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A Second Chance |
| Written by Anna Duncan | |
| Wednesday, 20 August 2008 | |
Tim Daniels accepted his peppermint cappuccino from the barista, returning to his private corner of Starbucks. It was a cozy table, a place where he felt at home to finish his latest novel, Closure. He tilted the computer screen back and read over his last paragraph. Something about it seemed off. It was his fifth novel, and definitely the most difficult to complete. He was a handsome man of 32, with piercing blue eyes looming over his five o'clock stubble. He was dressed impeccably, as usual, with a fine blue shirt tucked into creased khakis and wearing designer frames which perfectly outlined his features. The buzz and whir of the cappuccino machine lulled him back into his book; for a moment silencing his inner critic. What happens next?, he asked, almost aloud. He pressed the cup to his lips, inhaling the rich aroma. He supplied the answer, what happens next is I enjoy my coffee. The rest would have to wait. Besides, he thought, it wouldn't be fair to my audience for me to rush my effort. Stories must be etched slowly, then delicately polished. I'd ruin the whole thing if I tried to write now. He leaned back and enjoyed a luxurious sip of the liquid, his mind drifting to a host of unrelated places, creating a kaleidoscope of sights and sounds. The furthest thing from his mind was the novel set before him; the last chapter taunting him, the mouse pad waiting for the delicate brush of his finger tips. Suddenly, a girl's voice rose in the café. She spoke into a microphone, her voice broadcast over what appeared to be a small guitar amp. Tim pivoted in his wooden chair to catch a glimpse of the girl. Her voice was sweet and timid with a slight rasp. He found it captivating. He took her in: she was about 5'3 with auburn hair, shoulder length, with a trendy t-shirt and dark wash jeans. She was standing, practically on her tiptoes, reading a poem. The microphone was set for someone at least six inches taller, and though she tried to set it to her height, the pole seemed to be stuck. Tim strained to hear, but the customers were talking too loudly. The white noise he had once relished was masking the girl's sweet voice, rendering the words an indistinguishable hum. He felt bad for the girl with those deep, soulful eyes; a bottomless brown. Part of him wished to stand up, to tell everyone to show consideration to the timid girl. Why were they so uncaring? The girl stopped reading and looked down, tears forming in her eyes. "I can't," she said. For a brief moment she caught Tim's eye before walking into the cold winter night. Tim eyed the customers with contempt. How cruel were these people, who didn't realize that they drove this sweet girl out of the café and into the cold depths of the night? He watched her through the window; she was running, her arms flailing. She dropped her poem to the ground and it fluttered in the air before landing on a pile of snow. Then she was no more than a shadow behind the falling snow: a figure obscured in a turbulent sea. She had looked to me for help, Tim thought. He felt guilty; like he should have stood up for the girl. He should have used some of his sway to corral the audience, but instead he sat there silently; guilty by association. Tim stood up, putting his arms through the sleeves of his heavy black pea coat. He wrapped the scarf around his neck and then packed up his laptop. He couldn't let her walk home in the cold. It wouldn't be right, he thought, picking up his cappuccino. Tim slowed his car when he saw her by the side of the road. She looked so vulnerable walking through the snow, wearing a thin t-shirt and jeans. How far had she walked, battling the biting wind and her own insecurities to read her poem? Once she arrived at the café, triumphant, she was completely ignored. Tim found it heartbreaking. He slowed his car to the arm of the state highway, not sure what to say. She looked back at the headlights through the snow and stood completely still. She didn't move, she didn't blink; she seemed stunned that the car stopped for her. Tim yelled out over the roar of the engine, "Hi, my name is Tim Daniels-" "What?" "I said, I'm Tim Daniels." The girl walked closer, the snow crunching beneath her suede shoes. She brushed her wavy hair back with her slender fingers. She was beautiful, he thought. How could anyone ignore her? "What did you say?" She was now leaning against the side of his car, her face inches away from his. He looked deep into her eyes and his face felt flushed. His lips began to curl into a smile, although he was not conscious of the action. "Hi," he said, forgetting the rest of his words. "Hi. I saw you at Starbucks didn't I?" She lowered her eyes and bit her lower lip shyly. He laughed; he almost felt giddy. She was so breathtaking...and so vulnerable. "Yes, I was there. I was just saying: my name is Tim Daniels. I'm-" "I know who you are." She leaned closer to him, their faces inches away. "You're a writer, Chelsea Gwynne, right?" She said naming the last novel he published. "That's right. Listen, do you want a ride?" She hesitated for a moment, then without another word she rounded the car and walked to the passenger door. She tried the door but it wouldn't open; frozen in the winter night. Tim reached across the passenger seat and opened the door. It nearly closed on her, and she laughed as she sat in the passenger seat. "So where too?" Tim asked, checking his rearview mirror and pulling onto the empty road. "I live on this street about a mile up." She smelled of hairspray