Her small hand coursed up and down my back, much as a mother comforts a small child after a summertime bee sting. She gave me the comfort and assurance to let go.

"The heartbreak I carried was like a zillion paper cuts, each eventually scabbing over and leaving only calloused, unfeeling skin in their place. Each insult, each betrayal I would use to fuel an anger that I kept penned up. I tend to be deliberate and methodical. I had confronted and warned Siobhan many times. So had the kids. When I'd finally had enough, I built my case and called my attorney and dropped the bomb without warning," I said.

"What hurt me the most was the disrespect she showed our kids. She was destroying their childhood. The sanctuary they had known for most of their youth had been defiled by her own lack of self-control. I cry for them, not for me."

It was painful and humbling opening myself this way to someone for the first time in my adulthood -- someone I had only really known for a few weeks -- but it was also cathartic and I felt a boundless gratitude to Sarah. And from that sprang an epiphany that had reposed in my heart but now sprang fully into my mind.

"And that's what still what hurts my heart today, the price my children pay, as in Meghan's reference to drawing 'the short straw,'" I said.

"Sarah moved on. She has new love and happiness in her life. Now, I'm letting myself do that. With you."

I stroked her hair and gently tipped her face upward toward mine.

"Sarah, I love you," I said.

Her eyes widened and searched mine for a wordless moment. Then she stood on her tiptoes and we kissed. It was her unspoken response to my spoken profession to her, confirmation that our love was mutual.

There was a fierce searching in this kiss that matched those first kisses exactly two weeks earlier and many more languorous, exploratory kisses since. Now she pressed herself into me more unreservedly. Her tongue was more assertive, and mine matched its ardor. Again, when her tiptoes gave out, she effectively began to climb me to mitigate our height difference, but this time when I hoisted her, I walked us purposefully over to my sofa and sat with her clinging to me, folding her calves beneath her as she sat sidesaddle in my lap.

"I love you too, and I don't care who knows," she said. "The last man to hear those words from me was David."

Those words are freighted with gigantic expectations and implications. They're scary and should only be employed responsibly, with utmost reflection, care and deliberation.

Like Sarah, I had used those words only with one other love in my life: Siobhan. I dared not say that, though, because of the way my life with Siobhan ended. It could be taken as faith poorly placed, as if to say, "See how that worked out, and now it's your turn!"

David was cruelly ripped from Sarah and their soon-to-be-born child. Her words had an unblemished timelessness to them. Mine would look like shabby hand-me-downs. So the only fitting response from me was to kiss her, again and again and again. As we did, Sarah stretched herself across my semi-recumbent form slouched on the sofa and languorously let her belly and chest press into mine.

We had kept a circumspection about our amorous pursuits the past two weeks. Yes, we had gotten hot and bothered making out, but had drawn the line at explorations beneath the other's undergarments. Maybe we were mature enough to be cautious, not yet knowing the dimensions and depth of our feelings. Maybe there was the fear that others might not approve of too intimate a relationship, namely Butterbean and Perry.

In the span of 30 intense minutes, those concerns were resolved. Sarah had won over my children. We had just confessed our love for each other for the first time. Now the training wheels were off. How far and how fast we pedaled was up to us.

▼ ▼ ▼

Sarah loves to muss my hair during a passionate round of kissing, but tonight as she positioned and repositioned herself atop me on the sofa, her hands found new uses: she unbuttoned my heavy flannel shirt and allowed her fingers to play in the sparse hair of my chest and the thin, dark ridge that points to my navel and whatever lies beneath my belt.

I followed her lead, pulling the hem of her gray lambswool sweater upward to reveal her bra. Sarah pushed my hands away, perhaps fearful that my urgent tugging might stretch the garment, pulled it over her head, folded it and put it on the opposite arm of the sofa, then returned to our kiss, her bare abdomen pressed warmly into mine.

My hands slid down her waist to her taut bottom covered in elasticized, cobalt blue leggings, and up her bare back sliding across the strap to her brassiere, all as our tongues thrust and parried. Sarah would sigh in contentment and moan her approval as her arousal heightened. When our kiss broke, I whispered, "I love you, Sarah," and, with a slightly impish smile and eyes that sparkled, she whispered back, "And I love you, Kirk."

As she leaned in and resumed our kiss, she pulled my hand away from her flank and placed it on her bra, a tacit instruction. I obliged, kneading the modest mound of first one breast and then the other, evoking a groan of longing from her. At the same time, I could feel her pressing her mound into me. So I escalated things and slid my hand downward, through the top of her bra, and palmed her nipple, the first trespass beyond the boundaries we had observed, though reluctantly, the past 14 days.

