by Boo Walker
It occurred to him that he had forgotten to clean the bathroom. He felt like punching himself in the face. What an idiot! Still, he couldn’t tell her no. Not unless . . .
Not unless he told her the plumbing was broken.
Hmm, then she’d ask about the second bathroom. Oh, Matteo, what do I do now?
With tremendous trepidation, the knight in severely tarnished armor nodded and opened the door wider. “Come on in. Please excuse the mess.”
Chapter 17
TWO DAMAGED SOULS
While driving into Gulfport on the way to Whitaker’s house, distracted by her thoughts, Claire had slammed on the brakes just in time to avoid a muscular man in a sleeveless shirt and flip-flops, walking a German shepherd. It was a few minutes before nine, a mild blue glow to the night sky.
Claire was desperate to hear what Whitaker had to say. He was now the only other person on earth who had read the manuscript. And he liked it! The fact that he’d read it in a day and invited her over immediately said it all. He’d been desperate to ask her about other copies and drafts. Her stalking had apparently paid off.
When she entered his house for the first time, a strong citrus scent attacked her nostrils. The walls were bare and furniture sparse, as if he’d just moved in. A surprisingly fancy houndstooth sofa stood out in the center of the living room like a giant wedding ring in a dark alley. She’d heard he had been married, so this house was obviously his post-divorce bachelor pad.
Pointing to his left, Whitaker said, “The bathroom is down the hall there. First door on the right.”
Claire thanked him and followed his direction. She could see a laptop resting on a folding desk in a room at the far end. Had to be his office. No wonder he was having difficulties writing.
Finding the guest bathroom, she flipped the switch. She saw the Poo-Pourri spray and figured that was what he’d used to spray the house. How bachelor of him.
When she returned to the living room, he sprang from the sofa. “Please don’t judge me too much by my mess. But I guess you now get an idea of where my head is these days. A proper midlife crisis.”
“No judgment here.” At least, she was trying not to pass judgment.
He crossed his arms. “I want to say again how sorry I am for lying. As you can see, I’m in even worse shape than Kevin is in the beginning of the story, as far as midlife crises go. But that doesn’t excuse me lying to you.”
Claire totally agreed but chose not to respond.
Whitaker sighed. “Frankly, I’m so embarrassed by this place I suggest we go somewhere else.”
Back outside, she moved her purse from the passenger seat of the convertible, and he climbed in with a messenger bag. He gave her directions to a wine bar only a half mile away, and they shared small talk as they made the short drive south.
“I can’t imagine running a restaurant,” he said, glancing at her, “especially a successful one. What’s your secret?”
“I grew up in my father’s diner, so it’s all I’ve ever known.” She looked up for a moment, as if her father were among the stars waking in the darkening sky. Leo had been such a good father, even after her mother had left them to start her other family. Claire could still hear his roaring laugh that would pour out of the kitchen and make all the guests in the dining room smile. Who knew? If he were still alive, Claire still might have been in Chicago running the diner with him.
With her eyes back on the road, Claire imagined Leo aligning the stars in her favor, helping her preserve David’s legacy. Despite Whitaker’s many faults, he seemed like a genuine and kind man—very different from David, but hopefully the right choice to finish the book.
Whitaker ran a hand through his longish hair. “As many restaurants as I’ve seen open and close over the years, it must truly be in your blood. Seems like there are so many things you have to perfect: the menu, the staff, the setting. And only if you knock them all out of the park can you survive your first year.”
Claire could have added many more to his list but got his point. “Our first year wasn’t exactly easy, but let’s just say I knew what to look for. My dad opened Leo’s back in the seventies, and it became an institution in the Loop. I learned from a lot of his mistakes.”
It was nice remembering her father, but she was eager to get into the discussion about the book as they parked along the main street in Gulfport. They sat outside under a yellow awning lit up with Christmas lights. Music akin to that of Buena Vista Social Club tickled the night air, which was just cool enough to make one consider long sleeves or pants. Alcohol-infused laughter came from the only other occupied table, where two couples were enjoying a night out on the town.
