I made it to Portland in just under six hours. The first order of business was finding a bathroom! Luckily, my hotel had one right off the lobby. Once I was better composed, I checked in. I was a bit perplexed by all the traffic in the lobby for a Thursday afternoon, but Maine did call itself vacationland. While the clerk was on her computer, I admired the space. I had read the history of the hotel online. It had previously been the home to the city's newspaper, The Portland Press Herald. The hotel had a fascinating collection of typewriters floating from one wall in homage to that background. As a writer, I felt right at home.

"Ms. Whitfield, will you need two keys or one for your stay?" The clerk asked.

"Just one." I smiled. I shouldn't be so pleased to be alone; the thought echoed through my brain in my mother's scolding voice.

"Here you go, room 303." She pleasantly smiled again. "Have a great stay."

"Thank you," I murmured before rolling my bag to the nearby elevators.

My room was smartly appointed but with little view aside from the office building across the street. Still, the king bed looked comfortable, and the bathroom was clean and spacious. For the amount of time I planned on spending in the room, it was more than adequate.

I headed out into the July sun to find something to soothe my growing stomach. Immediately, I was struck by the overwhelming options. Clearly, Portlanders liked to eat. Next, I noticed that people packed all the restaurants, again surprising for mid-afternoon on a Thursday.

"Doesn't anyone work in this town?" I pondered aloud as I wandered into a falafel place tucked between a bookstore and a parking garage.

After placing my order, I pulled out my phone to see if the Greater Portland Landmarks had responded to my email. I was pleasantly surprised that they had and were available to show me around any time before five. I had a little over two hours to make my way over there, and as interesting as the building was, I really just wanted to learn more about the painting. I raced through my lunch and walked the couple of blocks to the Custom House Building.

Two large wooden doors met me. I paused to ponder if I should knock or if I should just go in, but the beating sun of the afternoon prompted me to enter boldly. The doors groaned from the humidity, announcing my arrival to the few people working around the echoing open space.

"Hello, my name is Jess Whitfield. I emailed about a tour," I stammered to the man nearest me.

"Of course, Cynthia mentioned you would be stopping by. Follow me." He warmly smiled. Everyone warmly smiled in Portland. The entire city would smile at me as I passed them, as though I knew them all, but I couldn't recall a single person I knew in Portland.

"Cynthia, Ms. Whitfield is here," the man announced into an office on the second floor.

I took the opportunity to look around. There was a fantastic view of the space down below from the balcony, including the tile work on the floor. Unfortunately, the Andrew Sawyer painting had been replaced with another piece above the oversized doors I had just entered.

"Jess," Cynthia's voice echoed through the space. From her tone, I could tell that I had gotten lost in the view.

"Sorry," I apologized as I outstretched a hand.

"No apologies needed; it is a remarkable view. I'm afraid I forget it more days than not." She pleasantly smiled, like a true Portlander. "I looked up your work: turntables, diners, coin-op machines. What struck your interest in our old building?"

"Actually, it is on more of a personal note. A friend of mine wanted to do a piece on Andrew Sawyer and thought of me as his painting hanging here was my late father's favorite. Unfortunately, I haven't found too much on it, or the painter other than you happen to have one of his pieces here."

"Oh, the Andrew Sawyer," Cynthia finished. "I'm sorry, I can't help you."

"What? But you knew what I was interested in; it must be here."

"I was under the impression you were interested in the building, not just the painting." As she spoke, she shut the door to her office. "But, as I have told many others, it is not for sale."

"No, I don't want to buy it. I just... I just wanted to know about your painting and anything you know about Mr. Sawyer."

"It is a fine story; the dead father part really tugs at the heartstrings, but I can't help you." Cynthia cooly restated. 

"Again, I'm not interested in buying your painting; I just want to know more about it and anything you know about Andrew Sawyer."

"Because your father was a fan?" She challenged.

"Yes, we would visit Portland when I was young, and he'd always want to stop in to see the painting. It's moved from its old spot." I motioned to the doorway.

"What was your father's name?" Cynthia curiously asked.

"Whitfield, Dr. Frank Whitfield."

Cynthia inspected me further. "Please wait here a moment."

"I just don't understand why this is such a big deal." I sighed.

"Just a moment; enjoy the view." She gave me a sympathetic smile and her tone softened before retreating to her office and shutting the door behind her.

I returned to the view of the Custom House. It was a fascinating building worthy of its own trip, but I had a goal on this visit, and Cynthia Bellows would not stand in my way.

"Ms. Whitfield," Cynthia's voice came softer now and filled with apology. "I'm sorry for the confusion and your loss. Come in; the painting is above my desk. We had to move it for fear of theft."

I smiled and nodded as I passed, but I wouldn't have needed the direction. The painting was prominent within the office, and its proximity instantly had me in its grasp.

My breath caught at the sight of the ship crashing through the unrelenting waves. The stern of the boat was in full view as swells framed the ship's name, Meraki. My mind unlocked a near-forgotten memory of the painting.

"He was my first death." My father had solemnly spoken as he gazed up at the piece.

The stunning revelation had drawn my eyes from the painting to my father's face.

"He was just a kid," my father continued, "just around twenty. He had such life about him right up until we lost him. That painting captures him perfectly; crashing through life's obstacles without pause; freedom, abandon, fun." A small smile crept across his face as he recalled the lost patient. "He didn't let cancer take him. A boating accident, they called it, but I knew. His body wouldn't let go in a hospital bed; it needed the salt and the sun to let go of that soul."

