Steve hemmed and hawed a little before getting down to business. “Jon, I ... errr ... know that you have quite a few parties with a circle of friend... in the building.” He looked at me hoping I’d understand the issue. I didn’t unless he was going to start preaching to me about sin and salvation, neither of which I believed in.He went on, “You have ... well ... this is awkward ... three people from the five-person Board at your parties – you, of course; Sara Slarinsky, and Brittany Melaconi.”I. The image of the young man didn’t fade from memory as the stories we wove did. Later, in Hilton Head, he was there in my dreams—and so was a concept of a house on the river, a house called Fiddler’s Rest. By Tuesday night, I couldn’t take it anymore. On Wednesday I pushed a confused and mouthy Julie into my Mustang convertible and we were headed back to Beaufort. I’d looked up Fiddler’s Rest on the Internet, so I knew exactly what Realtor to go to. I gulped at the asking price, but it was. More

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