Diamond in the Rough
brigits_flame, theme: "carriage trade." I absolutely fail at deadlines so I'm writing this immediately after finishing my regular contest entry--at 1:40 pm EST on the day it's due. Feel free to mock my procrastination in the comments. Did I mention I like comments? I like comments. Enjoy!
...
I first meet Gidget on a snowy day in early December.
If first impressions are to be any indication-and my mother trained me to rely heavily on them-then I have to be honest and say that my first impression of Gidget is that of a dirty homeless man, and that I should kick him right the hell out the door.
But my father (just, I think, to annoy my mother) trained me to believe that first impressions aren’t everything. It’s been snowing for two days, I think, and the roads are muddy. Maybe he’s a little bedraggled.
He shuffles up to the counter. “Good morning,” he says politely. Close up, I see that he’s not much older than me, maybe in his late thirties, with short dark hair dusted with grey and bright, intelligent blue eyes.
“Good morning,” I say. “How can I help you?”
“I’d like a small cup of tea, please,” he says. He speaks very carefully, as if afraid of making a mistake.
“Sure. What kind?”
The man blinks at me. “I’m sorry?”
“What kind of tea would you like?”
“Oh.” He looks almost worried, searching the menu written on the chalkboard behind the counter for the list of our teas.
I take pity on him. “We have a great vanilla chai,” I tell him. “It really warms you up. Great on a cold day like this.”
His face relaxes and he smiles, revealing a chipped tooth and laugh lines around his eyes that weren’t as prominent before. “That would be great. Thanks.”
As I set about making his drink, he starts counting coins out of his pocket, setting them carefully on the counter. The words don’t worry about it die on my lips when he shoves the money firmly toward me, his eyes firm with pride. I smile and pass him his tea. He smiles at me. “Thank you,” he says, and takes his drink, shuffling to a small table in the corner of the café, sitting down and pulling a small notebook and pen out of his pocket. Before long, he’s scribbling contentedly, stopping every few minutes to take a sip of his tea.
After an hour, I make him a refill and bring it to him. He looks up at me, confused. “What’s this?”
“You’re a writer, aren’t you?” He nods, looking confused, and I wink. “You picked the right café, sir. This is the Writer’s Block-anyone who comes in to work on a future literary masterpiece gets two free refills.”
For a moment, he looks suspicious, and I point to the sign next to the counter so he knows I’m serious. His face breaks into a smile. “That’s really great of you.”
“All writers need a haven,” I tell him. “This one’s open to everyone.”
His smile broadens. “Thank you for the tea,” he says. “I’m Gidget.”
“I’m Susan,” I tell him, and leave him to write.
…
It didn’t take long for Gidget to become my favorite regular.
He would come in every other day and order a small tea, pay with exact change, and retreat to his table to write. When he filled his small notebook-which happened often-he would start writing on napkins. On slow days, while the other customers were buried in their lattes and laptops, I would leave the counter to one of the baristas and join Gidget at his table.
“So tell me,” he says one morning in early February. “How does a girl as young as you own her own business?”
“Thirty-two isn’t young,” I tell him, but I blush anyway, and he winks playfully at me. “And it sort of evolved on its own. I always wanted to be a writer, but I didn’t have the ideas. Or the skill, to be completely honest with you. So, I became the next best thing.”
“A muse?” Gidget suggests.
I nudge his leg under the table. “The keeper of a writer’s refuge,” I correct. “A place where writers can come to create. And to drink delicious beverages, which is of course a wonderful bonus.” Gidget laughs, and I grin with him.
…
I’m in the back room sorting boxes of tea when one of the baristas, Mel, comes skidding in. “Susan,” she hisses, “you’ve got to get out here!”
“Why?” I ask, immediately panicked. The cappuccino maker has been on the fritz for a week, and the woman on the help hotline said they have a tendency to explode when they finally reach the end of the line. “Is everything okay?”
“Tom Darcy’s here,” she says, and I drop the box.
“Tom Darcy?” I stare at her. “The Tom Darcy? Three-time New York Times Bestseller I’m-the-next-Tolkein-Hemmingway-and-Lewis-all-rolled-into-one Tom Darcy?” Mel nods emphatically and I immediately smooth my hair into a semblance of order. “Do I look okay?”
“Fabulous, for an old lady,” she says cheekily, and I pat her mohawk affectionately as I head out to the café and emerge behind the counter.
