by Boo Walker
Whitaker’s headache was raging. He hated these conversations.
Unsurprisingly, Jack wasn’t done. “We are the sum of our choices, Whit. All the little choices we make as humans create who we are. It’s like the construction business. When I build a project, it’s one good decision at a time. We start with a strong foundation, and then we take every following detail seriously. That’s why my buildings stand the test of time. When I look at you, I see a big pile of bad decisions. I see a building falling apart from the inside out.”
Whitaker crushed the empty beer can in his hand. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“I’m sorry, son. I don’t want to be the dad who crushes your dreams, but it’s been ten years. Some people only have one book in them. Nothing wrong with that.”
A nauseated feeling rose from his stomach as Whitaker stood and started to leave. “There is no future without another book. That’s about the only thing I know these days.” He jumped up onto the dock. “Thanks for the beer.”
“Whitaker, look at you. What is this mustache and the long hair? You’re a good-looking guy. Quit trying to hide it.”
Whitaker ignored his question. “I appreciate the job offer.”
As he walked back around to the front of the house, dodging the others at the party, he wondered why he hadn’t allowed himself to escape this madness, why he hadn’t packed up his Rover and hit the highway.
But he knew. Because St. Pete had given him his first novel, and he knew she was going to give him another one.
Avoiding the dinosaur crowd around the bouncy castle, Whitaker walked the property line toward the street. Thinking he’d successfully sneaked away, he heard his brother’s voice.
“Whit!” Riley yelled. “A buck knife? Who gives a five-year-old a buck knife?”
As he was wrapping it, the gift had made perfect sense, but upon hearing his brother’s condemnation, it became painfully apparent how out of touch Whitaker was with parenthood. He waved his brother away and found a pace somewhere between a walk and run as he cut loose the anchor of his family and put his eyes on the Rover.
For some unknown reason, Claire popped into his mind. And Whitaker wished she could have seen this entire episode. Then she’d know the mess he’d become. If she could swim around in his mind for a little while, she’d see how wrong she’d been to track him down. He was in no condition to help someone else.
Chapter 7
CHASING SMILES
“Let go,” the teacher was saying as she slalomed between the beach towels of the six yogis taking Shavasana during their early-afternoon session. “Let all the tension drift off with the breeze.”
Claire had joined the new studio since moving to the beach, and they offered daily sessions on the sand. She was no stranger to yoga, but since David’s death, she’d abandoned her practice for more intensive and mind-numbing workouts, such as running and spin class. Returning to her practice was a part of her commitment to healing.
But the end of the class, the Shavasana—the part most found the easiest—proved the most uncomfortable for Claire. So much quiet. The screaming of silence, where the seeds of her fury quickly sprouted. Sometimes it wasn’t about David at all.
Her mother was always an easy target, the woman who’d left Claire and her father to marry another man and have more children. Half brothers and sisters . . . ugh. After David had died, her mom suggested she come back to Chicago to live with them for a while. Thanks but no thanks.
But sometimes it sure as hell was about David. Anger at him and the man who’d killed him. Anger at BMW for not making a safer car. Even anger at herself for being angry in the first place!
Today, though, no matter how hard she tried to deflect him, Whitaker kept inching his way into her mind. What kind of selfish bastard could ignore such a request, to finish the book of a man who’d died before his time?
When the teacher summoned them back to their bodies, Claire began to wiggle her toes and regretted wasting her last few minutes of her practice trapped in a whirlwind of thought. At least she’d shown up to class. One day at a time, Claire. Oh, how badly she needed to attend the support group this afternoon, and something was telling her she needed to finally tell her story.
With one more focused exhalation, Claire opened her eyes to the sky and the birds zigzagging above. She was the first to collect her beach towel and thanked the instructor as she made her way back down the beach. For a brief moment, seeing her feet cut across the sand transported her back to the summer she had met David. What had tripped her up and at the same time quickly endeared him to her was how polite he’d been when Claire had introduced him to her grandmother. “Hello, it’s very nice to meet you . . . Yes, ma’am, my family rents a house here every year . . . Yes, ma’am, I’ll bring her back by seven sharp . . .” He was only just on the edge of becoming a man, and Claire remembered thinking what a man he’d be.
Closer to her house, she walked into the brisk water, brushing the sand off her knees and elbows. Flashes of silver darted about, the beautiful madness of minnows circling her. Saving Orlando, saving the project, drifted through her mind as she waded deeper, the chill widening her eyes and stealing her breath. She’d been considering other writers all morning. Why did it have to be Whitaker? Sure, the signs had pointed in his direction, but he wasn’t exactly the man she thought he’d be, and that frustrated her.
If she took a moment to think about it, she might have imagined Whitaker more like the handsome intellectual she’d seen when he used to come into the café, only a few years older. When she had approached him at his table that first time, he’d had this glow about him, an exceptional confidence, like he’d found his purpose. He’d flirted with her mildly, tamely—until she’d flashed her ring. Had she not been with David, she might have flirted back.
