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letters across the top. The building was painted white. Even after the paint began to chip, it was a classy place. Everybody in town considered his office a landmark.
    The inside of the building was cool on even the hottest days. It was the coolness of the interior that impressed me as a little girl. Our house didn't have air-conditioning, and we survived summer with fans that did little more than circulate the heat. The church sanctuary was air-conditioned, but people supplemented the anemic system with funeral home fans. Mr. Callahan didn't concern himself with what he had to pay the electric co-op. The oversized cooling unit behind the building never stopped humming.

    Thick, deep carpet covered the floor beneath my feet. A leather sofa and eight chairs lined the wall. Neat rows of sporting, hunting, and women's interest magazines were displayed on a coffee table. Mrs. Murphy, a gray-haired woman, sat in the corner of the room behind a dark wooden desk. A man in overalls was talking to her. I stepped toward her desk but kept a respectful distance.
    "Either Harriet or I will call you as soon as your settlement check comes in and set up a time for Mr. Callahan to meet with you," Mrs. Murphy said to the man.
    "When do you think it will get here?" the man asked. "My wife's got her eye on a new double-wide, and we don't want it to get away."
    "Within a couple of weeks."
    "That might be too late."
    "Who's selling the trailer to you?"
    "Foothills Homes."
    "I know Mr. Kilgo. Would you like me to call and let him know what's going on with your case?"
    "Yes'm."
    The client turned away, and Mrs. Murphy smiled at me.
    "Here's your fax," she said, handing me a few sheets of paper. "He just got off the phone, and I'm sure he would like to see you. You look great, very professional."
    "Thanks."
    Beyond the reception area was a library that also served as a conference room. Opposite the library was Harriet Smith's office. In her early forties, the secretary had worked for Mr. Callahan over twenty years. Beyond the secretary's office were a file room and two smaller, unfinished offices, one of which Mama wanted me to occupy upon graduation from law school. Mr. Callahan had never brought up the subject during the short stints I'd worked at his office organizing files. However, he'd agreed to serve as a reference on my resume.

    The door to the lawyer's office was open, and I could see his feet propped up on the corner of his desk. A tall man, Oscar Callahan was sixty years old with a full head of white hair and intense, dark eyes. It was easy to imagine his grandfather as a fiery preacher. Mr. Callahan looked over his gold-rimmed reading glasses and rose to his feet.
    "Welcome, Tammy Lynn," he boomed out. "It appears the transformation into sophisticated lawyer is well on its way."
    Mr. Callahan motioned for me to take a seat. The lawyer had large hands that he used to emphasize points in conversation. He laid his glasses on his desk and pointed at the papers in my hand.
    "Did you get your fax?"
    "Yes sir."
    "Is it from Savannah?"
    "Yes sir," I answered in surprise.
    Mr. Callahan nodded. "Joe Carpenter called me about you the other day. We were in law school together. He's a tight-lipped blue blood from the coast, and I'm the wild-eyed son of the red clay hills, but we've always gotten along fine. I've seen him at bar association meetings over the years. Did he offer you a summer job?"
    I held up the papers. "Yes sir, I think so, but I haven't read the terms."
    "Well, an offer is like bait on a hook. It doesn't count for anything unless a fish bites it. Look it over while I finish reviewing this medical report."
    Mr. Callahan put on his glasses and resumed reading. I looked down at the three sheets of paper in my hand. Even the fax cover sheet had a classy look. I turned to the next page, titled "Summer Clerk-Offer Memorandum." My eyes opened wide at the amount of money I would be paid. The weekly salary would be greater than what I would