See Part 1 for Disclaimer

Rating:PG

Author's Notes: Okay, guys, here it is: self-indulgent romantic drivel, as promised. I couldn't help it. I had to. I think Sandy is my favorite of my originals; I had to make him happy. And yes, I know the names Darrah and Norah are extremely similar, but that's what they wanted to be called, you know? Also, a note on Josh calling the President 'Sam.' My feeling on the issue is, when Josh is extremely annoyed or extremely earnest, and the two of them are basically in private, I think he would call the President 'Sam.' That's just what I think, anyway. Per requests, Sam pops up in the next bit. If you stick with me, more of our favorite first generation Wwers will appear in the next bits.

Also, I need some input from you guys: If each of the original Wwers had a favorite American author, who would it be?

Thanks!

BTW, I am now posting on as well, under slimwhistler.

Feedback: Need I say it? Yes, please. I have a Philosophy midterm which I'm dreading, and feedback would make it all better!

5 Years Later

It's shaping up to be a good summer, I think, as I deftly sketch and shade the image of the giggling, wriggling pair of children in front of me. I sign my name with a flourish and hand over the caricature, smiling brightly as the mother fumbles in her purse for cash. A tip. Score! I nod my thanks and then turn to study the ocean.

I love it here. I love the feel of warm sand, the crash of the waves, the quiet mornings, the smell of sunscreen and candy. Hell, I even love the sounds of the arcades. In moderation.

So. I screwed up, but I got better; my family didn't give up on me, even when I wanted them to. And now here I am in the sunshine, in every sense of the word. God, I'm a sap, but there it is.

My parents agreed to leave me in peace for the summer. I just want time to myself. 21 is later than most for that, but ever since the night five years ago when Lisa found me downing Vicodin, they watched me. Even after I got back from rehab, even after graduation, even after I somehow managed to get into NYU. Mom didn't want me to go to New York, but Dad and my shrink backed me up. I grin. At least shrinks are good for something.

So. With a solid two years behind me, and independent access to my trust fund (courtesy of Leo, and my grandmother), I decided to come to Rehoboth. With some of my funds, I purchased what some might call a glorified shack. Located a stone's-throw from a fairly isolated stretch of beach, the weather-beaten structure gives me the privacy I'm looking for. Being somewhat dilapidated, I purchased it cheap and fixed up the lower level myself. My months at the ranch doing repairing and building stood me in good stead for this; the building is now definitely habitable. The"house" was basically two large rooms, an upper and a lower, and a bathroom, of course. I added slight partitions to distinguish the cooking and living areas, and secured the "folding stairs," making them a permanent fixture. While I like to do things myself, I'm not stupid, so I had a builder come and make sure the structure, especially the upper level, was safe. Now all I have to do is fix up the second floor.

No hurry, though. The first floor serves me fine, and besides, who wants to work inside on a day like this? I turn back to my sketch pad, only to have a shadow fall across it. I look up.

"I was watching you work. I hope you don't mind."

A girl, probably a little younger than I am. She's wearing flip flops, a tank top, and overalls with the legs rolled up. Her thick brown hair is in a French braid, and she's wearing oval, black-rimmed glasses. I would have thought she was much younger, except for her eyes. They're gorgeous, a deep blue that verges on purple, but sad.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. I smile. "Not at all. Have a seat." I wait until she's got herself settled, sitting cross-legged on a convenient bench. I stick my pencil behind my ear and stick out a hand. "Hi. I'm Sandy."

She returns the handshake warmly. "Darrah. Darrah Morgan."

"So, Darrah Morgan," I say, as my pencil begins to subconsciously travel across the page, "what's your story?"

She stands up abruptly, flustered. "Oh, wait...I didn't mean...I can't...I thought we were..."

"Just talking," I finish. Yeah, we are. My hands just like to keep busy. They can't stay still when I have sketch paper in front of me, anyway. Give me a potato to peel or a checkbook to balance and I'll fall asleep right away." I smile. I hope that my dimples are showing. No! Not because I want to... I don't use them for that reason...usually, that is. It's just, they have a way of making people feel more at ease.

It seems to work, because after giving me a sheepish grin, she sits back down again. "I'm sorry. I guess I'm just not used to..."

"No, it's my fault. I should have asked first. It's just, sometimes I barely even realize..."

"No worries." She smiles, and it goes all the way to her eyes, and my stomach does a slight, but definite, flip-flop.

Uh-oh.

I have a feeling, that...ah...I may be on my way to being...ah... monumentally screwed. I really, I mean I totally, mean that in a non-literal way, of course...um...yeah.

