by Boo Walker
“That’s very kind of her. She’s a master of embellishment. How was your meal?”
Andrés held up a pinched index finger and thumb. “The black beans were exquisite.”
“Thank you,” Claire said proudly. “They are delightful.” As a nod to the Cuban roots of the area, they did a rice and beans with an over-easy egg placed on top, decorated with perfectly ripe Florida avocados. That dish had been part of what had helped them establish a foothold early on in their career. Andrés might have been the thousandth customer to pay such a compliment.
Claire had met several of Didi’s younger lovers in the past two years, but she still found herself taken aback almost every time. First of all, how had Didi gotten in the mind-set to chase men after losing her husband? Claire wasn’t sure she’d ever remove her wedding ring. But more than that, Claire was surprised and, quite honestly, impressed with the men Didi had dated. She was indeed charming and stunning, but these younger studs fought over her, and she quite often broke their hearts in the end.
“How’s the packing going?” Didi asked.
“I’m almost done,” Claire said in an enthusiastic tone.
“Oh, that’s great. And you were so worried about it. Look at you.”
“I know!” Claire set her eyes on the rainbow table mat. “Everything’s fine.” Claire didn’t want to tell Didi the whole truth. Because as a matter of fact, nothing was fine.
“Please excuse my French, but you do know what F.I.N.E. stands for, right?” Didi answered her own question: “Fucked up, insecure, neurotic, and emotional.”
Claire’s laugh was stopped short when she heard a customer behind her raise her voice. She spun around. Three tables over, a woman in a wide-brimmed black hat was verbally attacking Alicia.
Claire excused herself and crossed the restaurant. Standing next to Alicia, she looked at the four casually dressed women sitting around the table. Claire noticed large sparkly rings on all their fingers.
The one hot in the middle of a rant turned her angry red eyes to Claire. “These are the kinds of servers you hire now? I remember when this place used to be so good.”
Claire caught herself feeling intensely defensive. She wanted to snatch the floppy hat off the woman’s head and smack her with it, but Claire bit her tongue and kept her hands to herself. As a restaurateur in the modern world, between social media and the legions of review sites, one bad experience could be detrimental to your business. In no time in the history of the world had the notion of “the customer is always right” ever been more important.
Before Claire could get in a word, Alicia wagged a finger in the air. “She seriously doesn’t need this right now!” Everyone on the staff knew today was the third anniversary of the day David had died, so Alicia was being extra protective.
Claire turned to Alicia and put a hand on her arm. “It’s okay; let me take it from here.”
Alicia gritted her teeth and eyed the woman.
“I got it,” Claire said, lightly pinching her arm. Alicia finally took the hint.
As Alicia walked away, Claire looked back at the red-eyed woman, whose entire body was tensing. The other three ladies at the table were dead silent. “I’m so sorry you’re dissatisfied. What happened?”
“She’s just awful. Ever since the moment we sat down, she’s been screwing up. Twenty minutes to get waters. Another twenty before we can even get our order in. At this rate, we’ll need dinner menus.”
Claire let her speak, though she knew the woman’s embellishments were over the top. Knowing that no matter how perfect a place you created, there would always be someone who’d find something to complain about, Claire took her words with a grain of salt and focused on how to best snuff out the problem.
The woman kept on, the wrinkles in her forehead becoming more pronounced with each syllable. “We’ve got a gluten allergy that was made clear early on, but this girl brings toast out with the omelet. When we said something about it, she couldn’t have been more rude. Said we didn’t tell her. I don’t know if you’re the manager or whatever, but we’ve been visiting Pass-a-Grille and coming here for years. It used to be something special.”
Talk about cutting to the bone. Claire could have unleashed hell. Venomous words loaded onto her tongue, but she suppressed them—at least she did at first.
“I’m so sorry. Sometimes we don’t get it right, and it sounds like this is the case today. Alicia is a really good person and good server. Maybe she’s having a rough day. Could I give you a gift certificate and convince you to give us another shot while you’re in town? I know we can do better.”