Sure enough, Tom Darcy is standing there, reading my menu and looking mildly impatient. When he sees me, he flashes a GQ cover-worthy smile. “Good afternoon,” he says smoothly. “Are you the owner?”
“I am.” I extend a hand to him. “Susan Matthews.”
He shakes my hand. “Tom Darcy.” He smiles again. “I’m just here for a coffee, but I’d just like to let you know that I’ve heard fabulous things about this place. You’ve made it into the discussions of some of the biggest writer’s groups in New York.”
My head feels light. “Really?”
“Indeed.” He winks. “Congratulations.” He leans over the counter. “What would you say to doing an interview or two with Writer’s Digest? I’m sure they’d love you.”
The bell above the door tinkles and Gidget walks in. He sees Darcy and hesitates, but I smile brightly at him and wave him over. “Morning, Susan,” he says. “The usual, please.”
“Excuse me,” Darcy says coolly. “We’re having a conversation.”
“It’s alright,” I tell him. “Gidget’s one of my best customers.” I set about making his tea. “How’s the novel coming, Gidget?”
“Stuck on the denouement,” he laments, counting change out of his pocket and handing it to me.
I take the money and hand him his tea. “Good luck with it,” I say. “The clincher is always the toughest bit.”
“Says the failed writer?” he says, cocking an eyebrow.
“Says the muse, thanks very much,” I shoot back, and he laughs, heading to his usual table.
I turn back to Darcy, who is watching Gidget with a mixture of distaste and confusion. “So, Mr. Darcy,” I say. “What sort of coffee would you like?”
“Just a medium black,” he says, and turns back to me. “You do let any sort of person in here, don’t you?”
I frown at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Darcy shrugs. “Just that most respectable establishments don’t let people like that in, much less let them stay.”
“‘People like that?’” I raise my eyebrows. “Like what? Artists? Creators? J.K. Rowling wrote half of the first Harry Potter book on café napkins, Mr. Darcy.” I hand him his drink. “Enjoy your coffee.”
…
“You didn’t have to do that,” Gidget says later that night, as I’m wiping down tables.
“Do what? Defend you from someone who thinks that just because he’s made the big leagues, he can put everyone else down?” I stuff the rag into my apron pocket and start putting chairs up on the clean tables.
Gidget moves to help me. “I’m not the ideal customer, Susan,” he says. “I’m very aware of that. It would probably be better for your business if I stopped coming in.”
I set the last chair up and turn to him, my hands on my hips. “Now listen,” I say firmly. “I didn’t start this place to be a snooty elitist café. There’s a Starbucks right down the street for that. This is a place for struggling writers and budding creators. Is the next Shakespeare going to come out of my café? Probably not. But maybe he will, and for all I know, maybe he’s you. And I’m not going to turn away Shakespeare just because an ass like Tom Darcy doesn’t like him, New York Times bestseller or not. Got that?”
Looking unsure whether to be terrified or amused, Gidget nods. “Yes.”
“Good.” I huff a sigh. “Now, then. I’m going to make myself a cup of tea before I leave for the night. Would you like to share it with me?”
…
Gidget stays.
Other customers come and go. Sometimes, I get postcards from former regulars who have gotten book deals and gone on to bigger and better things, thanking me for giving them a place to call home. I put up a bulletin board and thumbtack the postcards up, a wall of success stories that customers smile at every time they walk in. I smile at it, too.
Six months after we meet, Gidget asks me on a date. We have a picnic in the park and talk about anything but writing and books. There’s a second date, and then a third.
Two months after our first date, Gidget walks into The Writer’s Block. He’s wearing jeans and a button-down shirt, looking more put-together than I’ve ever seen him and holding a wrapped package under his arm. “Morning, Suse,” he says, and hands me the package.
I look down at it. “What’s this?”
“Open it,” he says.
Inside is a hardcover book, glossy and-from the looks of it-just off the press. I look at the cover. The Artist’s Haven, it says, by Gidget Avery.
I stare at him. “Is this real?”
“Very much so,” he says. “Read the inscription.”
I open the front cover.
To Susan, my muse, who gave me a place to write, to create, and to be myself, and who believed in me when no one else could.
“This is beautiful,” I whisper, and look up at him. “Gidget, this is amazing. Thank you so much. And congratulations!”
“Thank you,” he says, and smiles brilliantly at me, squeezing my hands. “And if I may,” he says, reaching into his pocket, “I’d like to buy you a cup of tea.”