She broke the kiss and hissed as she inhaled, savoring the sensation, and when she exhaled, sighed, "Oh yes yes yes" into my neck just beneath my ear.

I continued kneading her breast beneath her bra with one hand while my other grasped a hemisphere of her bottom with my forefinger pressing the stretchy fabric into the crease of her ass. She rocked her pelvis into me with more force and intention.

Then she abruptly stopped for a moment, her pupils widened and her lids heavy; a rosy flush had appeared at the base of her neck. Her hands disappeared behind her back and suddenly her bra hung limp. I edged one shoulder strap and then the other down her arms and it fell, revealing beautiful, tight breasts crowned with bloated, pink nipples that protruded like thimbles. I teased and twisted them with my fingertips and grazed them against my palms before I leaned forward to kiss, tongue and suckle them for the first time.

"Yes. That's it," she said in a plaintive moan, almost a whimper.

Sarah had abandoned herself to her longings, and I wasn't far behind. As she slid her covered crotch along my lower torso, she had to feel the prominent ridge my hardened cock had created in my loose-fitting cargo shorts. She confirmed it by centering the crotch of her leggings, now clearly cleaved into her vulva, on the bulge just beneath my zipper.

As the pace of her hips quickened, Sara pressed her chest against mine and buried her face against my lower neck, kissing and nibbling it, her hot breath against my throat stoking the lust within me.

"Hold me, Kirk," she whispered.

I did, and realized at that moment that she was on the cusp of her first orgasm with me. Her breathing deepened, and she would wait several seconds before exhaling, all as her hips worked furiously pushing her fully clothed sex into my fully clothed sex.

When she came, she buried her face against my shoulder and wailed, one hand tightly clutching my opened plaid flannel shirt. Her back arched powerfully, driving her hips slowly into me, punctuated by sporadic shuddering. Her body radiated passion. Sweat covered her slightly freckled chest and neck. It took a while for her climax to loosen its grip on her -- could have been 30 seconds, might have been a minute and a half.

And I held her until finally I could feel her muscles ease and her breathing slow to normal. I continued holding her, pressing light kisses into her hair, her brow, her cheeks, the tip of her cute nose.

She looked at me sheepishly.

"I can't believe I did that," she said. "I never do that."

"Never climax?" I said. "It was beautiful and it made me happy seeing you do it. I hope to see you do it again. Often."

She looked down at her bare torso and my opened shirt, at our legs lewdly entwined and our hips pressed into each other's -- her leggings and my shorts hopelessly rumpled. Then she looked up at me again and blushed.

"I'm kind of a mess, huh?" she said.

"It's exactly the mess I want."

She kissed me, then pulled back abruptly and looked me in the eyes.

"Kirk?"

"Yes?"

"Take me to bed."

▼ ▼ ▼

I had made the walk from my condo to the Anchor Bank office tower scores of times over the past several months, but I was a little disoriented from the moment I stepped onto the sidewalk this morning. It was as if the past dozen hours had hit my brain's reset button and I was in something of a daze.

Never had I imagined that I would be in the frame of mind to commit myself to another woman. Ever. I thought the denouement of my marriage had rendered me a resolute bachelor for the rest of my days, and I'd be good with that.

That notion was only strengthened after my no-strings-attached, beneficial friendship with Phyllis -- all lust and libido and carnal decathlons -- came to an abrupt close when we both worried that our hearts might get involved if we persisted. That I didn't feel disappointment when she told me that she was in just such a relationship with some guy proved the point to me even more.

My heart was like a conch, its delicate inner mollusk safe and secure within a stony, calcium carbonate shell. And that was where I wanted it to be.

The past 15 days with Sarah, however, had obliterated that shell, and she now owned the tender, living being it had sheltered. I had professed my love to her freely and unreservedly, just as she had to me, mutually acknowledging what had flourished in recent weeks with a night of astounding physical and emotional intimacy.

Now, as I tried to re-engage my professional, work-a-day mentality, echoes and visions of what had happened through the evening refused to yield, replaying themselves over and over, warming my heart and changing the way I perceived everything.

After my conversation with Butterbean had given a stamp of approval to Sarah and me, our last feeble defenses crumbled. On my sofa, we shared our feelings freely with each other and it wasn't long before those three life-changing words had come from both of us and we fell passionately and spontaneously into each other's embrace. That ended with Sarah naked from the waist up and a grinding orgasm for her.

Drunk with lust, we moved into the bedroom where we continued our foreplay culminating with two more orgasms for her, including a finale for both of us in our first full sexual union.

Sarah's innocence and modesty was both endearing and arousing.

