Work had always been a welcome retreat from reality. I could get lost in a topic for months on end as I linked chapters and sunk into the deepest realms of research. My friends always smiled and nodded as my eyes gleamed, and I spoke endlessly of my most recent passion. Even Tracey, my editor, would tire of my fixation. I knew they didn't care; they knew I knew they didn't care. Their eyes would glaze over, and they would simply nod and murmur at regular intervals. All the signs to stop were there, but I rarely could control myself. On more than one occasion, my mother noted that if I shared my passion for my books with my love life, I might not be so lonely. I wanted to correct her; just because I was alone didn't mean I was lonely. Still, relief filled those closest to me when my second book required me to travel for research. They wouldn't be condemned to long nights of endless chatter on diners. Instead, I traveled solo across the U.S., visited some of the country's oldest and most beloved diners, and captured their tales for my readers, who were just as hypnotized as I was.

My next book on coin-operated machines was coming out at the end of the summer, and my publisher planned for me to head out on a New England book tour in just a few months to support the effort, but first, life spoke up and sent me down a different path.

"It's a small feature for a local magazine, so it wouldn't require the commitment of a full-length book," Bernie explained through the phone.

"Okay," I tried to mask my confusion. Bernie always had a reason. It was why he and my dad had been such good friends.

"Have you ever seen the painting in the entryway of the Custom House in Portland, Maine?" He asked.

"Um, yeah. My dad would drag us there when we visited Portland. He was particularly fond of that building," I mused almost to myself as I recalled sun-drenched summers on the busy cobblestone streets of Portland.

"And this painting. The thing is, the painter is a bit of a mystery. He apparently painted two in the series and then passed away. The sister painting is in a small town up the coast of Maine. I'd like to see if you can unravel the mystery of this painter, Andrew Sawyer. What do you say?" Bernie asked.

"Well, I suppose I could do a little digging, but I can't promise more than an obituary," I challenged.

"Oh, I'm sure you'll be able to find something. Your father was quite taken with it, so I feel like the interest is in your blood," he admitted.

"Yeah, Dad and I always had closely aligned interests," I agreed, as his motive became clear. Since my dad passed, many saw me as further adrift. It was one thing to be alone, but have someone that completely understood you in your life. When my father passed, I lost that, and now people saw me as even more lonely despite my protests. "I'll clear it with my publisher and let you know if I find anything worth digging into more."

"Great!" Bernie brightly said, even though he knew he had me when he mentioned my dad.

My father had only passed a few months prior, and the grief was raw, particularly for my mother. Since the initial shock had passed, she had slipped to the stage where connection was a contest. For any memory I had with my father, she had one to show her deeper connection to him. I didn't fault her for it; I couldn't. My parents had a fairytale that rarely existed in the world. In my father's eyes, the world dimmed when my mother wasn't in the room. And she was his rock. My father's name, Dr. Frank Whitfield, preceded him. Patients traveled from across the country and, in a few instances, around the world to be in his care. Being an oncologist was never easy, and on many nights, I was sure that when my parents hugged, only my mother's strength and stubbornness kept him from collapsing. She saved as many lives as he did simply by saving him.

"I've never heard of Andrew Sawyer. Is he famous?" My mother pondered.

"I don't know, Mom. Bernie said Dad liked his painting in the Custom House building. It's the one of the ship," I prodded.

"Oh, yes. He always wanted to stop in and visit it. I'm not sure why. He just was enamored with it. I always enjoyed the traditional museum in Portland so much more, but you know your father; he was just so convincing." My mom sighed as her mind clung to the memory of my dad.

"Well, I'll do some research and see what I can come up with. Bernie was pretty convinced that this would be a good piece for me," I offered.

"Or you could focus on yourself for once," my mom hopelessly offered. When my mom said 'focus on myself,' she meant fall in love. 

She knew my response. The fact of the matter was that after a string of terrible first dates, I had little to no interest in anyone except the mystery man that had saved me from a dating catastrophe well over a year prior. I never bothered to tell her of Charlie. The only thing worse than a daughter that had entirely given up on relationships, was a daughter that was secretly in love with a man she had constructed from a brief encounter; even the real Charlie couldn't live up to what I had written in my own mind.

"I think this will allow both," I offered, but she could see through the words.

The research was something I could do. When I was young, my father would chuckle at my endless stream of questions about everything around me. He was right to laugh; I had a lot of questions. What started as a hobby of diving into quirky items rapidly became a career as a non-fiction writer. When my first book on the history of the vinyl record came out, I was sure only a handful of people would be interested, but it did surprisingly well.

"It doesn't read like a boring textbook," my father had explained when my first book came out. It didn't hurt that my father had gotten me into vinyl as a seven-year-old, climbing under tables at yard sales to shift through boxes of old records. "It's accessible," he declared.