A young man with a seashell necklace burst out of the front door spitting Spanish with a Cuban tilt. Claire knew a little Spanish from school but couldn’t keep up.
Whitaker stood and embraced the man, machine-gunning him back fluently.
After a minute of back and forth, their faces in close proximity, Whitaker turned and introduced his friend Miguel to Claire. “You might know Leo’s South on the beach,” Whitaker said. “That’s her place.”
“Oh, of course. My wife and I love your food. I’m so happy to have you.” Miguel turned to Whitaker. “For you, my friend, I’ve procured a Galician godello from a very small producer that will be right up your alley.”
“Ribeira Sacra?”
“Even higher. Valdeorras.”
“Ah, how adventurous of you. A river wine planted by the Romans.”
As Claire listened, she began to understand what a budding Renaissance man Whitaker was. He was still a cartoon character, but one of unexpected depth. And she had to admit he was a good-looking man, attractive even.
Miguel turned back to Claire. “You’ll love this white. A kiss of barrel, a little age to it. Still, nice and bright but not too tart. Kind of like my friend Whitaker here.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment. All but the age part.”
“Will this work for you?” Miguel asked her, beaming from the banter.
Claire smiled. “Who doesn’t like Roman river wine?”
Miguel clapped his hands together. “Excellent. May I suggest a bowl of olives and my tortilla Española to start? You’re hungry, aren’t you?”
“Famished,” Claire said.
Once Miguel had retreated back under the yellow awning, Whitaker retrieved his computer and the composition books from his bag and set them on the table. He opened up his computer, revealing a green sticker that read: CROSS ME, AND I’LL PUT YOU IN MY NEXT NOVEL.
Claire tried to be patient while she waited for him, but she wanted to say, “Okay, Whitaker, let it out!”
Once he was settled, Whitaker finally said, “I love this book. David was a wise man, wasn’t he?”
Claire thought of the times when she’d come home from a long day at the restaurant and snapped at him for no particular reason. Most of the time, he would hear her out without reacting—sitting with his legs crossed, allowing her to vent. Typically, the move would completely snuff out her anger. That, to her, was wisdom—and was one of the reasons she loved David so much.
Swallowing the memory, she said, “Very much so.”
“I’m a bit scared that I’m not worthy, to be honest, but I’d like to help.”
His humility, as opposed to the pity seeking she’d seen before, was endearing. “You’re worthy, Whitaker. I wouldn’t have asked you otherwise.”
“Thank you.” He talked as he clicked. “How much of the story is true?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, we writers all put ourselves into stories. Especially early on in our endeavors. How much David is in Kevin?”
Claire thought about it. “They share some similarities, I guess. Same age. The same humor, of course.”
“And both going through some difficulties?”
Claire cocked her head.
“If you want me to do this, you’ll have to let me pry some.”
“I know,” she said, pondering Whitaker’s question. “I’m not bothered by the question. More, just trying to think of his difficulties. I mean, he worked too much, I guess. But he wasn’t really struggling. Almost the opposite, like he’d found the secret to life.” Claire remembered looking at David sometimes, wondering how he could possibly be so happy. Not that they had a reason to be sad anymore, but he was often on a totally different plane of existence, of enlightenment, even.
“Which speaks to my point about wisdom. I can sense it.”
“David had his midlife quirks, too, though his seemed to lean toward healthier vices, like running and biking, and then writing, of course. Once we realized we weren’t going to be parents, I opened Leo’s, and he became an exercise junkie, always training for the next marathon or triathlon. Some people buy Harleys. He bought road bikes.” Claire could see David’s shaven muscular legs protruding from his neon-green cycling shorts. “Then he read your book and started writing. He threw himself into it just as much as he had into his training. He was that kind of guy. Why do anything less than full throttle?”
