Chapter 3
It shouldn’t have taken so much back-and-forth to get me out of the house, because now that I was headed to the cabin, I was
sort of getting excited about it. It was only a week, but a week could unlock something.
Just as I pulled out of the driveway, my phone pinged with an email notification. When I came to a stoplight, I stole a peek
at the screen. It was from Dana. Her biweekly newsletter, Encouraging the Writer, had come through. I’d miss it when she was gone. She’d been with me from the beginning of my career. I’d never worked with
anyone else, but I should have considered that she was in her sixties when she signed me, so that meant if I lasted in this
business, I’d likely outlast her, but this wasn’t the time for shifting.
The ride to the campus of the literacy center took almost an hour. Getting in was easy. I’d received a text message with two
codes—one to enter the main gate behind the center and the second for the lockbox on my cabin doorknob.
I’d been told on the phone that I would not miss the cabin. Once I came through the gate, it was a half mile down the road on the left. A carved wood sign was posted outside that read: Writer in Residence.
Isn’t that cozy.
I pulled my car onto the parking pad. Luxurious was accurate. Very accurate for the outside. It exuded rustic charm and cozy
elegance at the same time. The weathered oak exterior blended seamlessly with the surrounding trees, while large, mullioned
windows offered a peek into the warm glow of the interior. A screened porch. My favorite thing. This one was adorned with
a rocking chair and a small wooden table. I couldn’t wait to sit and sip tea while soaking in the symphony of birdsong and
other wildlife. Screened porches were a must for me in the summer, lest the bugs feast on my flesh. If the blood-type thing
for mosquitoes was true, I had the type they wanted.
I slipped out of the car and removed my suitcase and laptop bag from the trunk. Balancing both along with my purse and the
latte I picked up during the drive wasn’t easy, but I managed to make one trip without sloshing coffee.
Inside, the cabin was even more inviting than the outside. Vaulted wooden ceilings, exposed beams, and walls lined with filled
bookshelves were the first things I saw. A large desk sat near a picture window that looked out at a breathtaking view of
the woods, complete with a stream in the distance that glistened in the sunlight. I parked my suitcase and put everything
else down on the foyer table.
I took a moment to soak in the inviting living room before venturing farther inside.
The polished hardwood floors felt solid beneath my feet, and the air smelled faintly of something clean, like freshly laundered linens.
A throw blanket, soft and nubby, had been staged over the arm of a plush leather armchair beside a fashionable wheelbarrow table, which had a pile of coffee table books doing what they do best—drawing the eye.
There were thoughtful details: a handwoven rug, a vase of fresh wildflowers, and an antique typewriter tucked in one corner.
Cute. Cute. Cute.
I could imagine myself sinking into that chair with my laptop or a good book, completely losing track of time.
From the living room, my eyes were drawn to the wall that separated the space from the kitchen. It was adorned with framed
quotes—powerful words from some of the greatest writers ever to put pen to paper. The first one spoke to my soul. My literary
shero’s words on the wall. Maybe Beck was right about this place being where I was supposed to be.
A room to myself is a luxury that I do not always enjoy.
—Frances Ellen Watkins Harper
The prerequisite for writing is having something to say.
—Langston Hughes
The remarkable thing about this gift of ours is that it has its rise, I am convinced, in the very woes which beset us . . .
It is our emotional salvation.
—Jessie Redmon Fauset
—Frances Ellen Watkins Harper
—Langston Hughes
—Jessie Redmon Fauset
I stepped closer, trailing my fingers along the smooth edges of the frames. Each quote felt like a personal message, a quiet
encouragement to let go of whatever had been stifling my creativity and just write.
My insides fluttered, a flicker of hope sparking where there had been only frustration for weeks.
Maybe this place would be the inspiration I needed.
I stood there for a moment, pondering. Could I finally shake off this creative funk?
My lips twitched into a small, cautious smile. Maybe. Hopefully.
Past the wall of wisdom, the kitchen came into view, and it didn’t disappoint. Compact but thoughtfully designed, it had a
vintage charm with its farmhouse sink, open shelving, and a stove that looked like something out of a dream Pinterest board.
A small basket of fresh fruit sat on the counter alongside a handwritten note that read:
We hope this lovingly designed space sparks your creativity!
I smiled, suddenly grateful to whoever had curated this little piece of paradise and to Beck for believing it could be mine.
Before I reached the bedroom, the chime of my phone startled me out of my thoughts. I dashed back to the living room and fished
it out of my purse. Mom.
I hit Accept and answered what I knew would be Beck’s first question. “I’m here.”
“How is it?”
“Beautiful.”
Beck squealed, and the sound of her slapping her hands together was loud. “Oh goody. I’ve been praying it wasn’t some campground
fit for the Boy Scouts or something.”
I walked over to the wall of inspiration. “It’s not that. I kind of hate that you’re not here.”
Whenever I traveled anywhere remotely nice, I took Beck with me. Some of the writers’ conferences and events were little vacations
for my mother. She’d never had one when I was growing up. It was my way of giving her a night or two in a nice hotel with
a meal neither of us cooked.
“I wouldn’t invade your space for anything in the world right now. Once you have a big bestseller, we can go on the road again.”
My chest tightened. The pressure was returning, finding my fear. I needed to get off the phone with her before all the hope
I’d been feeling evaporated. “Let me settle in and get all my stuff put up. I’ll call later.”
“Don’t call,” Beck said. “Stay focused. Text me your word count. That way I’ll know a bear hasn’t eaten you.”
“I don’t think there are bears in this part of Charleston.”
“Well, avoid the gators. That land is a swamp.”
“Thanks for the reminder,” I said dryly, but I couldn’t help smiling.
After hanging up, I set the phone down and glanced around the room one more time. Maybe Beck was right. Maybe this little
cabin in the woods really could work its magic.