The second book, a history of diners, took me all over the country, visiting diners and often learning more about family and town histories than the diners' backgrounds. It was a fascinating fabric of people, places, and food. The book was even more successful than the first, and I realized this could be my life.

"Jess?" My mother's sharp voice was no less slicing through the telephone.

"Sorry," I murmured.

"Go ask your questions. I'll be here when you return from your rabbit hole." She sighed in resignation.

"Thanks, Mom. I'll call soon," I promised.

"Research," I murmured to myself as I looked at the photo of the Andrew Sawyer painting Bernie had emailed. "Who were you, Andrew Sawyer?" My mind fixated on the path before me. It was my only direction. I had all summer, two whole months, to unravel the mystery of Andrew Sawyer and the ship Meraki that splashed out into the ocean.

The harsh light of my laptop sliced through the darkness of my office as I tapped deeper into the mystery. My father, Andrew Sawyer, and the Meraki swirled in my mind with every search. The start was the end; Andrew Sawyer's obituary. It was easy to procure, as news clippings were no longer resigned to shoeboxes under beds and microfiche in the dusty closets of libraries.

Cedar Crest, ME – Andrew Sawyer of Cedar Crest, Maine, son of Henry and Abigail Sawyer, also of Cedar Crest, died suddenly on June 8th, 2002. Despite a valiant battle with cancer, Andrew passed doing what he loved: sailing.

He leaves behind his parents, close friends C. Jonathan Rapt and Margaret Baal, as well as the many members of the Cedar Crest community whom he loved so very much.

A celebration of Andrew's life is set for Wednesday, June 12th, in the town commons overlooking his beloved ocean.

In lieu of flowers, the family requests that donations be made to the Rapt Foundation.

Brief obituaries always dripped with grief, and this one was no different. Still, it gave me a few leads. His parents' names, hometown, Jonathan Rapt, Margaret Baal. It also shared his love of the sea, which came through so easily in his painting. It surprised me that they didn't mention his work as an artist.

A few quick searches turned up that his parents had both passed away over the last decade. I found the most information regarding the Rapt Foundation. Jonathan Rapt, undoubtedly not more than a child when his dear friend passed, was now the sole heir of the Rapt fortune following his parents' passing in a car accident. The heir now appeared to be distributing his wealth to various philanthropic endeavors via the Rapt Foundation managed by Executive Director, Margaret Doughty. A little digging confirmed my suspicion that Margaret Baal married Russel Doughty five years ago and took his name. I didn't find much else about Jonathan Rapt. It appeared he had never been married, never left Cedar Crest, and simply spent his time writing checks to dispose of his vast wealth. The only unusual move he made was purchasing back a painting by Andrew Sawyer from the Cedar Crest Public Library for over a million dollars and then promptly loaning it back to the same library for display.

Andrew Sawyer, the painter, was even more of a mystery. Aside from the painting hanging in the Cedar Crest Public Library, only one other was known, and it hung in the Custom House building in Portland, Maine. I couldn't find any information on how it got there, but it was noted in the article on the purchase of the Cedar Crest Library's painting. Art collectors suddenly were clamoring to get an Andrew Sawyer of their own following the high-priced sale, but the painting was not for purchase. And so, there it remained.

Portland was only a half day's drive from my home in Connecticut, but I hadn't been since I was a child with my parents nearly thirty years ago. Now, the state seemed to call to me. I booked a night in Portland and jotted down the address for the Custom House building. Frustration bubbled when I noticed it had been closed to the public since the terrorist attacks on 9/11. Only a few tours had been granted and were led by the Greater Portland Landmarks. I jotted down their email address, planning to pen a quick email that I'm a non-fiction writer in the midst of some research. It was remarkable how many doors the prospect of minor publicity unlocked.

Next, I researched Cedar Crest. It appeared to be a quaint little town tucked between the ocean and Mount Battie. It only had one tiny inn on Main Street, as it seemed to let the tourist flock to Camden and Belfast instead of their small helm. I booked a week in the inn and was relieved that I finally satisfied my mind with my work. Too tired to go upstairs to bed, I passed out on the couch in my office.

My mind must have been pleased with the early answers I had found because Andrew Sawyer and the Meraki didn't plague my dreams. Instead, Charlie passed through the images my mind constructed from bits of my day. He was as handsome as ever, but I only managed stolen glimpses. As time separated me from my real interaction with my mysterious stranger, he grew more and more distant in my dreams. This night was no different except in the closing moments of my dream, I could see him out a window sitting on a bench overlooking the sea. Despite the distance, he felt closer than ever and yet unattainable. Before I could reach the bench, I woke up and cursed the sun slicing through my office window.