Oh God.

Wow. I mean, I've seen him here for a while, but I've never talked to him. I just like to watch him work. He's so... intense. You can see that, even from across the boardwalk. And he looked pretty cute, with all that blond hair, but I never expected...

It was the dimples. I mean, seriously, how is a red-blooded American female supposed to withstand dimples like that?

It isn't possible.

And the eyes. A deep, chocolaty brown, with flecks of gold and green.

Kinda like Bambi.

Okay, that's really bad. Way too much Disney lately. Need distraction.

Conversation. Conversation is good. Speech. Good idea. Yes.

"I guess that signifies a true artist, though. The drawing, without..." I finish lamely, in response to his raised eyebrows. Smooth.

He laughs. "I guess so.

"How long have you been doing this?"

"What, caricatures or drawing?"

"Both, I guess."

"Well, the drawing since...forever. Always. Except for..." Here he pauses, and stares of into the distance as he runs a hand over the back of his neck. "Anyways," he continues, "I've been here since May, and on and off before then, fixing up my house. But I guess I started the caricatures in June. How about you?"

"Since June, as well. I work in a bookstore."

"Yeah? Nice. Where are you living? If you don't mind me asking, that is. I was just curious..."

He's cute when he's flustered. "Above the bookstore, if you can believe it. Miss Tildy rents the rooms out to her staff, if they want."

"Miss Tildy?" He looks as though he might start snickering in a minute.

"Yes, Miss Tildy. Don't mock. She's a very... formidable person."

"You said 'mock.'"

Huh? "Yeah, I did. I like that word. Why? Is something..."

He grins, and the dimples peek out again. "Just a family thing...It just reminded me of something. So, listen, I've got to..."

Suddenly, his words are drowned out by a shrill cry of: "Mommy!"

"Uh-oh," he murmurs, and before I can say a word, he heads off in the direction of the cry. I follow, and quickly see the source: a little boy, about four or five, in swim trunks, t-shirt, and sandals, covered in sand and splotches of tears.

"Hey, buddy," Sandy says, "what's wrong?"

"I can't find Mommy!" he sobs. "I went to the window to look at the hermit crabs, and when I turned around she was gone!" He breaks down, and Sandy pats him on the back.

"Honey," I say, kneeling down, "what's your name?"

"Emmett," he replies tearfully.

"Hi, Emmett. I'm Darrah, and this is my friend Sandy. We're gonna help you find your mom, okay?"

"Okay," he whispers.

"Where do you live, bud?"

"In a hotel. A pink one."

I look around. There are at least half a dozen pink hotels along the boardwalk. "Okay," Sandy says cheerfully. "Good start. But Emmett, my friend, before we do anything else, I have to ask you a very important question, okay?"

Emmett nods, biting his lip.

"Do you," Sandy waggles his eyebrows, "like ice cream?"

Emmett giggles slightly, then nods quickly. While I'm relieved that he's no longer crying, I try and catch Sandy's eye. Everything I've learned from babysitting tells me that you don't give kids food their parents didn't authorize, especially sweets, and especially when they're this young, no matter what they say. But Sandy's already off and running.

"Thank goodness!" Sandy says in exaggerated relief. "I was sure you were going to say no. Tell you what, once one of those nice policemen over there helps us find your mom, I'll ask her if I can take you out for an ice cream cone. Deal?"

"Deal!" Emmett cries happily.

The dimples were bad enough. There's no way I can conceivably resist this.

So. Darrah and me. Yeah, things have been going pretty fast, there, and really slow, too. I mean, we spend insane amounts of time together, but we haven't actually done anything, beyond some kissing, and, ah, snuggling. Which actually suits me fine. There's no way I'm pushing her; I'm her first real boyfriend, and she's shy and unsure about a lot of things.

Come to think of it, so am I. I know it might be clichéd, but I've never felt like this about a girl before. I want to be with her all the time, make sure nobody, nothing, ever hurts her. 'Cause she's hurt enough.

That's what we've been doing, finding out about one another. Her parents died in a car accident when she was nine and her older brother, Dave, was sixteen. She was in foster care for a few years, and then Dave got custody. She had to help out a lot, and work once she could, but she says it was all worth it, because she got to stay with Dave. When I think about what I was doing at sixteen or so, and how my parents had to haul me out of that hole, kicking and screaming, I can't imagine being essentially alone like that.

That's one thing I haven't told her, about the pills. I mean, what am I supposed to say? I don't want to scare her off, and I don't think, "Guess what, sweetheart? I might be falling in love with you, and oh, by the way, did I mention I'm a recovered drug addict?" would go over so well. Nope, I don't think so. I'll tell her eventually, I just...

