The McKenzie's had created the Sample Walk when they had first moved to Boston. They had moved from a west coast beach town and the old city had felt like a foreign country with its brick sidewalks and cobblestone roads. Their first summer had been filled with long walks wandering through the twisted streets to see where they would end up.

By the time the fall came they had a solid grasp on the city's layout and had found their favorite stores for everything: coffee, tea, pastries, nuts, chocolate, bagels, scones, and candy. Thus the Sample Walk had been created, where they visited all their specialty stores, slowly collecting their favorite things until they had a little bit of everything.

When Cece and her mother stepped out of the house, Cece knew it was going to be a perfect day for a Sample Walk. The sky was bright blue without a cloud in view and the air was warm without the heaviness of humidity. The walk took an hour, but they finally reached their final stop for bagels then they walked to the water's edge and found a bench.

As they dug into all their goodies, Marilyn caught Cece up on all her doings in Rome. Marilyn was working on her next play and decided to write it in Rome. Cece listened intently as her mother told her all about the life she had built over the last few months in Rome. The corner cafe where the owner flirted with her, her favorite walks to work out story problems, the family of birds outside her window.

Cece was always in awe of her mother's writing. Just like Elliot, her mother produced. It didn't matter where or the circumstances. Her mother could be in a studio apartment in Arkansas instead of Rome but that wouldn't keep her from writing. As Cece listened to Marilyn explain the complex storyline of her latest play, Cece's usual doubts began to creep in.

Why was she the only one who struggled with writer's block? As far as she knew, Elliot's only interaction with writer's block was dealing with Cece's. Her mother was working on her nineteenth play, and Tristan had produced full ballets in his sleep. It was only Cece who was honored by the hideous presence of writer's block.

"What are you thinking about?" Marilyn asked after Cece had gone quiet. Cece looked at her mother, hesitant to share her concerns. "Malcolm?" Marilyn guessed.

Cece laughed harshly. If she ever went as far as giving her writer's block a name, this round would be named Malcolm. It only seemed fitting to name it after the person who had bestowed it upon her. "Malcolm," she said like the name was acid on her tongue. "I don't want to talk about it."

"Me either," Marilyn said. "I'd rather talk about why you think you need him."

"Did Elliot put you up to this?" Cece joked. Marilyn gave a small smile but her eyes were studying Cece. Cece looked away, hating how her mother could see through any facade she tried to hide behind.

She looked back and found a mixture of empathy and support in her mother's gaze and she hated it. Her writer's block had received enough empathy and support she was surprised it wasn't a fully formed human that followed her around.

"I work differently," Cece said defensively. "I'm not like you and Elliot who would be writing even if you were on a plane that was crashing."

"Well, an experience like that should be documented," Marilyn joked lightly.

"And you and Elliot would be the ones to do it, while I would be the one curled into a ball preparing for impact."

"You don't give yourself enough credit," Marilyn said. "I'm sure you would be in the back trying to keep all the food and carts in place."

"Exactly!" Cece said. "I would be more fixated on keeping the plane clean. That's what I do. I organize and keep things clean. That's what I'm best at." When her mother didn't affirm that, Cece looked at her. She was looking at Cece like Cece was spewing lies.

"I'm serious," Cece said. "I shouldn't be a writer. It would make more sense for me to be an assistant or paralegal." Her mother yawned at her supposed career options.

"You know it's true," Cece argued. "Elliot's the writer and I am only riding on her coattails. I only got published because her first book was such a huge success. I somehow stumbled into this writer's life and no one has the guts to tell me I'm in the wrong career."

Cece let all her insecurities tumble out of her mouth even though she knew her mother had heard all of this before. Cece had been grappling with these same, annoying feelings since the day she had landed her agent.

"Am I someone who holds back her opinion on anything?" Marilyn questioned. Cece shook her head. She had received enough of her mother's unsolicited advice to know she didn't hold anything back. "And do you think I would be mean enough to not give my honest opinion about your books?" Cece shook her head again. Her mother had helpfully pointed out holes in her stories on many occasions.

"Do you think your siblings have been lying to you all this time?" Marilyn asked.

Cece shook her head. The idea of Tristan biting back his opinion was an impossible thought. All the logic was there and yet, as logical as Cece was there was something in her that wouldn't accept it.

"So you landed an agent after Elliot's book came out and you got published by the same house," Marilyn said. "Do you think Harper Collins would take on a bad writer just because she was the sibling of another writer?" Marilyn studied Cece as she paused to let her words sink in.

"You might work differently than your siblings and me but that doesn't mean you are any less an artist," Marilyn said. "And as much as your brain might be tricking you into thinking this Malcolm character holds power over your writing, I know all the power lies within you, and one day you'll figure that out."

Cece laughed sharply. "Would you call my brain and explain that to her?" she joked, her capacity to have an emotional talk running thin. "And while you're at it, let her know we don't have to wait three weeks between chapters."

Marilyn smiled, understanding Cece's change of tone. "Sure. Just give me the number."

Cece sighed heavily. If it were that easy she would have kicked her writer's block to the curb years ago and be working on her fifth novel. But that wasn't the case. Cece consoled herself by grabbing a piece of chocolate from the bag. Marilyn's phone buzzed and she answered it. Cece tuned out her mother's voice as she watched a seagull swoop through the air and pondered what her mother had said.

