For such a little corner of the universe, it felt bigger than the sum of its parts.
There was barely enough room for a small kitchen and a glass display of baked goods next to the counter, over which all manner of caffeinated drinks passed. The largest collection of Gullah paintings outside of the city’s museums hung on the walls, all crafted by local artists. In the corner of the space, a small wooden pallet that called itself a “stage” sat waiting to be used later that night, home to a single keyboard, stool, and microphone.
The staff who worked there were much like the space itself: vibrantly eclectic. There was the owner, Mrs.Chapman, a bubbly white-haired Black woman whose shiny bangles clanged as she waved to the usual customers; and Bett, a pale veterinary-school student with sailor tattoos all over her arms and a long braid that trailed down her spine; and Simon, a surly Haitian cook whose scowl was as mean as his goat-cheese breakfast sandwiches were divine.
And then there was Aurora Cervantes.
At twenty-one years old, Aurora had a spitfire smile and smoky brown eyes that ensnared anyone lucky enough to see them. Like most people who came through its doors, she had been drawn to the café to carve out a little place of the universe for herself. But did the café exist before Auroraarrived in Charleston? Who remembers?
When Aurora wasn’t serving tables, she was singing for them. On weekend nights, the café turned into a wine-and-cheese bar with live jazz music. Usually it cost thirty dollars for performers to rent the wooden-pallet stage, but Aurora’s boss, Mrs.Chapman, let her do it for free.
Aurora considered herself a singer with a hobby of serving coffee, though these days she served more coffee than she sold out shows. Aurora envisioned herself performing on a stage that was more than a recycled wooden pallet basking in a cheap spotlight bought at a garage sale, in front of a crowd of more than twenty people, and living somewhere she wouldn’t have to rely on tips tacked on to expensive lattes.
The Jazzy Java was the closest she could get to living the life she’d always wanted. It was yet another pit stop on her journey. One day, someday, maybe her dream wouldn’t be a dream anymore.
For now she worked hard, kept her head down, and got through every day.
For all its ups and downs, she liked working at the café. She liked talking to people, she never got tired of the smell of coffee, and she could pursue her passions at night. The Jazzy Java was like a second home.
Looking upon Aurora for the first time, a person might think she was a woodland fairy or a time-traveling hippie rather than a jazz singer. She was always one to dress vibrantly, with gold hoops in her ears as well as severalrings on her fingers—including her favorite, a hematite thumb ring—and always had fresh flowers in her hair. Flowing tunics and skirts made it seem like she was constantly in motion. She absolutely refused to live her life in monochrome. Like her namesake, she was a natural phenomenon.
Today, she was wearing secondhand overalls, clunky clogs, and a flower-print blouse. She was completely enchanting. Though evidently, not enchanting enough.
After the young couple left the café, the bell above the door chiming their departure, Aurora stacked the plates at the table. She opened the little black envelope for the receipt to see how much they had left for her. All that was written on the tip line wasToo poor. Sorry!
Aurora huffed.“Too poor” to spend thirty-five dollars on two extra-large lattes, bagel sandwiches, and slices of chocolate cake, huh?She slipped the check into her apron pocket, balanced the plates and ceramic mugs expertly on her forearm, then used her free hand to wipe the crumbs, coffee rings, and torn shreds of napkin off the table.
“Why do I always get the worst tippers?” Aurora sighed, rolling her eyes as she deposited the used tableware on the counter.
Bett wiped her wet tattooed hands on a towel draped casually across her shoulder as she shook her head. “Cheapos again? What is wrong with people? Hey, I have an idea. Want me to kill them for you?” That was just Bett’s type of humor: hyperbolic violence.
Aurora laughed. “A noble proposal, but I think we should let them live. Just this once.”
Bett squinted. “You’re too nice,” she teased.
“It’s not the end of the world,” she said. “It’s just a couple dollars.”
“It adds up though. Rent isn’t free. Next time, I’ll bully people for tips. That should be fun.”
“I’m so glad you use your powers for good.”
Bett chuckled heartily, but her eyes flicked past Aurora. The café door opened, the bell ringing to signal a new guest, and when Aurora turned to see, her smile dropped like an anvil.
It was Aldrich Duncan.
Aurora turned back around, pretending to tidy the counter as the blood roared in her ears.
“Uh-oh. I know that look,” Bett said, keeping her voice low. “Ex-boyfriend alert?”
“You could say that,” she whispered.
She sensed him come up behind her. “Aurora.” His voice was low and silky smooth. His simply stating her name was enough to put her on edge.
The last time she’d spoken to him, he’d had bright red blood dripping down his lovely throat, his hand extended toward her, waiting for an answer.
She didn’t turn around to face him. “I told you, Aldrich, you can’t keep coming here when I’m working. I can’t talk right now.”
“I know. I just had to see you,” he said.