and body lotion. Tim breathed deeply through his nose, letting the smell seep through the layers of his consciousness. He sighed, and sipped his cappuccino. "Oh, I almost forgot," He said quickly. He reached into his coat pocket, searching for the wet piece of paper where the girl had penned her magical words. He produced the sheet and held it out to the girl, "Here you go, June." Her name was written on the top of the sheet in a sinuous scribble. It seemed to mirror her personality; unique and unpredictable, misunderstood. He thought of saying this to the girl, but instead took another sip of his cappuccino. "Thank you, but I have no use for this anymore," June said. Her tone was not ungrateful; it was closer to defeated. "That's not true. I read some of it, and I think you have real potential." "Keep it, won't you," She begged, her soulful eyes widening, "I think you should have it." He placed the poem down on the dashboard where it could dry, the red ink illuminated by the bright snow. She smiled at him, relaxed now that he had accepted the poem. "I felt bad about what happened to you in there," He said. "They didn't give you a chance." "They never do," She said. "You're the first one." She smiled again; that knowing smile. It was like she could see down to the depths of his soul. He had such a feeling of familiarity around her; like they were old friends, or had known each other in a past life. "Were you writing?" She asked, brushing her hair back. Her clothes seemed dry; at least she wasn't cold, he thought. "Yes. Trying too, anyway." "Oh no," she said, showing true concern, "Do you have writer's block?" He nodded and sipped his cappuccino. "I hate writers block," she thought about for a moment and then returned to her concerned state, "But Chelsea Gwynne was so great! And you left so much material to be explored in a sequel." "I did?" He was surprised; the book seemed to be a complete work, definitely not open for a sequel. Besides, he had never liked a sequel whether it was a book or a movie. They always seemed forced, and inferior to the original. "Yeah, but I don't want to say..." She sounded shy at first, then all at once told him what was on her mind, "You left it open for Chelsea's sister, Karin, to return to town. She could take over her sister's job at the stables out of..." "Out of a sense of duty," Tim said with excitement. "Right, then James could come back to visit Chelsea's grave and feel her presence lingering over the town. He could feel resentment towards Karin..." "Absolutely," He almost lost control of his car out of excitement. The girl knew, she saw something he didn't see. She understood the book with such sensitivity and she supplied him with an idea that seemed buried right below the surface. "My house is coming up on the right," She said, pointing to a light blue two-story colonial. "Can you make me a promise before I go?" "Sure. I think I owe you that much," he said. The girl was like a muse, inspiring in him ideas that seemed to be there all along; just out of reach. "Hold onto my poem. If you really like it, show it to your publisher, O.K?" Tim had been asked this question many times in his short career. No matter who asked him, he would say yes. If he didn't, they would demand to know why. For the first time he could remember he said yes with total sincerity. She struggled to open the frozen door, and he reached across to open it. That night, he set the poem to dry on his kitchen counter. Next, he sat down at his lap top and wrote for hours. For once, the idea of a sequel didn't seem contrived or inferior. It was a continuation of a good story that had touched him at one time, and one which touched a beautiful young girl named June. The following day Tim returned to Starbucks, hoping that his new found inspiration would keep flowing, but mostly because he hoped to see June. He saw the usual crowd from the day before, the same barista behind the counter. He smiled at her as he walked to the counter. "The usual, Mr. Daniels?" "Please," he said. He looked at the microphone, and found himself walking closer, found himself nearly touching the microphone head with his hand. "Shame about last night," he said over his shoulder. "What's that Mr. Daniels?" "Last night. No one paid attention to that sweet girl reading her poem. I felt sorry for her." He walked back to the counter to pay the barista. She stared at him for a second with her mouth open in the shape of an O, her head slightly tilted to the side. "What girl? We haven't had a poetry reading in...months." "June MacLean. She was reading her poetry but no one would listen to her." "June MacLean died months ago in a car accident," She was angry, like he was playing a cruel joke on her. He stood in shock, then dropped his peppermint cappuccino to the ground. It hit the floor and splashed up on the bottom of his pea-coat. "I think you'd better go," she said. She ran towards the backroom, removing her apron as she moved. He left the café in silence and barely had the energy to open his car door. A ghost, he thought. But more than that; a beautiful ghost who reached out to him desperately so that her voice would be heard. More than that; a beautiful spirit who sensed he was desperate to find his way. A kindred spirit. He drove off, scared, naturally; but his primary feeling was one of regret. If I knew I'd never see her again I would have told her how great her poetry was and how beautiful she was, he thought. He planned to keep his promise and her poem published. Someday, he thought, I'll see her again. Copyright 2008 Anna Duncan |
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