Chapter 2
My subdivision was nestled between the salt marsh—interwoven with creeks edged in sweetgrass—and a village shopping center.
The water offered a quiet that moved with the tide, while the shopping center offered the best bookstore and lattes a writer
could ask for. There were a few other stores, but none mattered more than the coffee shop right now. My anxiety was on ten,
and that required caffeine, sugar, and oat milk.
I reached for my cup and took a sip. It was lukewarm already. Could nothing be perfect right now?
I picked up my pen and wrote:
Hero inherits his mother’s coffee shop on James Island. He hires a barista, a single mother who, no matter how hard he tries
to teach her, can’t seem to make the coffee right, but he’s attracted to her, so he doesn’t fire her. Will he choose love
or his mother’s legacy?
I cocked my head, considering my note. Was this dumb, or did it have potential? I honestly didn’t know anymore.
I needed an idea. A smart one.
Just then, someone jostled my table, rattling my latte dangerously close to my open laptop.
“My bad,” a man said, rushing past with a to-go tray packed with four coffees. I pressed a napkin against the splash on the
table. This was the story of my life—barely hanging on, about to spill over.
I leaned back in my chair and tried to focus, but the hum of the coffee shop wrapped around me like static, so I did what
most writers do—eavesdrop.
Two women sat at the table in front of me, one sharing the highlights of a heated conversation, her voice sharp as espresso.
“I told him if he doesn’t fix that ramp, I’m not going to the boat again.”
At the table to my right, a college-age kid announced into her phone, “Mom, I’ve decided. I can’t stand statistics.” She paused
a beat and then added, “I told you I want to be a poet.” Her words hung in the air, equal parts brave and naive.
And then behind me, from the group of yoga moms (or women who loved yoga clothing), came a laugh that shook the walls after
one squawked out her pain. “You don’t know how tired you can actually be until you’ve had your third child!”
I scribbled phrases in my notebook:
Couple in conflict over a boat.
A statistics professor needs the help of an English professor to write his dissertation.
I was lost on the tired-mom thing. I had no idea what that looked like. Either way, the other two did not rouse my muse, but
they were words. Germs of ideas I’d let swirl around in my head.
My table jolted again, and this time I looked up, ready to glare. My best friend, writing soul sister, and former college roommate, Patricia Cheves, slipped into the chair across from me. “You’re here,” she said, as if I were the one who had kept her waiting.
“I said I’d meet you.”
She arched a brow. “Doesn’t mean you would. You’ve got a touch of agoraphobia.”
I pursed my lips before correcting her. “Agoraphobia is fear of leaving the house. I’m not afraid to go out.”
Trish leaned in. “And how do you think it starts, hon?” Then she was on her feet, fishing her wallet out of the enormous sack
she called a handbag. “I’m going to get a drink. Don’t go diagnosing yourself as normal while I’m gone.”
She joined the line of customers.
Trish was not wrong about me. I was becoming increasingly antisocial. I started therapy two years ago, the catalyst being
my ex-boyfriend’s exit from my life and concern that I was just two ticks past homebody, not going out with my small friend
group because of the shame of it. The shame being that he got married three months after we broke up. I needed to reconcile
how I had chosen him and why I had put up with him for so long. Therapy helped with that.
Of course my therapist, now ex-therapist, wanted to dig into my past. It was a place that included a series of other broken
relationships and a deceased father who died before I got a chance to know him. I’d been raised not to dwell in the past,
my mother’s other mantra being “There’s nothing to see there.” But still I wondered if I needed to start sessions again. I
was shrinking into my soul, personally and clearly professionally.
I tapped the space bar and opened a browser and typed, Causes of severe writer’s block.
I hit Enter, scrolled until I found a title that interested me, and read. By the time I reached the end of the article, the writer determined she was blocked due to depression. I frowned. Maybe I was depressed too.
Google would tell me, in that scary you’re-likely-about-to-die kind of way Google always did. I searched for a reputable site,
because of course writers know how to do proper research. The first line stated, “People don’t always know they’re depressed.”
It listed the signs as persistent sadness, feelings of failure, hopelessness, and irritability. Then there were the more severe
indicators like not wanting to go outside, a loss of interest in activities, and difficulty concentrating.
I had all these things and more. The signs that hadn’t manifested yet were likely simmering below the surface. But weren’t
these signs of perimenopause too? I’d googled that last week when I thought I had a hot flash. One peek at the thermostat,
which was set on roast by my mother, and I realized Peri was still where she belonged—in the future.