While she had slipped well outside her comfort zone by shedding her sweater and bra on my couch, she insisted that the rest transpire under the sheets in the darkened bedroom. It turned out that after David died in a Marine Corps training drill, she lived a largely monastic existence, especially after Derek was born. Caring for him required almost constant attention -- a measure of devotion she never once begrudged or regretted -- and she dared not look for a man whom she would trust to love her special needs child as she did.

After his death and her move to Birmingham, her mother was diagnosed with Lou Gehrig's disease, she spent most of her hours away from her new job at WAS to another loved one's terminal twilight struggle.

In the years since her mother's passing, she had never had more than three dates with the same man. A few cut things off after one or two dates when it became clear she wouldn't casually sleep with them. One tried to rip open her blouse when she rejected his effort to grope her breasts and she got out of his car and got an Uber ride home. Another listened sympathetically when she told him the truth about Derek, got as far as her living room and tried to jam his hands under the waistband of her skirt before she declared the evening ended and threatened to call the police if he didn't leave.

Two weeks doesn't sound like much, but it gave each time to realize that the other was exactly what we had to have, even though we didn't know what that was beforehand. And being together, at least for a few minutes, every day except one during that time incrementally reassured us that we were meant for each other.

For me, Sarah was irresistible because of a goodness that shone from her core -- the essence of who she is. She was pretty -- not a sinewy runway model, but the wholesome, beautiful girl with red hair, freckles and sparkling green eyes that every guy wants to bring home to mama. She was not worldly -- why do the Four Seasons or the Plaza when a Hampton Inn is just fine -- but she valued quality and excellence and character, and that attracted me powerfully. Her simplicity, honesty and innocence made her all the more alluring.

What she saw in me... well, you'd have to ask Sarah. But I know that we would never have reached this point had I not called her, as I had promised, that morning after we attended the Tennessee-Alabama game. That I not only made good on that but continued seeing her and showing her progressively greater focus and affection clearly made Sunday night's professions of love and our subsequent lovemaking possible.

We reveled in the delight each of us found in the touch of the other, as if we had never experienced any of it before. My hands trembled as I peeled her leggings over her bottom and off her legs. The same was true of Sarah as she unbuckled and slowly removed my cargo shorts.

My breathing quickened as she took my right hand and guided it down her flat tummy, beneath her cotton briefs and into the curls crowning her cleft, already wet with her arousal.

She bit her lip as my fingers began drawing semicircles and figure-eights on her inner lips and around the hood of her bean. She monitored my expression as her hand roamed over my boxers, tented from my hardness. Her fingers trembled as they found their way through the button fly and gently grasped my manhood.

Maybe it was my look of blissful surrender at the feel of her hand against my most intimate part as I caressed her sex. Maybe it was my free arm pulling her to me as we lay on our sides beneath my sheets. But I could see her trepidation dissipate and a smile light her face as I moved in to kiss her.

From that point, we progressed at our own unhurried pace. Nothing exotic. Nothing daring or sophisticated. It was the act of love as it can be done -- a tender exploration, perfect in its imperfection -- only where there is real love.

Sarah came again before we could rid her of her undergarment. My fingers, slippery with her arousal, expanded their orbit from tight circles around her clit down her inner lips and, for the first time, into her vagina -- a moment that elicited a small yelp followed by a luxuriant moan. Her legs widened to give my hand greater access within the tight confines of her panty and her hips seemed to loosen, thrusting her pelvis into my palm as my middle finger probed the contours of her tight, warm and wet center.

It seemed only seconds later that Sarah's waist flexed, her hips heaved, her eyes clenched tightly shut and she wailed in orgasmic contentment as her face and chest flushed.

I stilled my right hand as her pussy contracted against it, knowing direct stimulation would be too much for her, With my left, I brushed her tangle of coppery hair from her face where some strands clung to a sheen of perspiration on her brow, kissing her eyebrows, nose, cheeks and lips as she drifted back to earth, to the bed we shared this November evening.

"I need you now," she said to me, still breathing heavily.

The snap on my fly had given way and my erection jutted dramatically from it. She grasped it with both hands and began pulling me toward her, coaxing and positioning me onto her. She began to wrap her thighs around my hips before I placed my thumbs beneath her waistband and whispered, "Let me do this first."

After a second of uncertainty about my meaning, she lifted her bottom off the bed and I slid her now sodden panties off. With that done, she again grasped my twitching erection with one hand and put her other around my neck, simultaneously pulling me onto her as she aligned me with her opening. Our mouths hungrily found each other and as our tongues thrust and sparred, she snugged the flared knob into her vestibule and shifted her hips to deepen my penetration.