The man she had met today had been worn down. Though part of her was furious with him, another part pitied him. He wore his troubles like a billboard plastered to his forehead. Claire would have loved to think that he had the answer to all her woes, but life wasn’t always such a nicely wrapped present. No doubt there were plenty of starving writers who would happily accept money to write, but Claire wanted to choose the absolute perfect one. That was what David would have done for her.
A couple of hours later, Claire sat in a circle with twelve other widows in a meeting room of a nondenominational church in the middle of St. Pete—this particular group had been created specifically for women. An unused portable podium occupied the corner. A fold-up table by the window offered coffee, lemonade, and a variety of pastries.
Claire was so nervous that she’d polished off her drink and still felt dehydrated, like she’d eaten a ball of cotton. She’d told Lashonda, the woman who ran the group, that she was finally ready to speak, but even as the words came out of her mouth, she was questioning her decision.
Though she’d been attending for more than two years and there were women newer to the group, Claire still didn’t feel like an insider. As she looked around the room, she saw many veteran widows who had already climbed out of their own loneliness, and Claire had listened to their stories each week with hope that perhaps she wasn’t too far behind in her own metamorphosis.
It was here that Claire met Didi, who was currently sitting three people down. Didi looked impeccable in gold hoop earrings; a short, white linen dress; and blue high heels. On the other side of Didi sat Lashonda, who had been attending even longer than Didi. She’d gotten her PhD at Purdue and had a psychology practice in St. Pete, so she’d naturally fallen into the role of running most meetings.
Lashonda turned to Claire after running through a list of announcements. She had short silky hair and a bright smile. “There’s one of us who has had some major breakthroughs recently. Claire, are you still interested in speaking this afternoon?”
Claire forced herself to nod, set the cup down on the floor under her chair, and sat up straight. She had never been afraid of public speaking; it wasn’t that. It
was just that there was so much to tell, and she was suddenly wondering if she was ready to be analyzed under the microscope.
Claire controlled her breathing and looked at the other widows, who came in all colors, shapes, sizes, and ages. More than half of them had already shared, and Claire knew all their stories. It was time that she got it over with. Maybe it would feel good.
There was no going back now. “I hit the three-year mark yesterday.” It was so quiet in the room, but she pushed on. “A lot of you speak about two to three years as being the time when life gets a little easier. I guess I’m not as far as I’d like to be. I’m still sad and sometimes so angry I can’t see straight.”
A few nods, “me toos,” and “yeps.”
Claire fingered one of her necklaces. “I’m selling our house. Finally. It was empty for three years. Mostly empty. I’d cleaned out every room except his office. I couldn’t bring myself to go in there and box up his things. It was all I had left of him. How could I throw it all into storage or give it away?”
Claire glanced at Didi. “It was only as I realized that I couldn’t keep paying the mortgage forever that I put the house on the market. Yesterday, I finally marshaled up the courage to go into his office. And I found a pretty big surprise.” Claire elaborated on the discovery of Saving Orlando, finishing, “His story stopped midsentence, which broke my heart. He’d died without finishing it.”
Looking up, she found the women listening intently.
She thought for a quick second how beautiful it was she’d found this wonderful book of David’s, and a smile erupted from inside her. This bright smile was so out of place for this room and for Claire. But it was as real as the warmth of the sun. “Something deep within is telling me that if I can get someone to finish it, then I can maybe turn the page of my own book.”
Claire’s smile faded as she moved on. “I thought I’d found the perfect author—the guy who wrote Napalm Trees and Turquoise Waters—but I went to see him today, and he told me he wasn’t interested. That was really hard to hear. I thought he was the right guy for the job.” She lifted her shoulders. “But I know I can find someone. Healing is different for everyone, but I feel like I’m doing the right thing by trying to give my husband this gift. It’s like one last hug to say goodbye.”
Claire clasped her hands together. She looked down at the floor and wondered what to say next. Was that enough? Maybe for now.
Lashonda thanked her, and then another woman took the floor. Once those who wanted to speak had gotten their chance, Lashonda wrapped up the meeting by inviting everyone to dinner and a salsa class in Gulfport.
Going out dancing was the worst idea Claire’d ever heard, but afterward, as the women began to leave the room, Didi homed in on her. “It’s Lashonda’s birthday. There is no way you’re not going.”
Claire sighed and looked off to her left.
“I’ll tell you something that I believe with full conviction,” Didi said. “David wants you to have dinner with the ladies, then put on your dancing shoes and go salsa.” She offered a quick shimmy of the hips.
Claire shook her head with a half smile. How could she argue? It was Lashonda’s birthday. Almost all the other women were going. Besides, she was tired of being the downer anyway.
Eight of them occupied two tables on the sidewalk outside of Rita’s, one of the quintessential beach bars of St. Pete. A Grateful Dead jam set the laid-back mood. Claire checked out the locals, many without shoes or shirts, all of them shaggy and tanned sun worshippers holding Sunday boat drinks in their hands. A green-and-red parrot was resting on the shoulder of a patron a few tables down. Across the street, preventing a panoramic view of the water, stood the Gulfport Casino, which had been around for more than one hundred years. It was where the Sunday evening salsa classes were held.
A server with a nose ring promptly delivered their piña coladas and margaritas. The widows all toasted to Lashonda and then broke into smaller groups to talk.
