Old Towne, Kansas –
Monday Noon, March 6, 1989
Buzzed with so little sleep, Jerry sped down the
wooden staircase to the small foyer of this restored, old row house built a
century ago. He opened the outer door, its large window radiating the noon
sunlight. Reaching the sidewalk, he turned left to head to the coffee house.
Another
beautiful spring day.
“Dying moments birth new ones,” he said, musing
the words in his mind as he quickened his short walk to the corner. The crosswalk
light beamed GO, and
he continued his pace, yet looking left then right for any wayward vehicle.
Reaching the coffee shop, its door open on this balmy day, he took the hewn
stone steps two at a time. Everyone was immersed in reading, talking, or studying,
as he walked to the counter.
No one
staring at me now.
“Triple venti cappuccino, dry?”
“You got it.” Jerry smiled, recalling the
previous day. He scanned the laid back setting of this quaint, European style
hang-out for college students, the walls lined with antique books, the
overstuffed chairs beckoning for someone to slouch in them and peruse one of
the classics. All of the tables were taken, but one by the street-front
windows.
He saw her at the corner table, the morning sun
glowing on her face as she leaned forward on her elbows, coffee in one hand and
book in the other. His thoughts took him to the scene of her dance, deftly
moving like a soft breeze blowing across a field of wheat, gracefully rising
and falling with the flow of the music.
“Late start today?” the barista said.
“Yeah, up all night trying to write a paper,” Jerry
edgily stated, still cranked on caffeine but not wanting to crash.
“Get ’er done?”
“Hardly. Started over a dozen times. Can’t get beyond
the block,” he said through gritted teeth.
I’m
wired.
“Writers block, huh? What are you writing about?”
“Ugh, a paper for a required English comp
course. Hate it. Put it off for four years.”
“Can’t relate to the topic?”
“Should be able to. It’s about self-destiny . .
. what I want to do with my life.”
Dying
moments birth new ones.
“Hmmm, better know that before you graduate.”
Barista chuckled.
“Yeah, thought I knew what I wanted in life . .
. make a lot of money, retire at 40, buy a yacht and cruise the Caribbean. Haha.
Now, I’m wondering if this is the right direction. But it’s why I chose my
major . . . business with a concentration in finance.”
“Hey, I can relate, man. Graduated last spring .
. . psychology major, and look what I’m doing now . . . hehe . . . triple venti
cappuccino, dry?”
Jerry wasn’t listening, his focus on the girl at
the table in the corner. He would not forget the long, wavy black hair that
flowed behind as his mind transfixed on the memory of her dance where he first
saw her. Today she wore her hair pulled back from her face, its translucence
contrasting beautifully against the coal black strands. She looked up from her
book, staring straight ahead over the empty table next to her, deep in thought.
She wore a pastel, floral skirt with a light pink pullover shirt that snugly
showed off her trim torso. Her posture was erect, a sharp contrast to the other
students hunched over their computer or slouching in a chair as if they needed
to be propped up lest they fall in a heap on the floor. One leg was crossed
behind the other showing off a calf, long and muscular.
Deep aroma of the steamy, dark-roasted espresso
wafted in the air as he envisioned her flowing to the smooth jazz that added a
soothing, relaxed atmosphere to the campus coffee house. He sipped from the
heavy porcelain mug. Earthy tones of rich African soil and a hint of rustic fruited
flavor with thick body coated his tongue. His eyes did not leave her while
gazing over its rim.
The barista followed Jerry’s gaze across the
room. “Sweet.”
“You know her?”
“Part of the dance troupe on campus. She’s
starring in a contemporary version of Swan
Lake. There’s a famous choreographer here to train ballet dancers in his
signature style. Just read about it in Campus
Times, front page . . . awesome picture of her.”
The barista pointed to Jerry’s mug as he sipped
the cappuccino, a milk froth mustache clinging to his stubble.
“Three-fifty.”
“Oh . . . must be the distraction.”
“Uh, huh. I can see that.”
Jerry dug into his pocket and scrounged up three
bills and some change.
“Don’t forget to wipe off the mustache . . . unless
you’re famous.” Barista chuckled.
“Huh?”
Jerry grabbed a napkin and walked across the
room to the bookshelf to scan the titles.
“Hmm . . . Adventures
of a Young Man.” He pulled one of Hemingway’s classics.
He sat at the open table facing her, parted the
book, and slouched down in his chair to watch her while pretending to read. He
waited for a break in her concentration, and when she did, he put his book
down, hoping to catch her attention.
Her eyes met his.
“Nice dance.”
She looked at him quizzically.
“Plant the Good Seed,” he said.
She smiled. “Yesterday, you were there?” Looking
at him, she tried to place his face amongst the crowd of students that packed
the church that morning.
“Yeah, picked up a coffee from here and was
taking a walk . . . heard the music . . . was curious . . . saw you dancing in
the aisle . . . very inspiring.”
“Glad it moved you,” she said softly.
“You have a gift.”
“That’s what my mother said a long time ago. Use
your gift for God’s purpose.”
“Well, it certainly opened my heart.”
She looked at him with more interest.
“My name’s Jerry . . . finishing my last
semester here. You?”
“Christina,” she said delicately.
“May I join your table?”
“Please,” she said with the poise of a refined
young lady.
The barista looked out across the tables towards
the street windows. Nearly all were caught up in their inner world. In the
corner were two exploring each other’s world. He smiled. Would love to hear their conversation. It must have been the coffee. Three shots of lightning.
Christina glanced at her watch. “Oh, time has
slipped away. I’m nearly late for dance rehearsal. Sorry to cut this short. It
was a pleasure meeting you. See you next Sunday?”
“Oh. Yeah. Hey, what’s your last name?”
“Rogers. Yours?”
“Meier. May I call you?”
“Hmmm. I’ll see you next Sunday. Deal?”
“Deal.”
Christina quickly departed.
Jerry looked at the book in front of him. What a
ruse . . . Adventures of a Young Man.
He opened the coffee shop door as the blare of a
horn sounded. His mind flashed backed to the lightning and thunder and the
voice from heaven.
You are not alone, echoed
in his head.
And then the pastor’s words, Dying moments birth new ones.
v v v
Copyright 2017 © Jeff Cambridge
Excerpt from
PURSUIT, a novel by Jeff Cambridge, a writer of transformational fiction with
characters that tell life-changing stories.
This is a
pre-published scene.
To read the
scenes sequentially, begin with
“PURSUIT: A
Novel – Prologue”
Your comments
are welcomed and appreciated. Simply check one of the reaction boxes below,
write a comment, or email me at bycambridge@gmail.com.
This novel is a
work of fiction. Any references to real events, businesses, organizations, and
locales are intended only to give the fiction a sense of reality and
authenticity. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely
coincidental.