Wait. Did I just say I was falling in love with her?

Huh.

I glance toward the door, willing Sandy to come walking in. God, I'm acting like a six year-old at Christmas. I can't help it, though, and I don't think you could blame me. The last months have just felt so, I don't know, wondrous.

He taught me how to play beach volleyball first. I'll never forget that day: hot sand, blue sky, fries tangy with vinegar, that sun-streaked hair falling continually over his forehead, and always, always, those warm brown eyes shining at me.

I guess you can gather that wasn't our last date.

It's just been little things: wonderful, sweet, simple things. A campfire, deliciously gooey with s'mores laughter, and kisses; loud, raucous games of Monopoly; watching the sun lower over the ocean silently as he sketched; riding the roller-coasters until we were nearly sick with giddiness; watching him play his guitar when he didn't know I was behind him; seeing him melt as I begged him to take the scruffy little dog I rescued home with him, even as he fought to say no...

Can you really blame me?

I brought Darrah frozen custard, with sprinkles, her favorite, just so I could see her eyes light up. Before I go in, I hide the cup behind my back. Once inside, I whip it out, and her eyes brighten like those of a greedy child. Just as I'm about to start teasing her, I hear a voice behind me: "You're going to have to start earning your keep around here, beatnik."

I turn. It's Darrah's boss, Matilda Wilcott. "Excuse me?"

"You can't just come in here and distract my staff and get away Scot free. I was thinking some drawings, of authors, ones people would know."

I'm dumbfounded. "Huh?"

She blows out a breath exasperatedly. "Drawings, boy, drawings! Of famous American authors! Darrah tells me you draw." When I don't respond, she presses. "Well, do you?"

"Uh, y-yes, Ma'am."

"Well, good. That's settled, then. I'll pay you, of course. You can start soon?"

"Su- Wait, what?" I am so confused.

"Honestly, boy, don't you listen? Or are you so shaggy that your hair blocks your ears? Get Darrah to explain it to you. I don't have any more time to waste." With that, she stalks off.

I whirl on Darrah. "What just happened?" I demand.

"I believe you just offered to do some drawings of famous American authors," she tells me, a smile twitching at the corners of her mouth.

"I did not! I was, um, coerced! Bamboozled! Tricked!"

"Well, you offered," she says sweetly. "Sandy, don't pout; I'll come over tonight and we'll talk about it."

I do my best to look hopefully pitiful. "With banana bread?" Don't laugh, Darrah's a great cook; she's going to culinary school in the fall, and out of all the fabulous things she makes, her banana bread is the most fabulous. Definitely worth playing the pitiful card, jibes about my manhood be damned.

"I suppose, since you managed to behave yourself."

I am so good.

The next day, Darrah and I are sitting in Ms. Walcott's kitchen, explaining our idea. "So, like you said, drawings, fifteen of them, of American authors, Hemingway, Twain, Cather. Only not just of the authors themselves, but with characters, motifs, themes from their books, and their lives."

"But those will just be sketches," Darrah chimes in excitedly. "Color sketches, but sketches."

"I don't understand."

"Well, we were thinking: I could combine the sketches and turn them into a mural. That way it'd cost you less, and..."

Ms. Wilcott's eyes narrow. "Are you implying-"

"No, of course he's not, Miss Tildy," Darrah placates soothingly. "That's just another part of our wonderful idea!"

"Go ahead, then."

Darrah continues. "Sandy will do the sketches, so you can see them, and then the mural. And then, when he's done, it'll be so wonderful that everyone will want the sketches and we can auction them to raise money!" she concludes triumphantly.

"You can do whatever you want with it," I add quickly. "Donate it, keep it, whatever."

"Why would you do this?" Ms. Walcott asks, studying me intently.

"So I could spend time with Darrah," I say, blushing slightly in response to her beaming smile. "And, I like to make people happy. I like it when they enjoy my art."

"And what makes you think you're good enough, that people would want to pay money for these sketches of yours, hmmmm?"

"Because I am," I say firmly.

"You might just be," she says slowly.

"Thank you, Ms. Wilcott."

"You won't regret it, Miss Tildy, I promise!"

She grunts. Well, Darrah has faith in you, at least. That counts for something. You best call me Miss Tildy, boy. I don't fancy standing on formality with a beatnik who paints on my walls." She makes an abrupt exit again.

I stare at Darrah, open-mouthed. "I think the 'beatnik' thing is a term or endearment," she says helpfully.

"Incredible."