Sitting next to Claire, Didi said, “I’m glad you’re here.”
Claire looked at the other widows and then at the other patrons celebrating life. “I feel like I don’t belong.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because I’m the only one not smiling.” Claire pushed aside the festive cocktail parasol and took her first sip.
After Didi had done the same, she said, “Well, I’d say the best way to relearn how to smile is to surround yourself with happy people. I always love coming to Gulfport. It’s the Key West of St. Pete. Where else can you find this kind of vibe?” Then Didi pointed toward the tall buildings of downtown. “Over there, people are worried about 401(k)s and promotions. Here in Gulfport, they’re worried about dying without living. It’s a neat thing.”
“I do need this. Sometimes I feel like my brain goes straight to work the moment I wake up. Then it’s pedal to the metal all the way to bedtime.”
“That’s why Leo’s South is doing so well. But I bet your café wouldn’t go under if you took a few days off.”
Another sip. Pineapple and coconut. “Days off? What are days off?”
“They are these very fine chunks of time, typically several consecutive days, where you focus on yourself and not work. You don’t check email. You don’t even answer the phone.”
Claire rolled her eyes and changed the subject. “Where’s Andrés today?”
Didi waved her hand. “I’m playing hard to get. He called a few times, but I ignored him.”
“You’re too much.”
“I’m telling you, Claire. If you ever do go back on the dating market, just talk to me. The things I’ve learned as an older woman. I just wish the twenty-year-old Didi had known what the sixty-something-year-old Didi knows. I would have saved myself three marriages and maybe had an orgasm before my forties!”
A smile played at the corner of Claire’s lips. “You didn’t have an orgasm until your forties?”
“I was well into my forties, believe it or not. How about you?”
Claire looked around nervously, like she was suddenly naked in church. “I was blessed early with a good lover.” Claire recalled her first orgasm, the night she’d reunited with David after more than a decade of lost years. The assistant wedding photographer. The groomsman. The ultimate cliché. An explosive evening. Needless to say, he’d learned a lot since their clumsy and sandy attempts on the beach as teenagers.
“Look at you, Claire Kite. You see? You’ve got this in you!”
“Anyway . . . ,” Claire said, taking more long sips. As her mind often did, she fast-forwarded through the years of David all the way to the end, to dark places. The crash three years ago. The guest he was supposed to bring. The empty seats. The meal gone cold. The knock on the door. The visitors. The casseroles. The mysterious Yankees hat. The funeral.
“What are you doing?” Didi asked. “You just checked out on me.”
Claire snapped out of it, releasing an exhausted breath. “Sorry.”
“Where did you go?”
“Where do you think?” Claire pulled the cocktail parasol from her drink and spun it back and forth with her fingers. Needing to share the details, Claire elaborated on her visit with Whitaker, how she thought he might be the one.
Didi looked across the street and out over the water, obviously debating her next words.
Claire side-eyed her friend. “What is it?”
“I’m not sure you want me to tell you what I think.”
“When has anything stopped you from speaking your mind?”
Didi shrugged her shoulders. “I like the idea . . . no, I love the idea of getting David’s book finished. But I feel like you’re putting lofty expectations on what completing it will accomplish. I think you have to ask yourself why. That’s not going to be an easy answer if you really dig deep. Do you want to make him famous? Do you want to make him as famous as Whitaker? Is it just that you want to preserve his legacy? Or do you think this is somehow going to bring him back?”
“Of course it’s not going to bring him back.” Claire tapped her foot. Getting his book finished was the least she could do for David after smothering his dream of fatherhood. “I know it’s not going to bring him back,” she repeated. “It’s a way for me to honor him.”
A loud cackle rose from the other table.
“I just fear that this could be a false direction, a false calling. You might think you hear David talking to you, but it could actually be your sorrow begging for some light.”
“Well, yes, if it is my sorrow begging for some light. What’s wrong with that?”
Jerry Garcia sang the first line of “Scarlet Begonias.”
“I guess what I’m really trying to tell you is that convincing Whitaker Grant or some other writer to finish your husband’s story isn’t necessarily the solution you’re looking for.”
“No, I know. But it could be one of the steps. He had something to say, and I think if I can get the book finished, I’ll know exactly what.”
“Ah, there it is. What’s getting it finished by someone else going to tell you?”
Claire stirred her drink and took a big sip to quench her growing frustration. “It’s hard to explain. I feel like I’m supposed to do this for him. Like he’s out there, watching and waiting. There’s a story that needs closure. He wants Whitaker to write it.”
“You are the one who needs closure. David didn’t know he would die prematurely. I mean, I get it. I’m the one who told you I talk to my dead husband. But this is different. I think it’s a beautiful idea, but I don’t want you to be let down with the results. Even if this book is as good as you say it is, and you convince someone to write it, and it gets published. Even if all that, you need to know David will still be gone no matter what.”
“If you were anyone else, I’d leave the table.” Claire resisted the urge to hammer her fist down. “Please don’t treat me like I’m crazy.”
“I just don’t want you to tie your emotional health to the outcome of this book. It sounds like Whitaker is not even the right guy.”
