• That evening was one I remember well. I had been invited by Mr. Morrison to one of his exquisite dinner parties earlier that Saturday afternoon. Previously, when I had lived in New York, he was my neighbor, and many dies I spied him taking considerable notice of me as I came and left my manor. He seemed most interested by me, always out in his well-groomed lawn, offering a polite grin from what I could see of the distance. Our houses were a good deal apart, but not enough to see distant. His manor, admittedly, surmounted my own, its great white bricks towering high and proud. Even so, he was always admiring me and my estate, and so I was not surprised when I received his invitation.

    I had arrived in a sleek red dress, one that modestly fit my petite frame. I let my wavy chestnut hair fall and frame my face, bringing out my pale blue eyes. I decided to walk, seeing as he was my general next-door neighbor, and before long I was at his door politely knocking against the towering oak door. Pleasantly it creaked as one of Mr. Morrison's servants slowly opened it, politely waving me in without a word to say. I step cautiously into the main hall, staring momentarily at the glistening chandelier highlighting the red hall. As the servant led me to the entrance of the parlor, I realized no more did I fit in than the single potted plant shoved in the corner of the hall. Nevertheless, Don Morrison picked me out almost instantly and nudged through his guests to greet me.

    "Ms. Veronica Holloway!" He greeted in a low, pleasant tone. "I'm glad you could make it."

    "Thank you, Mr. Morrison." I answered as his rough hands grasped my own hands, delicate in comparison. I'd never been able to see him so close, and although slightly rough I could describe him as roguishly handsome with well-groomed blonde hair and washed-out green eyes.

    "Do come join us." He urged with a grin.

    At this point I willingly followed him into the parlor. A good handful of guests seemed to stop sipping their wine glasses and chattering incessantly to stop and take a good look at me. I felt my face become hot as I looked over them for approval, but being met with scrutinizing eyes and upturned noses. I looked to Mr. Morrison in doubt, but he didn't seem to notice their judging looks. Rather, a pleasant grin had fitted to his thin lips as he placed an arm around my slender waist to guide me to the center of the room. He gestured me to sit, and so I did upon a fine, black leather couch. Between Mr. Morrison and I was an elegant pinewood table on a clean, florid rug. He sat in the matching loveseat opposite me.

    "So, Ms. Holloway, you've got a stately manor over the lawn." He stated, watching me with steady eyes.

    "It was my fathers." I answered matter-of-factly, my gave wandering from him to the other guests in the room.

    At this point in time that he began to ramble about rising property values and the benefits of a gazebo. I hardly noticed as I had noticed one individual in particular. He lingered among the outskirts of the guests, watching their antics with a look of disinterest in his misty, grey eyes. Occasionally, his free hand ran his fingers over his short brown hair, with his other hand hold a wine glass half-full. Mr. Morrison must have noticed my distraction, as his words faded and he stared at me curiously.

    "Do you agree, Ms. Holloway?" He questioned half-heartedly, seeming doubtful of my answer.

    "Yes." I responded simply, looking to him with a small grin. "Mr. Morrison, who is that standing over there?" I innocently asked, nodding to the individual lingering. Mr. Morrison turned around to get a brief look at him, before turning back to me with a short-lived chuckle.

    "Ah, Sam! A dear old friend of mine, from younger days of smaller fortune." Don explained casually, clasping his hands together in his lap.

    "Sam.. as in Samuel?" I inquired, allowing my vision to drift to him once more. He seemed to have spotted me now, watching me with those bright, intoxicating eyes. Startled, my jaws dropped slightly as I hurriedly returned my attention to Don Morrison.

    "That's right," He spoke, giving a brief nod. "Samuel Dulle. Nothing less or more than a sly businessman."

    I would have prodded him for more information, however we were interrupted by the entrance of another. She sat boldly next to Don Morrison, sparkling brown eyes falling on me with judging curiousity. Clad in a rather plain black dress, her strawberry-blonde hair was pulled back in a neat bun. She extended her hand to me, her wrist clad with fancy white gold bracelets.

