Chapter 6 #3
“I didn’t make it for me. I don’t drink coffee unless I’m being social.
I made it for Gabriel. He’s almost done with the children.
He takes a cup to go every time he leaves.
” She opened a cabinet and pulled out a box.
“This is Ethiopian coffee. He keeps it up here for perking the old-fashioned way.”
“I’ve had it before,” I said, examining the familiar bag. I’d tasted it for book research once when Trish and I visited King
Bean Coffee Roasters. “I wouldn’t dream of taking his cup.”
“But you want the pleasure of coffee, and I’ve offered it to you.”
I stood there for a second, taking in her eyes. How did she know that I was secretly salivating?
Ms. Kate reached for mugs and poured two half cups. “Cream, sugar?”
“Both,” I said.
She fixed it and handed me a mug. “Sit. Let’s get to know each other more.”
I sat, and she joined me.
“What oona writing?”
“I’m still trying to figure it out.”
“You have writing partners? Gabriel talk about that all the time . . . writer tribe, he call it.”
“Kind of. My best friend is also a novelist. But other than her, I’ve been on my own for most of my writing career.”
“By design or default?”
“Probably both.”
“Hmm,” Ms. Kate said, sipping.
“I’ve been going through a rough patch with my writing lately. There have been some changes at my publishing house, and I’ve
been struggling to find a project they want.”
“Aren’t you supposed to write what you want to write?”
“Yes and no. More yes than no, but publishing is a business. It’s a partnership.”
“But it can no work like that for creatives. We have to feel what we create.”
I thought about her beautiful paintings and knew she understood.
“Well, I need something more original than what I’ve given them, or I’m not going to have a book deal.”
“How many books do you have?”
“Twenty-nine.” I took a sip of coffee. “I’m starting to think I’m tapped out of creativity.”
“Near thirty? Iffin you’ve written that many books, this is yer gift. There’s no limit on dat.”
“It feels like there is. It feels like I’m out of ideas. Finding something fresh is hard. Not finding it is scary.”
“I can’t pretend to know what writers need, but I have found that creativity comes from inside the heart, not the brain. You
don’t have to search for it.”
We sat there for a moment, both drinking the coffee and saying nothing in particular, before she spoke again.
“So where are you from?”
“I live on James Island.”
“That’s far.”
“Far enough not to commute. Charleston County has changed.”
“The traffic makes it bigger than it should be,” she said.
“The cabin is lovely.”
“Lotta good writin’ come out of dere. Oona soon find a new story.”
“I hope so.”
“You will. Writers rent it, and when dem leave, dey talk about how inspired dey were.”
“I thought it was reserved for the writer in residence.”
“It is. Whoever the writer is that’s in dere is in residence.” She laughed like she tickled herself, and I found it adorable.
“Gabe would stay some nights, but he only live about fifteen minutes away,” she said. “It was rented out on the Air BB.” She waved her hand as she stood and took her mug to the sink. “Whatever oona call it.”
“Airbnb.”
“That’s right, and Vrbo, and through a local Realtor.”
“If I saw it on a website, I’d rent.”
“Gabe decorated it himself.”
I blinked through the reality of that. “Really? He has a good eye.”
“And a writer’s heart. He had help with putting it together, but the design was his.”
“It’s impressive.” Wondering what other hidden talents he might have, I took the last sip of my coffee. “Well, my mug is empty”—I
tilted it in her direction like I was showing my mother I ate all my food—“and I need to get some work done.” Just the thought
of it snatched my joy.
“I don’t think you should worry about losing your book contract,” Ms. Kate said. She said it like she had some wisdom from
beyond. “If you think on that, the fear will keep you from the story inside.” She pointed at her chest. “It’s fear un no.”
It was such a Gullah woman thing for her to read me. “I have been anxious.”
“I learned a long time ago that the best way to combat fear is to tell it to stay in its place.”
I looked at her curiously, but she didn’t explain.
She walked to a closet and pulled the door open, removing a mop. The floor was spotless. The entire building was.
I took my cup to the sink and turned on the water.
“I’ll get that,” she said. “I have my ways. Cleaning and wiping are a nervous habit.”
There was something about this woman that did not lead me to believe she got nervous about anything, but I took her at her
word.
“It was a pleasure to talk to you, Alexandra. I have a feeling we’re going to get to know each other very well.”
I smiled again. “That would be nice.” I hated leaving the unclean cup in the sink, but I had to. “Would you like me to take
Gabe’s cup to him?”
“No. He’ll be by fer it.”
I smiled again and walked to the door. Before I passed through it, she called my name.
“Alexandra, fear is a small thing that grows when we let it. We are all bigger than the things we fear.”
Ms. Kate’s wisdom was turning me into a bobblehead. I acknowledged her wise words and left her to her nervous cleaning, wondering
what someone who exuded so much confidence was anxious about and whether she was living her own advice.