I sighed and clicked out of the browser. The internet was a dangerous place when you were self-diagnosing, which of course
Trish just told me not to do. Lamenting over my mental health wasn’t necessary. A good idea could fix most of my problems.
A ping signaled a new email. I clicked on the tab to bring it forward. It was from Ancestry. The subject line read:
DNA Match. Possible First Cousin
Ancestry. I hadn’t received an email from them in a good while. I clicked before I could stop myself. The message was from a woman
named Joy Murray. Her profile picture was obscured by a large summer hat—straw, bright yellow, festive and light—so I couldn’t
make out her features.
Hi Alexandra,
I think we might be related. According to Ancestry, we’ve matched as first cousins. I’d love to compare notes.
Joy Murray
“Valerie.” Trish’s voice cut through my thoughts. I looked up, and the bookstore manager was approaching the table just as
Trish was returning.
I closed my laptop.
Trish, ever the toucher, placed a hand on Valerie’s shoulder. “I got your text about the order.”
“Good,” Valerie said. “I increased the order to two cases. I need the books signed when they come in.”
Trish put her cup down on the table and clapped like a child at a parade. “Signing books. My favorite thing to do.”
Valerie dropped her eyes to mine, and I greeted her. “Did you ladies get an email from Friends about the book sales?” she
asked.
I had to search my brain for a quick second to remember what she was talking about, and then I recalled the event I was doing
with Charleston Friends of the Library. Anything that had landed in my box after Sally’s email remained unopened.
Trish retrieved her phone from her jacket pocket and swiped the screen. “I have it.”
Valerie did what reading would have accomplished. She filled us in. “It’s about the sales. I’ll be carrying both your books
for the event.”
“Cool,” I said. Trish added her own version of acknowledgment. We liked working with Valerie. Selling through independent
stores was important to us.
Valerie’s phone rang and she answered, waving goodbye as she rushed to the counter with it at her ear.
Trish sat. She removed the lid from her cup and stirred. “It’s noisy in here. Are you getting any work done?”
“No, but I have been ear hustling.”
Trish did a quick scan of the surrounding tables. “Anything interesting?”
I shrugged. “It’s hard to say. My brain is locked. All I can think about is Sally’s email.”
Trish pulled her laptop out of her bag. She was undoubtedly thinking of words to tamp down my despair.
Just in case she was trying to read me, trying to pinpoint where my head was at so she could find the right best-friendism
for all that ailed me, I helped her with my exact thought. “I feel like a failure.”
Trish picked up her coffee, which appeared to be steaming hot—lucky her—and took a sip before speaking. “You’re not a failure.”
Our eyes locked, mine speaking sardonically louder than hers with no dial back. I said what I said.
Trish tapped a finger against her cup, watching me the way only a best friend can. “Do you remember the gift you gave me for
graduation?”
I sighed. She was about to go deep. “Of course. A book by Frances Ellen Watkins Harper, A Brighter Coming Day.”
Trish nodded. “And in it there was a quote you tabbed from a speech she gave in 1875. Shall I read?”
“I remember it—”
Before I could get my words out, Trish turned her laptop around.
Her screensaver was that quote. I read the words of the woman I considered to be my elder literary ancestor: “Apparent failure may hold in its rough shell the germs of a success that will blossom in time, and bear fruit throughout eternity.” And then I swallowed something I couldn’t quite name—part shame, part relief.
Trish raised her cup and deadpanned, “You’ve written twenty-nine books. That’s not failure. You’ve got more books than folks
have excuses. You just need a new story, not a new career.”
The thing about having a best friend who is a writer is she knows my backstory and she’s good at editing until she finds the
best version of the words my heart needs. The cagey, bitter author’s advice wasn’t what I was supposed to be remembering.
Frances Harper did not give up. She had the big-main-character legacy I needed to focus on.
Trish’s eyes swept the room. “When did this place get so busy?” She was not one to belabor a point. My heart had received
her message, and she was ready to move on.
I didn’t fight the little smile that split my lips. “It’s almost summer.”
Trish nodded and took a sip of her coffee as if she’d forgotten where I lived. She resided in downtown Charleston, which was
bustling with activity all the time. With the harbor around the corner and the beach less than two miles away, warm weather