Charlie clung to me as the wine permeated his brain. His missteps were more than I cared to acknowledge, and as we descended the stairs to the grounds below the terrace, I held his arm tighter in an attempt to prevent him from falling. As soon as our feet stepped onto the lawn, he paused just as he had when we arrived at our picnic. He sucked in a steadying breath that seemed to remarkably return his senses.

"The ocean seems to really calm you," I murmured.

"It has been my lone constant all these years," he admitted before leading me to the side lawn with much more confidence.

A large vegetable garden stretched out before us. Plants, heavy with fruits and vegetables, dotted the patch.

"Oh, pumpkins. I love a good pumpkin patch," I exclaimed, eliciting a chuckle from Charlie. "They're so far along. I didn't think they would be this size for another month."

"We have a greenhouse," he revealed as he nodded beyond the garden. "We start planting in late winter and then have some pretty hearty plants by the time spring rolls around."

"You like to get your hands dirty," I assessed as I lifted out entwined hands and kissed the back of his hand.

"I do," he agreed. "It feels good to be connected to the earth and the sea. Grounding," he offered.

I sighed and let my head fall onto his shoulder. "I am sorry," he murmured before he set a gentle kiss on my forehead.

"I know," I admitted.

"I want to be the man you deserve. I want to be the town handyman that has the vegetable garden with all the bees to buss for you," he continued.

"You are that man," I acknowledged. "You are the man that would rather spend the evening on a bluff eating sandwiches instead of in a stuffy restaurant. You are the man that fixes doors and such, even though he clearly doesn't have to."

"I like to get my hands dirty," he confirmed again.

"I wish you had been more forthcoming with me," I admitted. I deliberately avoided the word lied. He was right; he had never lied to me.

"I was scared," he admitted.

"Why?" I pressed.

"What if all you wanted was information on A, or worse, were enchanted by my money?" He explained.

"Do you see that in me?" I continued.

"No, not now that I know you better, but please see it from my perspective," he pleaded with me.

I turned to face him fully and let my hand lift to his chiseled chin. "Charlie, I see your perspective, and I understand."

He relaxed and let his head fall on me. It tucked into my neck. "Please stay with me," he murmured.

He knew the answer before I even spoke. "I can't."

"I won't drink anymore," I announced as he lifted his face to mine.

"I wish it were that simple," I offered.

"It is that simple. You are making it more complicated," he argued.

"Charlie, you admitted it last night. You have things you don't wish to inflict on me. When your head clears, you will believe that again. I can't let myself believe that you won't."

"Yes, you can. I am right here telling you that I want you here with me. I want you by my side. I want to plant pumpkins for you and watch the sunset with you by my side every night. I'll teach you to sail. You can write a book about it," he offered.

I let out a smile at how perfect it all sounded.

"I'll give you a million dollars to stay," he added as a final offering.

"Charlie," I chided.

"I had to at least try," he admitted. "Would you like to hear about A before you leave?"

"Would you like to tell me about him?" I asked back.

"I believe I would," he declared. "I've been holding him too close for too long," he admitted.

"Would you like this to be on the record or off the record?" I added.

"There is no one I would trust more with his story than you." He smiled.

We settled on a bench overlooking the water, not unlike the view from the commons, and Charlie began.

"I don't remember a single day of my childhood without Andy. His parents worked here; his father took care of the boats, and his mother took care of the gardens. The lines between our families were happily blurred," he recalled. "He was truly my brother. I admired him in many ways, but I also envied him."

"Envied him?" Shock filled my voice.

"Mmhmm, he had no expectations on him. He had a freedom in his life that almost defined him. I, on the other hand, had the looming weight of my family's name. Occasionally, when we met someone new, we would flip out names. It was so freeing to be Andy, even for a few moments, but it would never be long before he would reclaim his name and his freedom."

"He knew you felt burdened?" I asked.

"Yes, he was the only one that understood how uncomfortable this all was. Well, until recently," Charlie added. "I think that is what bonded us, really. We understood each other completely."

"A few in town said he was quite the character," I prodded.

"Oh, yeah. He would get us into rounds of trouble all over town. And yet, he would always charm us out of any real repercussions. Had it been anyone else, I'm sure people would have thought my family's name was getting us out of our self-created predicaments, but anyone that knew Andy knew that it was hard not to give in to him. One time, he filled the police chief's car with Necco wafers. There must have been a million of them in there," Charlie estimated, with a smile on his face.

"Did the chief at least like Necco wafers?" I asked.

"No, he hated them," Charlie laughed. "By the time it was all cleaned up, Necco wafers were band in the whole town. Still, to this day, you won't find a single Necco wafer within town limits."

"How does Margaret fit?" I curiously asked.

