Arriving in the small town of Cedar Crest was like driving into a painting or a movie set; everything was perfect. Tall elm trees lined the quaint Main Street, providing ample shade to the sidewalks, and parents scurried their children across streets from shop to shop or to the town commons. I didn't fully take in the breathtaking view that was the commons until I parked at the inn across the street and pulled myself from my car. I gazed down the green grassy knoll over the benches that lined the stone seawall to the harbor beyond. I half expected to see the Meraki bobbing along the docks as my feet pulled me closer to the water, where I plopped down on a bench, entirely unaware of anything but the sea rolling out before me.

The azure sea mirroring the cloudless sky entranced me, while the thunder of the waves cresting and slapping at the smooth stones of the shore echoed in my chest. The salt air filled my nose. I closed my eyes and sucked in a deep cleansing breath and felt a flame within me light. It was a sensation I hadn't felt in nearly a year; a connection, a peace. 

"Hello," a low smooth voice came from beside me, causing me to break my trance.

"Oh, my; I'm so sorry. I was..."

"Captivated; it's allowed." He dipped his face as he spoke, masking his shy smile behind a curtain of cheek-length dark brown hair.

"Charlie." My voice came softly, and the waves crashing below us quickly overshadowed my words.

He slightly nodded, but I couldn't tell if he recalled our encounter from over a year prior. "It really is stunning," he offered. "First time in Cedar Crest? We don't get a lot of the tourists around here," he continued as he returned his gaze to the ocean.

"Yeah, I'm glad I came." Charlie, the view, this small part of the vast ocean, felt like they were giving me life. It was as though my whole life had led me to this bench at this exact time.

"Well, I'll stop intruding." He smiled as he stood.

"Oh, heavens no. I was the one intruding." I shot from the bench and fully registered the man before me once again.

He was nothing short of beautiful. He stood only a few inches taller than my height, not more than five-ten. His skin was a golden brown from a lifelong tan. But his face, the shyness in his eyes, the way the soft waves of his hair fell perfectly to his pronounced cheekbones that then slipped into a strong square jaw. He looked as though he was sculpted.

He so enraptured me that I hadn't noticed that I never gathered my footing when I bounced from my seat. His hand was grasping my elbow and protecting me from my misstep. The sensation of his touch sent a bolt through me that I had only felt once before. It was as though I was whole, but also about to burst into a million pieces all at once.

"Please, you were here first," I whispered into his proximity. "I didn't mean to intrude."

A gentle smile creased his face in familiar folds from years of laughter and life. I wanted to reach up a fingertip and connect with them, with the memories that created them.

"I have had a lifetime with this view and will have many more chances if I am lucky. You're a guest; I can share for one night."

"I'm Jess," I stammered as he dropped his hand from my elbow. "Jess Whitfield."

"Jess Whitfield." He nodded before leaning in close to me and whispering, "I know very well who you are, and you owe me a night's sleep," in the most alluring voice I had ever heard. His breath seemed to cling to my skin as though my body were trying to memorize him.

"I'm sorry?" I managed. Could he have thought of me since our chance encounter?

"I picked up your book on turntables one evening and couldn't put it down until I turned the last page and the sun was up. I fear your book on diners will shatter another night of dreams if I'm not careful." He smiled with measured fun in his deep voice.

A flush crept across my face at his compliment. All coherent thoughts were stolen and words had lost all meaning. 

"It is a pleasure to meet the author," he continued. "Enjoy the view; maybe it will inspire your next piece," he added before he began to pace up the hill to Main Street.

"I didn't catch your name," I called after him. I had to be sure.

"Of course you did," he casually called back to me. "My name is Charlie," he added with a wink.

"I remember you, Charlie," I returned for no other reason than to say his name aloud.

I tried to distract myself with the quaint town that welcomed me at every turn: the bookstore, the small clothing shop, and an old fashion soda fountain. With each idyllic stop, my mind wandered to the bench along the seawall, the view, and Charlie. He was here, in the flesh. Of course he was here in this small perfect alcove that I had been drawn to by chance, if only to find him. It was as though my father and Andrew Sawyer had combined forces to bring me back to my mystery man.

"Hello, you must be Jess Whitfield," a cheerful clerk greeted me from the small reception counter of the Cedar Crest Inn.

"Yes, how did you know?" I smiled.

"I only have one unoccupied room, and it's for Jess Whitfield, the author." Her eyes twinkled with warmth as she spoke, inviting me further into the entryway.