"That was Elliot," Marilyn said as she ended the call. "She invited us to lunch. Want to join?"

Cece shook her head. Her stomach was still full from all the snacking and she was distracted by her thoughts. She wouldn't be very good company. "But I'll walk with you," she offered. Even that kind gesture was wasted as Cece spent their whole walk in silence as her thoughts ran circles around her head. She was barely aware of her mother saying goodbye and leaving her at the door to The Thinking Cup.

As if her thoughts found solace in the coffee shop atmosphere, they directed her inside. It was early afternoon and there were a few patrons scattered throughout the tables working quietly. Cece's feet took her to the counter and she came face to face with the cover of Great Expectations. She studied the cover thoughtfully, her mind going to the main character, Pip.

Now there was someone who ended up somewhere drastically different from where he started, going from a poor house to a gentleman winning the heart of a lady. Had fate always destined him for the grander life? Or had it been his decisions that had altered his life?

Had fate always meant for Cece to be a writer? Or had Cece been destined for something else and she had somehow jumped tracks? As she thought back to when she was younger, she searched for the moment things had changed or was that not how life worked? Did a single moment make you? Or was it the small, consistent decisions spread across a life that formed you into who you were?

The cover of Great Expectations lowered to reveal dark eyes staring back at Cece. She studied them for a long moment. They were deep and soulful but then crinkles appeared at the corners and they turned mischievously youthful. The owner of the eyes cleared his throat and Cece readjusted her focus to find she had been staring into the eyes of Barista Boy.

He lifted his eyebrow questioningly and the simple action pulled the words from Cece's mouth. "Are you predestined to be a certain type of person? Or do you get to decide?"

Barista Boy nodded thoughtfully. Cece watched him silently grapple with the question and found herself grateful he was considering her question at all.

Finally, he cleared his throat. "I think you are born with certain traits that predestine you in a certain direction, ie introvert or extrovert, artistic or mathematical, but I believe regardless of the traits handed you at birth you get to decide who you are."

Cece nodded, slowly letting his words sink in. He was right. She had been born with the ability to organize and keep things neat, and she might not have been born with it but she did have the ability to create characters out of nothing and know how they would talk and walk, what they would wear, and who they loved.

Cece focused back on barista boy a slow smile spreading across her face. "Thanks," she said. "That was helpful."

He shrugged like it wasn't a big deal. "It was an excellent question. I'm glad I could help."

"Me too!" Cece laughed, a small amount of relief rising in her.

It was funny how your family could tell you the same thing over and over again and you couldn't hear it, yet when the same thing was delivered by a stranger the words somehow came through clear. She met Barista Boy's eyes again and something about their soulfulness made her pause. Wesley James Cartwright III popped into her mind and suddenly, Cece could see those eyes peering into Millie Kate's blue ones as she waited for an answer to an important question.

"So, do you...?"

"I gotta..." Cece said, hurrying away, her hands inching for a keyboard.

"...want coffee?" Barista Boy called after her as she slipped outside.

Millie Kate felt like she wanted to scream, but her smile never fell from her face. The shame she would bring her mama if she lost control of her emotions. Fortunately, for her mama's sake, she had found a porch swing tucked around the corner of the Cartwright's house and was hiding.

From her spot, she could still hear the familiar soundtrack: the tinkling of glasses, light clatter of china against china, the peels of laughter, the joyful exclamations. Even though she had removed herself from the party, she knew exactly how it was unfolding and that was what had driven her into the state she was in.

What was the point of it all? To have the prettiest dress? Have the most delicate gloves? To land the richest husband?

The questions washed over her and she let her smile fall just as someone rounded the corner. Her eyes darted to the newcomer, a frown still set between her eyes and she met the gaze of Wesley James. A smile bloomed on his face at the sight of her but as his eyes took in her face his expression turned concerned.

"Millie Kate," he said with a dip of his head.

"Wesley James," she said, hearing the heaviness in her voice. She knew how bright her smile should be, and how she should tilt her chin and angle her shoulders, but something inside of her rebelled against the impulse to assume a demure state. Was that all she could ask of life? Playing coy in hopes of catching the attention of a suitor.

Millie Kate could remember when her mother had first started teaching her the etiquette of attracting a man. She could remember how eager she had been to catch her first interested look or receive her first compliment. Now she wished everyone would leave her alone.

"Are we hiding?" Wesley James asked as he approached her.

"There is only so much small talk one can endure before one starts to question what's the point of it all?" Millie Kate responded.

To her surprise, a smile slowly spread across Wesley James's face as he took a seat next to her on the swing. "Now that is an excellent question."

**********************************************************************

Oh my dearest biscuit!

I got to say that Marilyn is a great one to have around, I feel like you should take her word to heart.

...

Are you ignoring me because you know I'm Elliot when it comes to writing and you are Cece with her sporadic writing and you don't want to talk about it?

...

There is nothing wrong with learning that inspiration comes from who you are.

...

You're not even there are you. *sighs* Of course.

Hote, hommet, hollow!