Margaret's car was kept at a markedly chilly temperature that bit at my skin beneath the thin material of my dress and seemed to reinforce my suspicion that she was, in fact, cold-blooded. We rode in a heavy silence through the streets of Cedar Crest and beyond when trees out numbers the homes and grew denser with each mile we passed. Finally, she turned into an unmarked driveway with a long green metal arm blocking our path. After a brief moment, the arm slowly began to swing inward, allowing us to enter. After a few more minutes along a drive that meandered around ancient trees, the scene before us opened up to a massive home surrounded by lush gardens. Just beyond the house was the ocean that seemed to be at the very core of Cedar Crest.

"We're here," Margaret enticed without masking her excitement.

"It's a beautiful home," I said as I pulled myself from her car. Secretly, I was panicking. This house was overwhelming, and suddenly I realized I was about to have dinner with one of the wealthiest philanthropists in the country. "Does Mr. Rapt know I am coming?" I asked.

"No, I didn't have time to ring him, but there should be plenty of room for you. As I mentioned, my husband was unable to join me tonight, so you will just be filling his seat at the table," she offered.

This explanation did nothing to soothe my nerves. Typically, people with security gates guarding their homes did not welcome uninvited dinner guests.

Margaret rang a doorbell as my anxiety swelled to a level that nearly knocked me off my feet. It was only a moment before a smartly dressed gentleman opened the door to us.

"Hello, Ms. Doughty, we've been expecting you," he greeted in a monotone that I thought was something that only existed from butlers in who-dun-its.

"Good evening William. Mr. Doughty was unable to join me tonight, but I brought along a new friend. This is Ms. Whitfield, a writer from Connecticut," Margaret explained.

"Of course," William acknowledged as he shifted out of the doorway to welcome us inside. "Everyone has gathered on the terrace.

"Thank you," Margaret murmured as she passed.

I mirrored her with my own squeaky "thank you" before following behind her to go through the home. Almost instantly, I was awed by the view. We entered a great room that was larger than my entire condo and had a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the back terrace and the ocean beyond. It reminded me of the pictures beach resorts put on their website, but in reality, it was never quite this spectacular.

"Come along," Margaret prodded when I fell behind.

We slipped out an open glass door to join a small group mingling on the terrace with cocktails.

"Maggie Mae, Maggie Mae, you finally came along to play," a man with a thick British accent sang as she stepped out into the sun.

"Hello, Eric," Margaret grumbled.

"Oh, come now. Don't act like you aren't happy to see me," he continued to tease.

The voice was familiar, as though I had heard it before, but I couldn't quite place it.

"Where is he?" Margaret curtly asked.

"One never really knows, now do they?" Eric offered, pleased with his elusive answer.

"He is down in that wretched studio, isn't he?" Margaret accused.

"I am not one to tattle," he responded as though he were a child refusing to tell on his friends in grade school. His accent really clung to each letter of the word tattle and pulled me deeper into the voice.

"Eric," I murmured to myself. "My gosh, you're Eric Harris," I realized.

"Last I checked. Have we met?" He set his attention on me.

"No, I came with Margaret," I explained. As I spoke, Margaret darted away from me. Undoubtedly, she was on the hunt for Jonathan.

"Well, as I always say; any friend of Margaret... Well... Come to think of it; I've never met a friend of Margaret's. Are you here against your will? Blink twice if you need me to call a bobby."

I let out a laugh. He was charming in a hectic way, although I was still standing before one of the world's greatest rock legends. Somewhere my dad was bursting with excitement. "No, we actually just met today. I'm in town doing a story on the Andrew Sawyer paintings," I explained.

"Oh, are you now? And Margaret decided bringing you here was a good idea?" She questioned.

"Yes, she said she was having dinner with Mr. Rapt and some old friends, and certainly, there would be some stories Andrew shared that could help my piece," I explained further.

"And Mister Rapt agreed to this?" His tongue clung to Mister Rapt.

"Well, she mentioned she didn't have a chance to call him, but since her husband wasn't coming, there would be plenty of room," I recalled.

"What is your name?" Eric asked.

"Jess, Jess Whitfield," I offered.

"Look, Jess. You seem like a decent person just trying to do a job. I'm not sure what Margaret is trying to pull here, but good old Mister Rapt doesn't take kindly to invasions of his privacy, even if they are beautiful. My recommendation, leave. Walk back the way you came, ask dear William to give you a lift back into town, and forget you were ever here." Eric nudged my shoulder as he spoke.

"What?" Confusion flooded me, followed immediately by panic.

"Who is that?" The familiar smooth voice washed over me. I turned to meet his gaze as the heat flared within me. "Jess? What on earth... How did you..."

"I thought you didn't know him?" Eric poked.

"Yes, Charlie, I would like you to meet Jess Whitfield..."

"I know Jess. And I am assuming by your ill-orchestrated plan that you very well knew that." It was clear that Charlie was struggling to maintain his composure.

"Oh, maybe I should have warned Maggie Mae," Eric interjected, clearly amused by the drama unfolding before him.

"I shall ask you to leave now, Margaret. I will ask you this one time nicely. If I have to ask again, it will not be so civil," Charlie's voice came low and gravely, like a growl from a hungry dog.

"Charlie," Margaret began.

"I do not want to hear your lies. Be gone, witch." As he spoke, he fluttered his hands as though dispelling an ill-smelling cloud.

"You old fool. Some day you will see that I am protecting you. But of course, you'll have to dry up before you could possibly see anything other than your own delusions," she shot before pacing from the terrace.