    "Elizabeth Toole." She greeted hastily, looking over to Mr. Morrison. Politely, I grasped her hand. "Are you the neighbor?"

    Hurriedly, almost embarrassed, Mr. Morrison interrupted, "Yes, yes this is Ms. Veronica Holloway." He said rather loudly, looking over to Elizabeth with a questionable look. She batted her lashes and crossed her arms.

    "He likes to talk about you." She splurted, much to Mr. Morrison's dislike, and his cheeks burned red. I let out a hesitant chuckle, looking back to where I had been watching this Samuel Dulle. However, he must have moved, and so I looked back to Mr. Morrison and Ms. Toole.

    "Excuse me," I pleaded, standing slowly as to judge their acceptance. Mr. Morrison stared at me blankly while Ms. Toole nodded graciously. She grasped his clasped hands and began to chatter as I carefully navigated around the loveseat and into the bustle of the party. For a party, it was rather contained, although tipsy, loud chatter was evident, and everyone now seemed loosely friendly. I received, contrary to my entrance, many smiles as I made a beeline through the handful of guests.

    Finally, I found Samuel Dulle, having a rather casual conversation with a small woman who seemed a good deal more interested in he than he was in her. Almost as if he sensed my presence, he looked up from her quickly, tilting his head slightly. I read his lips as he excused himself, walking around the discontented lady and up to me. I straightened my posture as I looked up at him, a bit shorter than he. His presence was warming, and I almost wanted to gasp as he came up to me.

    "You Don's gal?", was the first thing he spoke, overlooking me quickly and contently. I could tell he was judging me just from how I held myself, and I almost became lost in his judging yet, at the same time, welcoming look.

    "What? No," I began, my voice a bit more feminine than before. I allowed myself to relax. "I've never spoken to him before.." I said, hurriedly adding, "Before tonight, anyways."

    He raised his brows in disbelief, and tilted his chin up some. "Ah, I see. Well, he sure does fancy you." He noted, taking a sip of his glass that was still, remarkably, half-full. He glanced momentarily to him and Ms. Toole.

    "I see?" I said, lacking confidence in my answer. "Ms. Toole seems even more interested in him."

    As I said this he laughed kindly, tilting his head higher as he did so. He looked upon me now with slight admiration.

    "Elizabeth? Ah, they've known each other since childhood. They did fancy each other once, but they realized it was better off as friends." His explanation made it clear to me as I looked over at Ms. Toole slowly. She leaned in close to Mr. Morrison adoringly, and I could sense that although his passions were gone, she still had some.

    "Anyways, am I too late to catch your name?" he pried slyly, his voice a bit lower than before. I looked back at him and cleared my throat, looking towards the polished, pinewood floor before I spoke.

    "Veronica Holloway." I greeted friendly, extending my hand to him. He grasped it with both of his, as had Mr. Morrison, and shook it gently.

    "Samuel Dulle," he offered, although I could detect that he knew I was well aware of his name. "That's a strong name, Ms. Veronica Holloway."

    "Please, just Veronica." For a moment we were silent, oblivious of the commotion around us, until Don Morrison, Elizabeth Toole, and another party of two approached. Mr. Morrison gracefully extended his arm around my waist again and spun me slightly to face him.

    "Will you dance, Veronica?" Mr. Morrison asked, assumingly having heard my preference to be called just 'Veronica'. I nodded once before looking to Samuel, whose attention fixed on the party of two accompanying as he lifted his glass to him. Eagerly, Mr. Morrison swept me away, and my last glance at Samuel Dulle found him lost again in the guests.

    Although the rest of my night was spent chatting with Mr. Morrison and his numerous guests, and occasionally being interrupted by a fairly tipsy Ms. Toole, my mind was elsewhere. Out of the large amount of time I spent there I had touched only one drink, and I sipped it slowly. Somehow, this Samuel Dulle, in so little words, had captured my mind. And I was already made up to see him again, whatever effort that may take.