"I guess I'm lucky you had a room on such short notice."

"Yes, we don't don't get many season guests here, but that's because we only have four rooms," she giggled, and she jotted something down in the book in front of her. "You are in room 202; marvelous view of the commons and water with a private bath."

"I guess I really am lucky," I offered as I took the old-school key from her hand.

"I'm Elle: owner, handywoman, chef... you name it; I am it. Let me know if you need anything."

"Thank you, Elle. Where would you suggest for dinner?"

"Well, if you are looking for something fancy, there's Crestview a block up the shore, but if you want the best food in town, then you want Millie's right next door. She's not going to make you thin, but she sure will make you happy."

"Sounds perfect. Thank you again."

My room was just as one would expect: light, airy, and with a view of the town commons and the water beyond. My eyes slipped to the empty bench as a glint of disappointment shot through me. Still, my mind clawed at my dream of Charlie being so close to me. It was as if I already knew I was going to see him again.

"What am I doing?" I murmured to myself as I shook the thoughts from my head and dialed Bernie.

"Hey, everything all right?" He answered after the first ring.

"Yeah, of course. I thought I would let you know I made it to Cedar Crest." I giggled at his concern. "Why would you assume something was wrong?"

"Well, you rarely call anyone while you are researching, but I am glad you made it there safely." His tone relaxed, but his comment stung.

I knew my research could often consume my mind, but I had not realized the impact it had on those around me.

"Yeah, it's beautiful here," I weakly offered.

"Have you found anything yet?" Bernie asked.

"Just bits and pieces, but I'll keep digging. Portland didn't offer much aside from lunch. I think you were right, though. I was meant to write this piece," I confirmed.

"I knew you were the right fit. Call me if you need anything," Bernie offered.

"I will. Say hi to my mom," I asked, knowing that Bernie and my mom had dinner once a week.

"Of course, of course," Bernie agreed before the line disconnected.

Cedar Crest filled me with an unusual life. Even though I had just arrived, I felt entirely connected to the town, and yet, the cracks of my fractured relationships from home surrounded me. It felt as though the world, this place, was mocking me. I had to refocus on my goal: who was Andrew Sawyer?  

I settled myself on the small wooden writing desk that provided a perfect view out the window to the commons. It was clear this town had influenced Sawyer's work. Before pulling out my laptop, my hand absently flexed across the soft wood of the desk scarred by years of letters written to friends and loved ones about the masterpiece town they had stumbled upon. It distracted me from Andrew. What stories did this desk hold? It seemed shameful to pull out a laptop top and cover the life within the knotted wood. Instead, I pulled out a notepad and jotted down my notes. 

Andrew Sawyer: patient of my father. Died young, but was still impactful. Completed at least two pieces in his short life. His biography was still protected by those that encountered him, as was that of C. Jonathan Rapt. I underlined the name C. Johathan Rapt. There was something about the elusive heir that haunted the paintings even more than the ghost of artist. 

I tucked the notebook into my purse and headed for the library. I had a meeting with Margaret Doughty the following day, but in the meantime, the public library held what I was looking for; the second Andrew Sawyer painting. The library itself was magnificent. From the front, it appeared nothing more than a quaint library you would find in any town, but following the sidewalk along the side of the building revealed that it was constructed into a knoll. The side entrance reminded me of an entrance of a superhero lair, as though the Batmobile would come cruising out at any moment. Of course, this was the entrance I opted to use. 

The library was out of a fairy tale. I entered into a section that was designed as though I were in a hobbit library. None of the shelves were even, instead they waved as though constructed out of existing trees. The child-sized furniture was shaped like oversized mushrooms. Through an archway to my left was a room that looked as though it was Peter Rabbit's garden where a small group of children was seating around an older woman reading a story in a hushed voice. The childrens' heads bowed inward to make sure they heard every word. I remember story hours from my youth and a tug from deep within me prodded me to join the children on the carpet to enjoy the adventure they were captivated by, but I resisted my urge and instead headed towards the adult area. 

My research let me know that the Andrew Sawyer painting greeted visitors when they entered the front door. A nagging voice prodded that I should have entered the front door for the full experience, but a louder voice didn't care: I got to enter through the Batdoor. I was chuckling to myself at my childishness when my eyes were pulled to my treasure. 

There it was, greeting patrons to the calm waters of the library; a safe haven for those curious, adventurous, scared, or lonely. The Meraki in this painting was floating atop calm waters against a clear blue sky. This Meraki was calm and safe. This Meraki was home.