by Boo Walker
Being the wonderful, loving, and supportive husband that David was, he’d given her a tight hug, encasing her with his love. “All I need is you, baby.”
The man who’d grown up the oldest of five.
The man who was an uncle to seven and counting.
Her husband who had confessed to wanting four children (two boys, two girls) on their first date.
All I need is you.
Clearly, he’d needed more. David was the man in the story, and this was his way to experience fatherhood. Claire knew exactly why he hadn’t let her read what he was working on. If she had, she would have known how much he’d been suffering, and without question, she would have blamed herself.
But the guilty feelings weren’t enough to keep her from reading.
As the sun fell and she reached the third composition book, a budding idea took a firm hold. One of the most painful parts of grief and loss was how the memory dimmed. The legacy faded. Shortly after David had died, their house had filled with people. Casseroles spilled out of both refrigerators and freezers. Each day, lines of people had come to pay their respects, reaching a giant crescendo at the funeral, where hundreds of people turned out. A few weeks later, Claire hadn’t had as many visitors. She hadn’t received as many phone calls. Most of the casseroles she’d either eaten or given away. Soon, it was the occasional drop-by from her dearest friends. Six months later, David’s memory was fading, and by the year anniversary of his death, his name was barely uttered. Here she was three years later, and even she was supposed to have moved on.
The buildings he’d designed, which Claire would always stop and admire, were all that would survive. Well . . . and his desk and chair.
And this book.
Claire had the idea that if she could get it published for him, she’d find a way to keep him alive. Or at least it would be a way to preserve his legacy, more words than any gravestone could hold. And perhaps it would help quell the guilt that was bubbling down in her depths. Maybe she could make right her wrong.
Claire returned to the final pages. She could feel the end of his story coming and hadn’t felt so invested in the characters of a book in her entire life. Had David intended this to be the last draft? She’d never know, but the story might be publishable as it was. Why hadn’t he shared it with her yet?
And then.
There were no more words.
Halfway through the third book, the story stopped midsentence.
Claire flipped through the blank pages, hoping to find more words. Nothing.
Leaving Willy back inside, Claire ran to her car and, under the glow of the moon, sped across St. Pete. She so hoped this wasn’t a sad story. Was that why he wouldn’t let her read it? When she reached their home, she ran up the stairs and raced into his office. She spent the next two hours searching for more words. Where were the other drafts? Had he tossed them? Had he hidden them somewhere?
She moved around his office like a madwoman, desperately pulling books off the shelf, opening drawers. She even knocked on the walls and floors, looking for hollow spots. It was soon evident that he had not finished his story. He died with words left to give, a story still to tell.
No one would ever know how it ended.
Lying on the floor amid the boxes of his books, Claire cried herself to sleep.
She woke puffy eyed in the middle of the night, not quite aware of her location. Whitaker Grant’s book—the one inscribed to David—lay next to her head, lit up in the moonlight. She stared at it for a long while as her eyes and mind adjusted.
The realization of what she needed to do wrapped around her like David’s arms when he’d last come to find her at the end of the dock. For perhaps the first time since he’d died, she felt hope, an almost impossible hope, like discovering a lost diamond ring in the waves. It was as if she’d suddenly found the answers she’d been looking for, and Claire was shocked, even saddened, that she’d waited three years to go through his office.
This book had been lying in a drawer collecting dust for three long years. His unfinished dream. As though wearing blinders, she felt a desperate need to get this book finished.
And Whitaker Grant was the one to do it. She knew that with all her heart, as if David had appeared to tell her so.
Chapter 4
DISTURBING THE PEACE
Whitaker Grant was on a Sunday-morning stakeout. Not the typical stakeout. And the absurdity had not been lost on him. He couldn’t hold on to a marriage or drop a lick of weight. He certainly couldn’t write another novel, but by God he would catch the man—or woman—responsible for not picking up dog poop in his neighborhood.
