An Unfinished Story: A Novel

by Boo Walker

  Claire reached for her computer, deciding it would be a good time to do her scheduling for the coming week. To everyone’s surprise, she’d not been working herself to the bone. Not that she was letting things slide, but she was no longer the person responding to emails three seconds after receipt. She wasn’t ordering food and alcohol well before it was needed. Her life’s motion was becoming a bit more “just in time,” as opposed to “doesn’t hurt to stay ahead of things.” Apparently, Leo’s South wouldn’t burn down if she took a few hours off here and there.

  After the battery had charged for an hour, she looked out the window, and her heart fluttered, seeing the golden hour approaching. What a perfect time to get back in. She prepped her main rig, finishing by twisting the hood onto the lens, and rushed toward the water. It was the last day of February, and the cool late afternoons had a San Diego feel about them. But spring was certainly coming. Reaching the dunes dotted with patches of sea oats, she was pleased to see a rather empty beach, at least her stretch.

  An older man with a curve in his back was moving along the middle of the sand working a metal detector. She’d always wondered if people ever found anything worth the search. A couple sat in chairs facing the water with cocktails in their hands. She smiled and waved when she saw one of the mascots of Pass-a-Grille. “Hi, Kenny!” He had the deepest tan in town and strolled up and down the beach strutting his fluorescent pink or green mankinis.

  “A beautiful afternoon to you, Claire!” No one on earth could pull off such a skimpy affair, but Kenny tried and did so with pride. He always hiked it up high, revealing way more of his bottom than anyone would want to see. And he didn’t care one bit. He’d happily jump into a photo if you asked him.

  Claire was searching for a more interesting subject for her first day back. Halfway to the water, she sat in the soft, dry sand. She wasn’t one to shoot a million pictures like many in the digital age. She liked to frame and prep each shot. Only after studying the light and its effects on the subject would she adjust her lens and go in. Maybe, like David, who used handwriting in the digital age, she was an old soul still clinging to her canister of film and her old Nikon that she’d used and abused in college.

  Claire put her eye to the viewfinder and moved the camera along the water, exploring the shades of blue. Other than a school of fish dancing on the surface a few yards out, the Gulf was as still as a lake. She saw a pelican flying toward her from the horizon. With very little time to react, she adjusted the aperture, cranked up the shutter speed, and backed off on the zoom. Then she lay on her back in the sand and waited for him.

  With a final glance for confirmation, she verified he was still coming her way. The moment the bird came into view, she pressed the shutter button. His wings were spread wide, and he was gliding thirty feet above her. The camera clicked away with a burst of four shots, the most she ever took at one time. “Thank you, Mr. Pelican.”

  She sat up, removed her glasses, shook the sand from her hair, and looked at the images. The first two were blurry, but then she found the one she liked. The bird was perfect, so utterly magical as he slid across the sky, not a care in the world. “Do you know how good you have it, Mr. Bird?”

  She dug her feet deeper into the sand. It’s good to be back, she thought, looking at the photos, reminding herself how much she used to love being out here. She stood and walked down to the water, one hand holding her camera. She noticed a dolphin riding the horizon but knew it wouldn’t be a good shot. Something about dolphins—it was tough to capture their grace on film, at least without the advantage of a boat’s closer proximity. She strolled south, revisiting those halcyon summer days when she and David had met here and shared the clumsy and ravenous kisses of first loves. These were memories to be cherished, not to be torn apart by.

  She paused to shoot a few seashells and then stopped when she saw a log in the water, pushing onto the shore. In her years on the Gulf, she’d never seen such a big log wash up. Such an occurrence might happen much more often on the East Coast because of the crashing waves and strong current, but the calm waters of the Gulf rarely brought in anything larger than small pieces of driftwood, many of which she’d collected to decorate her bungalow. Thinking there might be a good shot there, she walked up to the log and readied her camera.

  Her mouth dropped. It wasn’t a log.

  A manatee was hovering in several feet of water, his prickly whiskers, squishy eyes, and broad nostrils poking through the surface. She gasped with joy. She’d never seen a manatee on the beach side. They typically favored the inland waterways, but the water was so calm today he must have felt like exploring. He was a giant ten-foot-long puppy dog, and perhaps the most beautiful sight she’d ever seen. He had to be close to a thousand pounds.