I recall her exquisite tightness eased by her copious wetness, accommodating most of my length with my first sublime thrust. She drew a sharp breath and her eyelids fluttered for a moment. For a blessed moment, we lay still, adjusting to the physical pleasure and the emotional contentment coursing through us, almost as one organism.

Our eyes connected. Sarah smiled.

I smiled in turn. "I love you so much, Sarah."

Her lips sought mine as our hips found their ancient rhythms, seemingly of their own volition. We kissed softly and sweetly as she tightened the grip her legs held around me.

Our first sexual union was basic, beautiful, unforgettable.

My level of arousal built quickly -- perhaps from the excitement held over from spotting her two orgasms already; perhaps because of the compelling and all-consuming desire I had for the woman making love to me; probably a combination of both -- and I was soon thrusting rapidly and wildly, and Sarah mirrored my response.

Sarah was losing herself in her own sensual rapture, driving her sex into me, exhorting me ever deeper, her arms reaching across my back, her quickened respiration reflecting her total commitment to our lovemaking. Each breath had its slight whimper that grew louder as she built toward her climax. As control slipped from her, her hips heaved powerfully, she held her breath, her neck strained backward -- her chest, throat and face again flushing pink -- and her eyes once more clenched shut. She cried out as her abdomen strained, her hips straining upward into me, as a climax convulsed her like an electrical current.

It was her pelvic floor contractions that triggered me. I felt the pressure rising from my balls, behind the base of my hardness, heralding my orgasm. I pulled myself out of her just as my semen coated her labia, the hair of her mound and her lower belly.

Sarah was winded as her crisis finally passed. She left no effort unspent in fully claiming this moment of fulfillment.

It took us a while to descend from the peak of our first lovemaking. We recognized this turning-point moment that neither of us wanted to be over. As our bodies relaxed, we had never felt closer, more secure and content, or more loved. Still under bedsheets, we wordlessly peppered each other with soft kisses. I caressed her neck hair and shoulders as the grip her arms and legs had on me loosened without fully relinquishing me.

When words at last returned, they came in the form of whispers.

"So... here we are," she said, a smile forming on lips barely an inch from mine as her eyes searched mine.

"That was beautiful. And you, Sarah -- you are all I ever wanted and more."

"I never knew making love could be like that," she said. "I've never been loved like that."

"Me either," I said. "That's because it was never with you. It's because there's nobody I'd rather be with. And that's all the difference in the world."

"That's how I feel when I am with you, Kirk. My heart knows it's real."

I kissed her again, a long, sweet and searching kiss.

"One thing I could have done better is have some protection around, I suppose. Now I'm the one who made the mess," I said. She peeked under the covers at her belly, still covered in my semen then turned to me again with mirth in her eyes.

"That was sweet to think of me but you don't need to do that," she said.

"I'm not one to take chances."

"I'm storkproof."

"Oh?"

"Several years after Derek was born, I decided that whatever capacity God gave me to love a child, I wanted Derek to have it all for as long as we had together. I didn't want to leave anything on the table," Sarah said, looking at me resolutely. "And I didn't."

"On top of that, the doctors did a genetic analysis and told me that I had an elevated risk -- about five chances in 10 -- that a second child could also have trisomy 21, or Down Syndrome. I wasn't putting myself in positions to get pregnant then, but I had my tubes tied for... whenever."

Over the previous two weeks, we had been discussing Perry and Butterbean and I mentioned to Sarah that I was at the stage of life where I wasn't in the market to start over with babies, and she agreed, saying only that now, in her mid-forties, her baby days were behind her, too. If she mentioned her tubal ligation, I don't recall it, but it's not an issue. We are of one mind.

Sarah had stayed the night. She is modest, insisting that I turn the other way as she scurried into the primary bathroom to rinse off in my shower. I gave her one of my t-shirts to use as a sleep shirt. Sleeping for the first time with her in my arms felt natural, comforting and right. Since she was working remotely, as she often does, she would stay this morning until noon before returning to her apartment to finish out the day. I had left her a full pot of coffee, a tin of cinnamon rolls and the good strawberry Greek yogurt she loves for breakfast.

It's amazing how many details can flood so vividly from my short-term memory into my thoughts in the 10 minutes it takes me to walk the three blocks to work in downtown Birmingham. I enjoy the walk, especially on brisk fall mornings like this. I have grown fond of my city-dwelling lifestyle.

As I entered the Anchor Bank lobby building, I reveled in the new joy that had come into my life in recent weeks. The past 24 hours in particular were a transformational blessing.

I hadn't counted on the next 24.

Next Chapter:

2018-Tribulation