Wasting precious writing time, Whitaker hid behind tinted glass in the wayback of his aging Land Rover with his eyes glued to a pair of binoculars, watching for possible offenders in the park across the street. Since his divorce, he’d been living in a bachelorized house along Clymer Park in the tiny city of Gulfport, which bordered St. Petersburg. Lined with tall palms and oaks dripping Spanish moss, the park stretched for three blocks and featured lush gardens and local artists’ exhibits as part of an art walk.
Whitaker was still in his bathrobe, and an empty box of Cheerios lay by his side. Seeing an unfamiliar man walking a springer spaniel through the grass, Whitaker leaned in with intense scrutiny.
When the dog finally took a squat, Whitaker readied himself. What exactly he’d do once he found the culprit, he was unsure. But this had to stop. Such a grand crime cut Whitaker to his core. Three times. Not once! Not twice. Thrice, he’d gone for a stroll around the park in his efforts to shed the ten extra pounds that had sneaked up on him, only to step in the excrement of a dog with a negligent owner. That third time, as he’d hosed off the poop, he’d committed to find this person.
The action in the park slowed for a while. He noticed a cute woman Rollerblading and wondered what her story was. He hadn’t slept with a woman since his ex-wife, not that anyone would be surprised by that fact. Between his 1970s mustache and general disregard for style, he wasn’t exactly the catch he used to be. Some men weathered a divorce and then ran like wild horses toward the closest women. Whitaker’s divorce had only led him further into a lonely depression. A depression he was well aware of and disgusted by.
Whitaker glanced back at his little house, which was about all he had left after the settlement. Lisa had stayed in their mansion near the water, which was paid off courtesy of his novel. He’d asked for enough cash to buy a little house and to buy some time. Oh, and his wine. Considering he was the one who’d curated their robust collection, she hadn’t argued. She was always content with a glass of sauvignon blanc anyway. He’d moved the collection to a wine-storage facility on Fourth Street and visited every once in a while. Though sadly, since he’d lost his wife and his muse, there weren’t that many days worthy of popping corks on good bottles.
Still hungry, he pulled the bag of Cheerios out of the box and shook the crumbs into his mouth. He washed it down with the last of the lukewarm coffee in his travel mug. He always bought his beans from the same roaster in St. Pete, an establishment where the owners happened to be big fans of his writing. With the hazelnut hitting his taste buds, he tried not to think of what the owners would say about his recent habit of taking his coffee with an overly generous amount of creamer. Since the writer inside him had died, Whitaker’s love of subtlety in coffee and wine had perished as well.
A suspicious-looking man walking a mini-poodle—or at least a mini-something—strutted by Whitaker’s house. Was this the guy? The poop Whitaker had stepped in was more medium size, but Whitaker would be the first to admit he hadn’t mastered the proportions of dog size to poop size yet. Hopefully, his limited PI skills (PI standing for poop investigation) would be enough to bring the perpetrator—or poopetrator—to justice.
Just when Whitaker thought he’d succeeded, the man extracted a bag from his back pocket, snapped it open with a shake, and reached down obediently to collect his dog’s droppings.
Whitaker cursed in disappointment.
A few minutes later, his phone rang. Without looking at the display, he knew exactly who it was and the purpose of the call. And he always picked up for his mom. She was one of his favorite people on earth.
“Hi, sweetie,” Sadie Grant said to her son. “I hope I’m not waking you.”
“Oh, c’mon. I’ve been writing all morning.”
In her typically jolly voice, she said, “Good for you. Well, I don’t want to disturb you—just making sure you’re coming over later.”
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” he said, knowing there was no way out of this one.
“Honey, I know your sarcasm better than anyone. Don’t toy with me.”
Adjusting his position, he asked, “Why do you insist on everyone getting together when we don’t get along?”
“Oh, honey, who cares about a few hiccups along the way? We’re family. The Grants must stick together.”
