Page 3 of Call It Serendipity

“My heart hurts. I say this calls for depressed baking and then watching something with Tom Hanks in it tonight,” she suggests. “Unless you need to hit the studio?”

Her question hangs between us like a cruel taunt. She doesn’t mean it that way; it’s not Claire’s fault I’m an artist that can no longer bring herself to paint.

“No, let’s bake and fawn over Tom Hanks tonight,” I say softly. The tightness in my chest doubles down and I quickly shove aside my self-doubt.

“Are you sure? Last week you told me to force you to spend time in there.”

“Actually, I told you to lock me in there and throw away the key. Which I still think might be necessary in the near future.”

We laugh at the same time, and it feels comforting. The way sharing a joke with your best friend of seventeen years to cover the pain can be. But as I laugh, my thoughts drift upstairs to the blank canvases awaiting me. And I can’t help but feel like the weather isn’t the only thing shifting this autumn.

I just wish I could figure out why.

3

Ihoped that nagging feeling was the return of my creativity. Like a slow trickle of artistry sinking back into my veins once more.

Becoming myself once more.

The me that painted every day and managed to land a contract with a major gallery in New York City after one of my abstract works went for a staggering amount at a local showcase. Apparently, the woman was a buyer for Whitcombe Gallery. She had promised this was just the beginning for me.

It turned out to be a hard stop instead.

Like most mornings these days, I cast my gaze down to the hallway’s muted carpeting and hurry past my studio door. My closed studio door, hiding my failures from sight.

Initially, I thought a studio next to my bedroom was brilliant. Right in my own home and the chance to paint whenever inspiration struck. But now that inspiration has eluded me, it’s not brilliant—it’s painful.

My pace quickens until I’m scurrying down the stairs and putting distance between myself and that closed door.

“Morning, Lucy,” Claire’s boyfriend, Levi, greets me from the sofa. His subtly frosted tips and charming smile manage to give him an air of energized-all-the-time, despite the coffee in his hand being nearly full.

“Good morning,” I reply before turning towards the sound of Claire’s pattering slippers on the kitchen tile. “Who made the coffee today, you or Levi?”

“Me.” She blinks back at me as if it’s a silly question.

Leaning over the back of the couch towards me, Levi quietly adds, “It’s thick as tar.”

“What did he just say?”

I smile back at my well-intentioned roommate. “He suggested it might be too strong for me, that’s all.”

“I can make another⁠—”

“No, it’s okay,” I say with a wave of my hand. “I have to get to the shelter anyway; I’ll grab a cup on my way.”

Snatching up my CD player and my bag, I hurry out the door and into the refreshing morning air. My feet carry me forward, even as my head turns to the side, looking toward the end of the street and the vacant building waiting there.

The hopeful corner of my brain flashes to the feeling of a wool sweater and hard chest beneath my cheek, while the warm cozy scent of cedar and cinnamon drifts through my memory. As if I almost expect my mysterious savior to still be standing right where I left him a few days ago.

I snap my attention forward once more and head towards the only coffee house in town—Jitters. With a classic brick façade like most of the buildings on Ellicottville’s main strip, it stands out with elaborate window art I can always see from a block away.

This month, the oversized pane of glass is decorated with a coffee cup that has legs, arms, and big cartoon eyes. As I cross the street, I notice that the lively coffee mug is also holding a coffee mug of its own.

I smile while taking in the details. It’s the perfect blend of cute and quirky, just like the café’s owner, Jenny. She waves from behind the counter as I open the door and am greeted by the familiar, nutty aroma that always clings to the air in Jitters.

“Hey, Lucy, did you hear the news?”

Jenny leans forward and slaps her palms flat against the concrete counter. She has a bit of a wild look to her expression, like maybe she’s consumed a significant amount of her own supply today.