The sculptor Andre DuPierre lived in a vine covered cottage in the village of Sussex. He would take a walk each morning. The passersby would not speak to the bent, old man, and he would not speak to them. Oh, they would give him a glimpse as he walked on, often wondering how a man so frail could ever master a ton of granite stone. If truth be known, many of those silent observers wondered how such an eccentric, odd fellow could create such works of beauty. The sculptor DuPierre, himself, did not know how he did such things, but he had done them, over and over again.
DuPierre liked to drink coffee at the far corner table in the Three Ravens Cafe. He drank his coffee alone, spending hours looking into his coffee and gazing out through the leaded lattice window that had a view of the bay. Yet there were those rare days when he would sit with the young woman who nobody else knew. She was a dark haired stranger who wore white cotton dresses and often had daisies in her hair. Her voice spoke in soft whispers except when she laughed at something DuPierre would say, then her voice had the sound of glass wind chimes. But most often, DuPierre drank his coffee alone, black, no milk, no sugar, just black.