“I could have taken a few pointers on negotiating the midlife bridge. He sounds much more put together than me.”
Claire tilted her head. “Um, you think?”
“Okay, let’s not get carried away. You apparently enjoy picking on me, but please know that I’m a fragile being with sensitive feelings.”
“And an awful mustache.” Claire couldn’t help but poke at him some. It was too much fun.
“Ouch.” He covered his mustache as if she was about to attack it.
Claire burst into laughter. “You know I’m kidding.”
“I’m glad knocking me down lifts you up.” She could tell by his smile that he was having fun too. He handled being tormented well, almost welcomed it.
“I’m only teasing,” she promised. “Please forgive me. But what is this mustache thing anyway? Some sort of statement piece?”
“I guess you could call it that. David bought a bike; I grew this. Same thing.”
Another shared smile.
“It’s not that bad, is it?” Whitaker asked.
“I can see the appeal for other men your age. If you’re looking for a girlfriend, you might want to rethink it.”
Whitaker smiled the smile of a man who’d spent a long time thinking about relationships and had endured the pain of lost love. “Most certainly not looking for a girlfriend. Maybe the mustache is my deterrent. Like how a single woman wears a ring.”
Claire glanced at the rings and felt her shoulders slump. For an instant, she felt a defensive anger, almost rage, bubble up, but thankfully she caught it just in time and held her tongue.
Whitaker followed her eyes to her finger. “Oh gosh. I didn’t mean it like that.” He sighed. “I feel like a jerk. I was talking about women in general—”
Claire took in a long breath. “It’s fine. I know you didn’t mean anything by it.”
Miguel appeared, saving the couple from any further awkwardness. He uncorked the bottle and offered Whitaker the first taste. He sniffed and nodded. “That’ll do, my friend.”
Once Miguel left the table, Whitaker apologized again, and then raised his glass to Claire. “To David.”
She clinked his glass with hers. “To David.”
They both drank to her husband and the gift he’d left.
After enjoying a sniff and sip but not making too much of a spectacle like some wine snobs, Whitaker said, “I’ll try not to put my foot in my mouth again, though we may have to explore some uncomfortable spots. I don’t know that I have the chops that I used to, but I’ll tell you this. I will pour my heart into this project and treat it exactly like it’s my own.”
The reality of David’s book coming to life suddenly struck her, and she felt like crying and leaping for joy at the same time. Claire took another small sip and set her wineglass down. “I know you will.”
Whitaker jumped right back into the guts of Claire’s life. “How was your marriage?”
Claire tensed and felt almost combative as the area between her eyebrows tightened. “What kind of question is that? This story has nothing to do with our marriage.”
Whitaker put up both his hands apologetically. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”
Seeing the kindness and gentleness in his eyes, she knew he truly meant no harm. Claire took another long breath and shook it off. Apparently his mouth didn’t come with a filter. She could either accept working with him and all his peculiarities or get up now and walk away.
No, Claire had to trust her instincts, the ones that had led her to him in the first place. And in doing so, she had to give him the benefit of the doubt. He wasn’t prying; he was helping.
“No, it’s fine,” she finally said. “I don’t mean to be defensive. Our marriage was great, like better than ever. We’d already passed our rough spots and were in a strong place. We were having a lot of fun.”
Taking a welcome divergence, Whitaker asked, “Any idea where he drummed up this story? Saving a boy in a group home. Orlando. Sarasota. It’s an impressive premise, the whole idea of a sad and lonely man finding purpose in helping a young man who deserves a lift up in life.”
“Yeah, it’s beautiful. And, yes, I do feel like he wrote the book as some sort of cathartic exercise.” By now Claire knew the answer all too well, having exhausted the idea that this book was how David had experienced being a father.
“You alluded to it earlier,” Whitaker said. “Please elaborate.”
More laughter came from the other table, and Claire was tempted to turn around and tell them to keep it down.