Charlie mumbled something inaudible and then meandered inside without even a glance.

"But," I called out in their wake.

"No, no, dear. Now would be a superb time to shut up," he offered.

"But Margaret was my ride," I explained.

"Oh, honey, the man had more cars than cares and William to drive them. Don't worry about a ride home. The question is, why did you lie to me? I'm such an honest fellow," he was back to teasing.

"I didn't lie. I know, Charlie. I just haven't met Jonathan Rapt. I suppose it makes sense that they are friends since they were both so close to Andrew," I murmured, almost to myself.

"I believe that now would be a good time for someone to let you know that Charlie is Charles Jonathan Rapt. That seems to be the sticking point in all these shenanigans that I, for one, am thoroughly enjoying," Eric explained.

My heart immediately dropped into my stomach. "C. Jonathan Rapt," I murmured.

"There you go, love. All caught up. Now, Charlie didn't seem so bothered to see you. Bit perplexed, I'd assessed, but not unhappy. For a moment, I think I almost saw a glimmer of joy. Of course, knowing that Charlie swore off all things that could possibly bear joy or happiness... Yeah, come to think of it, maybe it was just gas. But you've met it seems," Eric babbled away.

"Yes, we've met," I answered before drifting after Charlie.

He wasn't hard to find. Nothing could possibly be hard to find in this house. Everything seemed to gleam, from the open plan to the clean line furniture; it felt as far from Charlie as I could have imagined. There he was, at the bar, pouring an oversized glass of red wine.

"You lied to me," I announced.

He set both hands on the bar and sucked in a heavy breath before releasing it slowly. Then he picked up his glass and impressively down the full contents. "I never lied," he retorted to the wall as he set his glass down.

"You didn't tell me who you are," I argued.

He spun on his heel to reveal a fury in his eyes. "I told you I was Charlie. I told you like tomatoes straight from the vine and the sound of sails filling with the wind. I told you I was utterly captivated by you from the moment I first laid eyes on you. And I never lied."

"You never told me I captivated you," I murmured. His aggression was taking me aback.

"Well, I just did. And still, I have never lied to you," he declared, before turning back to the bar and refilling his glass once again.

"You brought me here. Margaret didn't want to meet me; Cynthia wasn't going to let me see the painting... until you." The pieces were falling into place.

"I'm a weak man. That evening I saw you..." he moved closer as he spoke with his glass of wine in one hand. "The way the light from the table candle flickered over the soft skin of your collarbone." As he spoke, he brushed a fingertip across my collarbone. "You were listening to the music so intently. A woman of your age enjoying music like Tharpe struck me."

Reliving the night, I had played over and over in my head, but now through his point of view pounced on me and threatened to buckle my knees.

"I asked the host for your name. It was easy to remember, but I didn't even consider an actual connection to Frank Whitfield. I imagined it was just a coincidence," he continued.

"You knew my father?" My voice creaked from the heavy confusion that was pressing on me.

"He was a good man, a good doctor," Charlie assessed. "I had Willian look you up. That's when I learned of your writing. Your books enthralled me. Again, I never lied. You have stolen two nights from me now because of your work. I couldn't fathom someone of your beauty also being so good damn interesting. It was unimaginable. Still, I was certain I could be content with your work, and our chance encounter. Then Margaret complained that some magazine had started in on Andy again. When she said your name, I knew it had to be you."

"So, you forced her to take the meeting with me," I continued.

"Yes, and then you were here, and you thought I was a handyman. You liked me even as a simple handyman. I couldn't let my name destroy that." His voice was higher now, with the unmistakable tone of pleading.

"But it did that anyway," I announced.

"It doesn't have to, Jess. You know now, and I am still Charlie. I still like children's drawings on the sidewalk..."

"And wine," I added as my eyes darted to his glass.

"I told you I enjoyed wine." He backed away from me as he spoke, as though my assessment had punched him.

"And it appears you have enjoyed all of it today," I noted.

"Don't do that," he asked. "Don't act like you know me. We've had a few stolen moments, but not enough for you to judge my habits."

"I just watched you down an entire glass of wine in a second," I declared.

"It is a talent. Watch, I can do it again." He stood before me and down the glass in his hand.

"Is that supposed to impress me? Is any of this supposed to impress me? I don't know you, Charlie. All that has happened tonight is that the man I constructed in my head doesn't exist. The kind, gentle, shy man that gardens and..." I had to pause. I needed a moment to collect myself as the image of my imaginary Charlie shattered before my eyes. "It's not your fault, Charlie." My voice was now softer, soothing even. "I constructed a man in my head. He looks like you, and he sounds like you, but I constructed him from more fiction than fact. I did that, not you."

"I told you there were unsavory parts to my life. I warned you, and you said you didn't give a damn," Charlie argued.

"Well, now I give a damn," I admitted.

Charlie's eye clung to me as frustration swirled in his deep brown eyes. After a moment, he let out a heavy breath and paced back to the bar.

"Please don't," I quietly asked.

Again, Charlie let his hands fall to the bar as I watched his shoulders rise and fall from another steadying breath.

"Show me your garden, the tomatoes, the bees," I pleaded.

"It is too late in the evening for bees," he declared.

"Show me anyway," I asked again.

He turned to face me with his glass still empty. His eyes washed over me for a long moment until I finally lifted my hand to me.

"Please," I asked a final time.

He stumbled forward and grasped at my hand as though it were the lifesaver he had been in need of for years.