"What was his name?" I squeaked as my twelve-year-old eyes tried to hold back tears. The concept of death was familiar to me due to my father's line of work. He was careful never to mask the loss. But this moment was different, there was true and raw mourning still covering his face. 

"Andrew Sawyer." The name slipped from my father's tongue without a thought. "Every doctor has that patient. I don't know if it's always the first they lose," he mused. "Regardless, we all have one that touches us so deep into our core that we can't give up. People can't fathom how something so emotionally gruesome can draw you in, but it fills you with a need to save the next and the next...." His mind lingered on the thought after the words fell silent. "Not that we can, but we can allow those we lose to touch us, live on in every moment we have left." He lifted his eyes to meet mine and gave me a small smile.

My eyes wanted to pull me back to the painting, but fear filled me; fear of sadness and not living up to what the image demanded.

"What do you think of it?" My father prodded as his eyes twitched to the painting, coaxing mine along.

"It...I... It...." I stuttered over my thoughts. "When I look at it, I can't breathe," I admitted. Unable to fathom what my brain was processing with a life cut short, my father's life forever altered, and my life now forever changed.

A warm smile spread across my father's face. "You have a lot of Andrew in you. You want to touch life; really experience it. And you have so many questions." The thought broke his somber trance as laughter bubbled from deep within his chest.

The memory drove me deeper into the mystery of Andrew Sawyer.

"Did you know him? Andrew Sawyer?" I pressed.

"Only in passing. We grew up in the same small town, but he was a few years ahead of me," Cynthia explained.

"Is that why you're so protective of it?" I pressed.

"Yes, and no," she admitted. "This painting is just on loan from the Rapt Foundation. A special favor from an old friend to my mother actually. She was the managing director prior to me. She  always loved this piece."

"Jonathan Rapt; the old friend, was it Jonathan Rapt?"

Cynthia eyed me up and down. "The Rapt Foundation," she stubbornly corrected.

"Which is just an organization for Jonathan Rapt's philanthropic endeavors."

"You don't know the Rapt family, so you should not try to speak to their ideals. This was loaned by a foundation."

"To you personally?"

"Yes, eventually. The sale back in Cedar Crest complicated this one and that is all the information I have to share. Again, I am sorry for your loss, but I believe it's time for you to leave."

She was hiding or protecting something, but I knew I wouldn't get any additional information from her either way.

"Thank you for your time." I smiled as I departed, despite the volatile interaction.

I was kicked back out to the heat of the Portland streets and found myself drawn to the ocean's cool breeze. I stumbled upon a small pier overlooking the water, with large oil drums in the distance. It wasn't a tourist spot; the only people that passed were the men and women docking for the night after a day's work on the water. Most ignored me, but some looked me up and down to let me know I was out of place.

"Better view up on the hill," a man about my age offered.

I turned to meet his gaze.

"Just head up that way; you'll know it when you get there," he finished.

"Thank you." I smiled.

"Pleasure; enjoy your time in Portland." He nodded as he continued on his way.

I followed the street until I reached what he meant by 'the hill.' It was called the Eastern Prom by most and had the most spectacular views I had seen on all my travels. It overlooked the bay, an old fort, and many islands beneath an azure sky. It felt like a place that Andrew Sawyer would have spent hours gazing over. The view captivated me until the sun had long set, and the incoming sea chill forced me to make my way back to my hotel. Portland, while beautiful, had offered little in the way of answers.

The following day, I woke to the rising sun. I had a few hours until checkout and no burning need to race to Cedar Crest, so I returned to the bookstore I had passed. I always loved locally owned bookstores. The big box bookstores felt so impersonal. Here, I felt like I could run into someone I knew or was supposed to know.

"Excuse me," an older gentleman with silver hair gently spoke from behind me.

"Yes?" I smiled.

"I don't mean to intrude, but are you Jess Whitfield?"

"I am. Do I know you?" I asked, inspecting his face closer.

"No, but I've read your books. They're fantastic. The way you weave a story and create a character out of these places and objects. I just can't get enough. I have a dozen copies of your new book on pre-order."

"Thank you so much for your support. I'd be happy to sign the copies you have in stock while I'm here," I offered.

"I would love that. I've tried to get on your book tour for both Diners and now Coin-Op, but I guess we're too small," he sighed.

"I think your store is charming," I sincerely offered as I signed the few copies of my books he had in stock.

"Are you here on research?" He asked as I continued to sign.

"No, just pleasure. You have a beautiful city. I hope to be back soon. I'm headed up the coast to the Camden area, a small town called Cedar Crest. Do you know of it?"

"I know of Camden, but there are so many small towns along the coast, it is hard to keep them all straight. I'm sure it will be beautiful up there," he sheepishly offered.

"I'm from Connecticut, and I'd be absolutely useless in naming any small towns in my state," I soothed back. "It was a pleasure meeting you. You have a wonderful store. Hopefully, our paths will cross again soon." As I left, I plucked up a business card from the counter and tucked it into my purse.

I returned to my room and packed up the last of my things before tapping out a quick email to my publisher, requesting the Portland bookstore be added to the book tour. I noted that it was so close that it could easily be tacked onto the end without any disruption to make it clear that no was not an option. Satisfied, I hit the road again, this time for Cedar Crest.