"Oh, Maggie." Charlie mournfully shook his head. "She wasn't always so cold. She was in love with Andy. Head over heals, actually."

"Did he know?"

"Did he know? Of course, he knew. He was in love with her, too. They were the king and queen of the town. I may have had the name, but those two, they really were the ones that had all the eyes on them."

"Poor Margaret." I sighed.

"Yeah, she was never the same after he passed. She was the only one that refused to believe he would lose the fight. Right up until the day we went out on that boat," Charlie explained. "She had so much confidence that he would beat it. He when Andy himself knew he had lost, she still wouldn't have it."

"What happened on that boat?"

"It was spectacularly quiet," Charlie admitted. "We would never have gone out if the conditions weren't so perfect, but the sea was like glass, and Andy wanted one last sail. He told me he wanted to make sure he had his sea legs for the next journey." Charlie let out a laugh at the memory.

"We had just finished lunch and were about to head back in. Maggie and I were distracted cleaning things up. All we heard was a single splash. He never surfaces once. Maggie dove in; tried to find him, but I knew."

"My father always said that he needed the salt and the sun to let go," I offered.

"Sound about right. Your father was a smart man. I see where you get it."

"Andrew always stuck with him. We would come to Portland every summer, and he would always visit the Meraki. He said it embodied Andrew, the freedom... the recklessness. A piece of Andrew lived on in my father."

Charlie's lips pursed as he took in the story. After a long moment, he let out a breath.

"Thank you, Jess. Thank you for listening to an old man babbling about his old friend. And thank you for confirming my hope that Andrew touched more than just Cedar Crest," Charlie murmured.

"He did. With who he was and with his paintings. It's funny; around here, no one really talks about his painting. He was so talented," I pondered.

"He's remembered for other things," Charlie offered. "Anyway, I think it's time for to get you back to the inn."

"I hate it when you say that," I admitted.

"I hate it when I say it as well," Charlie noted.

"Charlie..."

"Mmhmm," he murmured as he clutched my hand for the walk back to the house.

"Eric Harris is in your house," I noted.

"Mmhmm, he just keeps showing up like a bad penny," Charlie teased.

"Seriously. Eric Harris..."

"He's an old friend. He fancies himself a comedian a bit too often for me, but we've been through hell and back. I suppose I'd have to declare him my best friend at this point."

"Okay, Eric Harris is your best friend. I'm impressed," I admitted.

"Enough to stay?" He asked.

I let out a sigh as a response.

"Sorry," he murmured.

We entered the front door and never joined the group that had congregated around the table to eat.

"I'm keeping you from your guests," I apologized.

"It's fine. I don't like most of them anyway," he joked. "William, will you please take Ms. Whitfield back to the inn?"

"Of course," William agreed.

Charlie and I followed William out to the car. He helped me into my seat and leaned on the open window frame for a moment.

"Goodbye, Charlie," I offered.

"Goodbye, Jess," he murmured back.

I watched him grow smaller from the back window, and he did the same from the steps of the house. I pondered if I was happy to have met Charlie Rapt, really meet him. Would I have preferred to continue in my fantasies about him? Romanticize on the handsome knight that saved me from the dating goblin? Or was I happy to know him? Was I happy hearing straight from C. Jonathan Rapt, the story of Andrew Sawyer? There was no answer, but still, I felt like there was more to Andrew Sawyer and the Meraki. Perhaps it was something that Andrew took with him, something that those closest to him were still searching for as well.

I woke up the following day with a heavy head. I wasn't just mourning the loss of Charlie. In my short time in Cedar Crest, I had fallen in love with the place. A part of me wanted to stay. Find a small cottage and sip Stina's brew over Millie's pancakes every weekend. Perhaps a book on sailing would be interesting.

I pulled myself up from the pillows and gazed at the door, willing a knock. With the new day, the wine would clear from Charlie's mind. It would only take a single ask to pull me to stay. Just a light knock on the door. I'd open it to find him there, his neck bowing, his dipped face obscuring his shy eyes. But the knock didn't come. I pulled myself from the bed and knew the inevitable next step. Many times, I had glanced over the commons, hoping to see Charlie settled on a bench, watching the waves roll in and out. Today I knew that I did not want to see Charlie on one of those benches. Charlie on one of those benches was his decision, his decision not to knock on my door.

I reluctantly opened the curtains to see him there, sitting on his bench. He felt so close, like I could call out to him despite the distance between us, but I knew he wouldn't answer. I had been here before in my dreams. This was always our path, long before Bernie decided to do a piece on Andrew Sawyer.

"Goodbye, Charlie," I whispered to the window. His head turned to the side for a moment, as though he had heard me.

I then drew the curtains shut and set out on my path home.