Whitaker could see her pumping her fist in the air. The Grants must stick together! He imagined his entire family, every Grant in Florida, marching down Beach Boulevard chanting, “The Grants must stick together! The Grants must stick together!” As if they owned St. Pete before the Native Americans did.
“I think you’re confusing hiccups and hurricanes,” he said. “Besides, I really need to write, Mom.”
Whitaker scanned the park for more dogs.
“Don’t do that, Whitaker. It’s never the same without you.”
Whitaker sighed. “What time does it start again?”
Still happy as can be, his mother almost sang, “The bouncy castle should be operational by three. But come over anytime. Did you get a present for your nephew?”
“Of course I did,” Whitaker lied, wondering what he might find in the house worth wrapping. And where to find wrapping paper, tape, and ribbon.
“By the way, I just told your brother. We’re hiding the liquor. There’s plenty of beer and wine, but I don’t like having everyone hammered on liquor. It shows our bad side.”
“Bad side? We have a bad side?”
Her “Whitaker Grant” sounded like a reprimand. “I’ll see you at the party.”
“When is it again? Next week?”
“Whitaker, stop your shenanigans. See you in a few hours.”
After ending the call, she flooded his phone with happy animal emojis, and Whitaker decided that the day baby boomers discovered emojis had to be the beginning of the end. How could someone be so happy all the time? Though she was brilliant and sharp, Whitaker had to wonder if part of her was insane. Why all these determined attempts to keep getting the family together? The Grant family took all the “fun” out of dysfunctional.
After another thirty minutes of the stakeout, Whitaker felt bored and decided to hang it up for now. Sundown might be a better time to expose this creep. That was when these people were more likely to break the pick-up-your-poop rule—in the dark when they could get away with it.
“Not anymore,” promised Whitaker, climbing out of the Land Rover and returning to the house. “Not anymore.”
Whitaker hung his binoculars on the coatrack next to the umbrella. In the kitchen, he poured himself another cup of coffee and destroyed it with creamer. While stirring the concoction, his mind wandered into book land. Although the words weren’t flowing like they used to, he’d been typing some. That was the difference between now and the good old days. Where the man who had won copious literary awards, sold his book to Hollywood, and even for a moment made his father proud, was a respected writer, the man erratically running around in his bathrobe on this Sunday morning was a typist.
As the typist made his way to what could barely be called a third bedroom, Whitaker interviewed himself out loud. More and more lately, he was talking to himself, the banter of the lonely.
“Mr. Grant,” he started, with Walter Cronkite–esque authority, “what do you do for a living now? Are you writing again?”
In his best washed-up Whitaker Grant accent—one he’d mastered considering he was one and the same—he answered, “No, I’m just typing. I don’t have any more stories to tell. Nothing of consequence, at least.”
“How are you paying the bills with this typing?”
“Oh, I’m not really. Still living off a few royalty checks, but I’m also dabbling in investments, advising folks on where to put their money.”
“What do you know about banking?”
“One of the benefits of being Jack Grant’s son. I was studying stock charts before I could read. Because I have somewhat of a name in the area, my clients tend to find me.”
“Don’t you miss writing? I can’t imagine typing has the same creative return.”
“Oh, no. Typing is much more fun.” Whitaker threw his hands in the air. “Of course I miss writing, you bumbling fool! I’m lost in a world of words, and I can’t get my fingers around any of them. They’re everywhere. All I see . . . letters and words. But I can’t wrap my hands or head around a damned one.”
“I see,” Walter responded with a twinge of pity. “You’re screwed, aren’t you?”
“Royally, Walter. Royally.”
Nevertheless, Whitaker needed to sit down and get started on this typing venture. He felt sure that if he kept pecking away, the typing would turn to writing again, though the doubt and fear swollen inside him didn’t leave much room for a creative outburst.
Like the rest of his house, the third bedroom–turned-office was a mess. Whitaker would do one of his monthly cleaning sessions soon, which was well overdue. In the meantime, he just didn’t care.