With an unforgiving attitude, the woman said, “I would expect that at the very least.” She turned to her friends and shook her head. Then back to Claire, “How sad the owner let it fall to pieces like this. I know it’s not your fault. Ugh. Probably some family business and the parents are letting the kids take over.”
Scrambling to suppress the volcano of anger erupting inside her, Claire stared the woman down. “Actually, I own this place. Leo’s South. Leo was my father, and he owned Leo’s Diner in Chicago for forty-five years. My husband died three years ago today. Today!” Claire paused for effect. “But I didn’t stop working. I didn’t want this place to slip. I didn’t want my husband’s death to be some excuse for letting Leo’s South fall apart. Instead, I did everything I could to not only keep up our standards but to make my restaurant better. Not just to make it better for you! To make it better for my husband! He built this place!” She started pointing. “He put in that stove. Built the bar. He ran the wiring. David gave me this place, my dream. Leo’s South is his, too, and it’s just about all I have left of him!” And she added less aggressively, “So I’m sorry it’s not special to you anymore.”
To say you could have heard a pin drop would not have done the moment justice. You could have heard a gecko sneeze from across the bay in Tampa.
Claire covered her mouth and took a giant breath, realizing what she’d said. She couldn’t imagine the story her eyes must have told as emotions rushed over her. David was suddenly speaking to her, telling her to calm down. She could hear his voice in her mind. “Simmer down, honey.” Closing her eyes, she nodded to him.
Finally, Claire looked at the ladies, ending with her eyes on the unhappiest of them. “I am so sorry. That was too much.”
The woman looked like someone had stuffed a hard-boiled egg into her mouth. The patrons at the other tables were attempting not to stare.
Claire let out a sigh. “Your meal is on me. I’m so sorry, really. As you can tell, it’s been a hard day.” Without much more to say, she ended with, “I’m going to excuse myself.”
Not a peep came from the table.
Claire attempted a smile and sneaked away with the past pecking away at her like turkey vultures on roadkill. The last person she saw before disappearing through the green door into her office was Didi, waiting in line for the restroom, showing a concerned facial expression.
Sitting down at her desk, she glanced at a picture she’d taken of her father. More than once over the years, he had gently cautioned her, “Don’t air your dirty laundry in public.” He’d also told her, “Never let them see you sweat.” Both rules had officially been broken today.
A knock on the green door. Didi entered and closed the door behind her, shutting out the craziness of the busy café. She sat across from Claire in the wicker chair.
Claire straightened her glasses. “I know you’re not going to ask me if everything’s okay.”
Didi took her time responding. “I’m not sure what I want to say.” Shaking her head, she continued, “As you know, I don’t have all the answers.”
Several moments passed, and Claire liked having Didi in the room, but she didn’t know how to break the silence. Finally, Claire told the truth. “I honestly don’t feel like I’ll ever get to where you are. There’s no way I’m going to wake up one day feeling all giddy and excited about life. Look at you. I’m never going to be s
o carefree, running around with some Spanish model.”
Didi sighed. “Claire, I still have my moments.”
“What could possibly pull me out of this awful feeling that is constantly dragging me down? And don’t tell me it’s another man. That might be your secret, but it’s not mine.”
“I don’t know what your answers are, Claire. There’s no magic formula to get over losing the love of your life. Though I think you’ll find another man to love one day, you’ll probably have to learn to love yourself again first.” She shrugged. “But what do I know?”
Another wave of emotions rushed through Claire, and she had to close her eyes and breathe through them. She put her hands behind her head—fighting the nausea—and looked at Didi. “I miss him more than anything, and the hole in my heart aches. The hurt is indescribable, like someone has ripped my rib cage open and left me to die.” Hot tears filled her eyes. “I can’t bear it anymore.”
Didi rounded the desk and wrapped her arms around Claire. “Stay strong. That’s all I can tell you. Try to tap into your stronger self.”