Claire crossed her right leg over her left and folded her arms. “David always wanted to be a dad. It was his dream for so long, but we had trouble getting pregnant. We tried and tried. We were that couple that did way too many IVFs and IUIs, and it started to eat at our marriage. You can only deal with getting your hopes up so many times before you fall apart. It got bad once the doctor told us we had to stop. I was a wreck, especially. We toyed with adoption, but that didn’t work out either.” The word adoption squeezed her heart.
Whitaker raised an eyebrow. “How did that not work out? Aren’t you guaranteed a child when you adopt?”
“Yeeaaaah, but . . . it’s a long story.” And she really didn’t want to ever revisit it again, but she knew she needed to. “We thought we had a baby. Came home early from a trip with assurances from our lawyer. We met the mother, and she loved us.” Claire looked up and added, “You have to meet the mother and get her approval before you can meet the baby. So the baby was in the nursery. We went home feeling like it was happening. But we received a call that night, as we were getting the nursery ready. A different adoption agency had come in and talked the mother into giving the baby to another couple. Apparently, they’d offered her money under the table. Our lawyer was furious; we were destroyed.”
Claire took a big sip of her wine to slow her elevated heart rate. Those days had been so awful, sitting on the floor in the nursery holding the toys and touching the clothes she’d begun to collect, the ones that a baby might never touch.
Once she’d collected herself, Claire told Whitaker what she’d never told anyone. “That was it for me. I couldn’t keep trying. David attempted to make me feel better, promised me we’d eventually find our true baby. I told him I was done.” The confession stopped in the air in front of her, and she fought to hold back a cry. “And I said . . .”
Whitaker reached across the table. “We can do this later.”
Claire shook him off and coughed up the words as if she had to get them out before they choked her. “I told him that if he loved me, he’d have to let this dream of ours go. That I couldn’t bear another failed attempt. I told him we weren’t meant to be parents.”
Claire felt the tears collecting under her eyes. But she didn’t want to cry, not anymore. “He hugged me and told me that I was all he ever needed, that we didn’t need a child, that he couldn�
��t be more content.” Claire scratched the table, feeling David’s breath on her neck. And she could hear the bitterness in her tone as she said, “But apparently, according to his secret book, he wasn’t content at all. It reads to me as if he wrote it to experience what it was like to be a father. I guess Orlando was the child he never had.” Claire touched her flat, empty belly. “What we could never have.”
Whitaker put his elbows on the table. “Don’t let yourself get caught up in regret. You two went through a lot. Like you said, he was happy when he died. That’s what matters most.”
Claire nodded. “I know.” Whitaker had a good point, and it was probably the one positive that had gotten her through the first three years.
“Okay,” Whitaker said. “Enough prying. And, Claire, we can always wrap up and go at it again tomorrow.”
“No, let’s keep going.”
Whitaker wrapped his fingers around the stem of his wineglass. “Why Sarasota for the setting? Was David from there?”
Claire shook her head. “No, but he traveled there sometimes. He was doing projects all over Florida. He’s actually from Tampa.”
“Oh, gotcha. You’re from Chicago, right? You met up there or . . . ?”
Claire loved the story of how they met, but everything was pressing down on her. One of the tears she’d attempted to suppress rolled down her cheek, and she turned so that he wouldn’t see it.
But he did see it. “You know what? Let’s take a break. This is all tough. We have plenty of time to talk. I think you get the picture. To do this right, I have to understand him. And I suspect to understand David, I need to understand you too.”
“Yeah, I get it.” Claire quickly lifted her glasses and wiped her eyes.
Leaving the topic, they made small talk for a while, getting to know each other more. Claire started to feel better and latched back on to the excitement of finishing David’s book. It was a nearly epic gift that she was giving to him. And she liked that Whitaker was her choice. Her intuition had been correct. Though his prodding hurt, it showed her how serious he was going to take the project.
