Chapter 2 Heartless Cappuccino Elizabeth
Heartless Cappuccino
Elizabeth
Awriter’s world is a world built on routine.
Sure, it is shaped by passion, by vision, by those extraordinary bursts of light, moments of “knowing.” But its foundation is rather dull.
And I had mine: morning water, beach walk, pair of hard-boiled eggs, cup of coffee.
A moment alone with my journal on the front porch, clearing my mind.
Then writing. Two thousand words, come hell or high water.
Except . . . I hadn’t written one stark word in more than three years.
Yet today I woke up feeling levelheaded, hopeful, ready.
Yes, it had been a while since I had written.
But today was the day that would change all that.
I threw on my exercise clothes, had my glass of water, and laced my shoes.
The morning air felt warm and good, the sand smooth and nearly untouched by humans this early.
The seagulls sang, and waves lapped the shore, and by the time I had had my eggs and my coffee, I knew I was ready.
I sat in my favorite chair on the porch, admiring the water, my legs curled around me.
I opened a brand-new notebook, took out a pen, and willed myself to write.
Something. Anything. This didn’t have to be for a book.
It could be the smell of coffee. The birdsong.
My thoughts about my future. But it wouldn’t come.
Determined to get through this, I went inside and traded my new notebook for an old, well-worn one. It was full, but I managed to find a half-empty page. I reread what I had written three years ago to jog my memory and, once again, attempted to put pen to paper.
My hand simply would not move.
I took a sip of coffee and looked out over the water.
It was so calm, so placid. I thought about Anthony, my late husband, about our beautiful life together.
I had been his forthright, motivated, diligent wife.
I was glad he couldn’t see me now. Even still, I couldn’t muster but so much anger at myself.
I was healing; it was a process. I had tried, and I would try again tomorrow.
And the next day. It would come. I knew it would.
I finished my coffee and went inside my big empty house to put the mug in the dishwasher.
Anthony and I had fantasized about a house at the end of the island, between the sound for him and the ocean for me.
It was a rare plot of land, an extraordinary dream.
And the irony that I found myself calmest, most held, on his sound side now wasn’t lost on me.
I loved this old house, the way that it rambled.
First, it had been a tiny fishing shack.
Through the years, one owner had added a new kitchen, another a primary bedroom and bath.
Anthony and I had added a garage and a sunroom, and reconfigured the floor plan quite a bit to create our dream home.
I loved the original moldings, the leaded-glass windows, the mail slot on the old front door with its giant brass lock.
It, like me, still held all its scars, remnants of the iterations it had lived through.
This house, like me, had always been a work in progress.
I needed to clear my mind. I took to the beach again and made my way to Salty Sip for a perfect cappuccino, always my second and final cup of the day, once my reward for finishing my words, now one of the treats I gave myself for simply managing to breathe throughout the morning.
I noticed right away that my usual coffee girl wasn’t there when I ordered. She made the best coffee in the city, and, well, I’d never say it out loud, but I enjoyed the heart she drew in the foam.
I was sitting on the porch at my favorite weathered teak table, looking out at the seagulls diving into the ocean, practically bathing in cicada song, when my darling son burst through the door in a polished suit and tie.
He looked like he wanted to murder me. Well, perhaps murder me was hyperbolic. But what can I say? I’m a writer.
“Are you kidding me?” he asked, sliding into the seat across from me.
“Well, good morning to you, too, darling. Yes, my drink is fine, but not quite as good as usual. Thank you for asking.”
As if I’d said nothing, he hiss-whispered, “Mother, Victoria just called and said you missed your deadline again. It has been three years.”
My heart pounded at the mention. I obviously knew exactly how long it had been since I had poured my heart out on the page.
At first, I thought it was writer’s block.
Now I suspected it was fear that tapping into that deepest part of myself might make me face all the emotions I had been avoiding.
Or, perhaps, it was fear that I had lost my touch.
The sales for my last two books had been down.
By not writing, was I protecting myself from the very real possibility that this career I loved so much was over for me?
That I, at sixty-two, was no longer relevant to a readership that preferred its romance novels with fairies and dragons?
But I would never say that to my son. With him, I tried, always, to be that stoic pillar of a mother that I felt a man needed to be able to count on—in life and especially in our business dealings, since he was my agent. The best one I’d ever had, in fact.
He sat down and sighed. “She wants you to use a ghostwriter.”
A laugh burst out of me. “Well, I hope you told her no.”
“I can’t tell her no. We have no leg to stand on.”
“Grady, you can’t be serious!”
“Mother, you are seriously in breach of contract.” He leaned forward.
“Look, I’m worried about you. I know the last three years without Dad have been hard, but you are a writer.
You take nothing and create an entire world for people to lose themselves in.
Your readers need you. And, Mom, I think you need them.
Getting back to the page, going back out on tour . . . It’s time.”
A familiar pain gripped my heart. My cappuccino might be heartless, but I was not. “I will if you will.”
Grady looked puzzled. “What?”
I softened a little. My Grady and my Anthony could always do that: soften me. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed that you haven’t been on so much as a date since Dad died.” I paused. “And you are my perfect, devilishly handsome boy, so I know it isn’t because women aren’t interested.”
We both laughed, but it was a little true. I did think he was perfect. So what? I birthed him. It was my prerogative.
I took his hand across the table. “Seriously. I know we don’t talk about it much, but are you afraid to get close to anyone after losing him?”
A glimmer of recognition passed across Grady’s face. “If I say yes, will you accept the ghostwriting offer?”
I smiled. We had always been close, but Anthony’s death had brought us closer.
Us against the world. Grady knew I was right; I knew that he was.
I thought back to this morning and all the other mornings the past three years that I had undertaken a similar ritual only to discover that I simply could not put the words on the page.
This could be my solution. Or at least a stopgap.
“I will meet with this writer. That is all.”
Grady stood and picked up his phone.
“Where are you going?” I called.
“Victoria is going to be so excited,” he said, turning back to me.
“I haven’t said yes,” I reminded him. “At the very most, tell her we’ll see.”
But he wasn’t just my agent; Grady was my son. And he knew that, when it came to him, “we’ll see” almost always translated to yes.