Claire cried into her friend’s shoulder. “How can I stay strong? I’m not strong. Nothing about me is strong.” All she wanted to do was curl up and finish David’s book, to read his words, to be close to him again.
Her friend released her and wiped one of the tears from Claire’s cheek.
Claire removed her glasses and wiped her eyes.
“You don’t ever have to say goodbye to him. He’s in your heart, Claire. He’ll always be in your heart.” Didi stood straighter and touched her own chest. “Find him here. Feel him. And talk to him. Ask for his help. That’s my magic formula. Not these men who chase me around. My secret is that my husband is here in my heart, and he wants me to be a fighter and to carve out a new happy life for myself. He wants me to be happy. What does David want from you?”
“I . . . I wish I knew.”
After a long hug, Claire said to Didi as she was leaving, “By the way, you’re one wild woman. He’s a catch and a half.”
Her friend perked up with a sinister lift of an eyebrow. “He’s delicious, isn’t he? Great on the eyes and even better under the sheets.”
Claire couldn’t hold back a smile. “I have no idea where you find these men.”
She raised her hands, palms up. “They’re falling from the sky! What can I say?”
After a shake of the head and one more smile, Claire said, “Thanks for being in my life.”
“See you tomorrow afternoon at the meeting?”
“Yeah, for sure.” Didi blew Claire a kiss and disappeared back into the madness of the café.
Claire sat and stared at the wall for a while. Sometimes that numbness of being all cried out was the only peace she could ever find. She loved her friend for her honesty and encouraging words, and though much of Claire didn’t believe she had the strength to overcome, a very small part of her believed that she would. That she had to. Her dead husband would demand it.
Claire touched her heart and whispered, “Are you out there somewhere, David?”
Chapter 3
SAVING ORLANDO
After locking up, Claire climbed into her convertible and drove north, back toward the Don CeSar hotel. David’s novel rode shotgun.
Claire couldn’t help but see the parallels between her adult life and that of the hotel. Opening in the late twenties, the Pink Palace was welcomed with a flurry of excitement, drawing the rich and famous from all over the world. Those booming times were like the first years of Claire’s marriage to David. After fighting off the early impact of the Great Depression, the untimely death of the hotel’s owner had led it on a downward path of disrepair, only to be bought for a song by the US Army, who converted it into a military hospital during World War II. Shortly after, the army even abandoned the building. The southern sunshine and salt air had eaten away at this glorious feat of architecture over the subsequent thirty years.
That was just about how Claire felt right now: exhausted and worn down. But there was a bright side. New owners in the seventies and renovations over the next few decades had restored the Don CeSar to its former glory, and the hotel was back in business. Claire hoped the Don’s story was just a few years ahead of her own.
Claire’s new house was on the beach side of the main drag, still a half mile from the Don but only two blocks from the sand. After David died, knowing she could never spend another night in their house, she’d rented a spacious two-bedroom condo downtown. But a few months ago, as part of her intended comeback, which felt like the eleventh round of a boxing match, Claire had committed to rediscovering her love of the beach and started to house hunt.
Hidden amid giant supermansions with fast cars in the driveway, her little two-bedroom was a dreamy place to live for a single woman in need of healing. She’d been fortunate enough to see the real estate agent hammering the FOR SALE sign into the grass and was signing papers that same afternoon. How about that for spontaneity? Her new home was simple and beachy with a brick chimney and a tin roof that sang in the rain. A quick bike ride away from the café; a two-minute walk to the sand; a perfect place to relaunch.
She parked her car on the street and, with the box of David’s possessions resting under one arm, circled to the front porch. Though not as chic as her café on the outside, her bungalow was certainly bohemian. Seashells, dream catchers, and driftwood. Claire had only been here two months but had read at least four books in the hammock and rocking chairs while breathing in the salt air.
She kicked aside an Amazon delivery and entered the living room. “Guess who’s home . . .”
Her one-eyed tabby cat named Willy jumped down from the back of the couch, stopping on the cushion before landing on the rug.