A fold-up card table for a desk, covered with mail. Food particles on the rug, dirty laundry on the floor. Two of the three light bulbs on the ceiling fan dead. Sometimes you needed to worry about surviving. Then once you figured that part out, you could worry about the details of surviving with style: cleaning, shaving, that sort of thing.
Today, Whitaker was alive and sitting down to write. That was about as great of an accomplishment as the typist was capable of at the moment. Whitaker brushed aside a stack of books from his chair, let them fall to the floor, and dropped into his seat. Prepared for battle, he glanced up to find inspiration from the movie poster based on his bestselling novel, Napalm Trees and Turquoise Waters, hanging on the wall. He couldn’t help looking at the framed photograph to the right of the poster, a shot of him and his ex-wife, Lisa—dressed to the nines—standing on the red carpet moments before the premiere in West Hollywood. Her lava-red hair long and wavy, the freckles he used to touch one at a time—connecting the dots, her soft skin, the two young lovers’ hands clasped together as if nothing could ever sever their connection. What happened to the man in the photo? Whitaker looked back at Lisa. When she left, he left. Mystery solved.
Whitaker had always been attracted to redheads, and when Lisa had crossed his path one day at a book signing, he’d asked for her number. Those were the days when his game was strong. His confidence was unparalleled during those beautiful years after the release of Napalm Trees. The young redhead had been flattered, and why not? He was a big deal back then. The critics had called him a national treasure, a burgeoning genius. Napalm Trees was “a tour de force, a literary behemoth!”
Napalm Trees was indeed considered literary fiction, but not the kind that would turn into required reading in college. His novel was page-turning fiction meant for book clubs. It just so happened to be quite literary. What? Whitaker couldn’t help that his silver pen painted scenes so vividly that a reader might tumble into the page through his wormhole of words. He rolled his eyes at his own sarcasm.
The typist unfolded his laptop. He’d written his last book on a laptop that he’d dubbed Excalibur. The screen used to come to life with the excitement of taking on the world. When he’d set his fingers over the keys, that computer had begged for words like a stranded man in the desert desperate for water. If only a laptop could keep up with the times. Newer technology had led to Excalibur’s inevitabl
e doom. Something about writing a hit book and making a lot of money had made Whitaker want to upgrade. If only he’d known that he was tossing his finest ally into the trash, he would have put up with its constant freezing and need to be restarted for the rest of his writing career.
As part of his regimen of procrastination, Whitaker always needed to restart his computer before words were written, something about starting fresh. As the computer rebooted, he sat there cracking his knuckles and watching the update bar. When the computer—still unworthy of a name—finally came alive with a welcome sound, he surfed his favorite sites. Anything to delay dredging up new words.
Of course, there would be no writing until he’d checked emails. He never knew what might be waiting for him, good or bad. Was he procrastinating? Yes, indeed. Still, he had several hours to write before his afternoon get-together with family.
Whitaker hadn’t gotten far in reading emails when he came across the latest communique from his agent in New York. It was the same old message: When will you have something for me to read? I can find us another publisher. Might even be able to get another advance. Don’t give up.
“Oh, good,” Whitaker said through gritted teeth. “Another advance that I will have to pay back when no story surfaces.”
If only people knew how impossible it was to put words on a page when your life depended on it. This sort of pressure from his peers was exactly what made writing now so much more difficult.
“I’m typing, dammit. I’ll have your book soon enough. Get off my back. There’s no blood left to suck.”
Breaking away from the writing business, Whitaker took time to enjoy an inappropriate email from his brother. After a final bout of laughter, he checked his social media sites. Though Napalm Trees had hit stores before the social media uprising, Whitaker had built a strong and active following over the years. Much of that certainly had to do with his often careless and unfiltered rants, but, nevertheless, at least he still had a voice. Someone had posted in his group about a possible sequel to the movie. Whitaker read the comments, amazed how many conclusions these people could make on complete hearsay. Claiming the final word, he typed I have not been made aware of a movie.
