That’s what I’m thinking as I plug Cameron’s address in to my GPS and drive over to his house. I’m semi-familiar with the area, seeing as how I’ve lived in Miami all my life, but it never ceases to amaze me all the little nook and cranny neighborhoods in some of the smaller enclaves that I discover the longer I live here. His modest little bungalow is at the end of a street that is lined with fruit trees, ficus trees, and lots and lots of palm trees. There is a wooden privacy fence with a gate on his property, and it’s overgrown with beautiful shrubs and ivy that make it look like it’s been there for ages. It makes me think that Cameron’s picked the perfect house for himself since it’s simple and understated, yet gorgeous and classic . . . much like the man who lives inside of it. After parking my car in his driveway, I grab the chilled bottle of white wine, get out, and with equal amounts of fear of the unknown and anticipation, I make it up the stone path to his front door and knock.