Claire put her things down on the coffee table and reached down to swoop him up. “I hope you’re having a better day than I am.” She held him to her chest and bathed in his purrs as she ran her hand along his back.
Following the last hurricane, Claire had raced back to Pass-a-Grille after the evacuation to make sure the café had survived. She’d found Willy hiding on the patio with a hurt eye, probably a result of flying debris. The vet who’d stitched him up guessed he was about two years old. Claire considered Willy to be one of the great blessings of her life.
“You wouldn’t believe what I found,” Claire said, setting Willy down. He followed her through the house as she related the events of the morning in brief.
Throwing on a kimono, Claire made a cup of chamomile in the seventies retro kitchen made most apparent by the vivid orange counters. The one picture she had of David and her from the summer they met caught her eye; it hung on the wall above the counter. Being fourteen, she had the bird legs of a skinny teenager and wore blue rolled-up shorts and a T-shirt with a palm tree on it. The photo had been taken when Claire had flown down from Chicago to St. Pete to spend a month with her grandmother Betty.
Betty seemed to always have one foot in the sand and had introduced Claire to the magical properties of the Gulf. Every morning, they’d scour the beach in search of sharks’ teeth and starfish and then settle into chairs under an umbrella to read until lunch. Claire could still taste the salty tears she’d shed on the return plane home at the end of the summer.
Not only had she fallen in love with the beach, but she’d fallen in love with a boy on the beach. The young man in the photograph was five shades tanner than her, with hairy legs, and as handsome as could be. He’d grown up in a huge family in Tampa, and they’d rented a beach house every summer on Pass-a-Grille. He’d seen her walking the beach by herself and said hello. Her first love.
They saw each other again the next summer, but then the flightiness of youth and the miles between Florida and Illinois proved to be too great to carry their relationship forward. They lost touch, and Claire didn’t see him again for ten years. At the age of twenty-five, after Claire’s father had died and she’d sold the diner, she moved south, taking a job assisting a wedding photogr
apher. During one of her first shoots, David was one of the groomsmen. He took one knee later that year, and she’d said yes.
The whistling pot brought her back to the present. After dunking the tea bag up and down and then discarding it, Claire carried the cup back into the living room, where she fished out the composition books. It was time to read.
Moving to the porch, Claire settled into a rocking chair with Willy curled up on her lap. She petted him while sipping her tea, smoking another cigarette and watching the cars with out-of-state license plates pass.
When she was ready, she thumbed through the pages she’d already read, found the second chapter, and fell back into David’s story, back into his arms. He hadn’t let her read his old mysteries, insisting that they were trash, but now she wondered. Maybe she could dig those up too. David had been such a good writer. She knew that from his emails and letters he’d written over the years, but to read a story he’d created caught her off guard. He’d had true talent.
Claire burned through the first composition book in two hours. Willy had settled onto his favorite perch: a bamboo table by the door. Climbing into the hammock, Claire tore into the next book.
A notion settled in. David had written this book as some sort of cathartic exercise—a way to heal from his pain. He’d put all the hurt she didn’t know he had into these pages, the sadness of being infertile, of never becoming a father. It wasn’t a sad story by any means. Anything but! Claire felt great inspiration pulling for the main characters. But disguised in those words were the layers of David she hadn’t known existed.
David had still wanted to be a father, even after he and Claire had agreed to stop trying. She’d forced him to stop bringing it up, to let go of the idea of parenthood. And she thought he’d been on the same page, that he’d moved on.
Claire’s bottom lip quivered as it became all too clear that her husband had never gotten over their misfortune—his low sperm count. After their attempts to get pregnant and the grueling effects of negative results—and then what they believed was a sure-thing adoption that fell apart at the last moment—Claire had drawn a line in the sand. As difficult as it had been to say goodbye to her hopes of one day becoming a mother, she felt she knew what was best for them. “I don’t want to talk about babies anymore, David. We have to let this go. I’m too hurt. I’m tired of being pricked and pried apart. And I can’t take one more up and down.”