  Claire didn’t want to scare him away, so she slowed and knelt. She silently lifted her camera and adjusted the settings. “Can I take a few pictures of you, my friend?” she whispered. Knowing he might be timid, she fired off a few early shots before he sneaked away. Then she inched closer, moving quietly.

  He didn’t budge.

  Claire couldn’t believe how big and beautiful he was, the cow of the sea. So gentle and innocent. If she could have, she would have sunk fully into the water and wrapped her arms around him.

  Only a few feet away, she took more shots. He had the look of a hound dog, with a giant snout, and she could see his entire body. He noticed her and backed up several inches.

  She captured another shot and then quietly dropped her knees into the water, her kneecaps grinding into the sand. She didn’t like the view from up high; she wanted to be lower down.

  “I’m not going to hurt you. Please don’t go.”

  As if he understood her, he paused and let her take more shots. She moved in closer, her lens hovering over the water. She could barely believe what was happening.

  Moving even closer, she reached out to the big brownish-gray sea potato. “Can I touch you?”

  Her arm scared him (for some reason, she was sure the manatee was male), and he moved backward.

  She could tell he was leaving. Holding the camera high, she stood and watched as the manatee backed up into the small surf, took a wide turn, and disappeared.

  Claire stood there watching the water, the awe of the experience filling her up. She remembered why she’d connected with the ocean in the first place. Was this vision of a manatee a sign of some sort? She remembered a time when she loved being alive. There was a time when she woke desperate to jump out of bed. She told herself to remember this feeling and know that all she had to do was be receptive.

  The Gulf of Mexico would do the rest.

  Chapter 20

  HE’S ON FIRE

  The day after she encountered the manatee, Claire enjoyed the kind of day at work that reminded her of her good fortune. It felt good to give back, to have established a place where people could start their morning with delicious food and conversation among friends and loved ones, a place where teens could congregate at the beach without getting drunk and stoned. And as she said goodbye to her employees, she could tell they felt the same way, that there was purpose to be found in working there.

  After cleaning the house, she relaxed in the hammock with Willy and read a few selections from The Essential Rumi. She reached for a cigarette but decided against it. Feeling so carefree and peaceful, she shook her head at the wasted hours in which she’d wallowed in the madness of David’s death. She so wished he could see her now, the widow finally coming alive and accepting that death was a part of life.

  Between poems, Claire exchanged text messages with Whitaker. He told her he hadn’t eaten all day, and that he’d called in sick—yet again—from work. Having already paid him a deposit and seeing how invested he’d become, Claire wouldn’t be surprised if he quit his job soon. She told him she’d bring over a pizza, and they could visit more. She had come to look forward to their daily chats. Her whole life had been so involved around work that she’d forgotten what it was
like to truly connect with someone.

  There was no shortage of good Italian food in Florida, a result of the Southern European snowbirds bringing down their cuisine. Claire picked up a pie at her favorite spot, Tony & Nello’s in Tierra Verde. Though not the fanciest, it was as authentic as you could find outside of Italy, and the smells of oregano, garlic, and ripe tomatoes rising from the box made her mouth water as she returned to her car.

  Pulling up to Whitaker’s house, she noticed the park was crowded with people walking their dogs, running, and throwing Frisbees and baseballs. They must have all just returned home from work. Pizza in hand, she approached Whitaker’s front door. Before she knocked, she heard a car door open and spun around.

  “You’re early,” Whitaker was saying, stepping out of the back seat of his Land Rover. She could tell he’d lost some weight.

  “What in the world are you doing?”

  He wiped the sweat from his forehead. “I was just cleaning my car.”

  “In the back seat with the door closed?”

  He took the pizza from her. “You know how I mentioned that I’m having a problem with someone not picking up poop in the park?” He dropped to a whisper. “I . . . was . . . on a stakeout. I find that hiding in the wayback and watching through the tinted glass is my best vantage point.”

  “You may just be the most ridiculous man in America.”

  “You think there’s someone outside of America more ridiculous? A Russian Whitaker dressed in camouflage hiding in a tree stand in Gorky Park tracking potential offenders with a sniper rifle?”

  She couldn’t help smiling but said sternly, “Sniper jokes are not allowed right now.”

  “Fair point,” he conceded. “Sometimes my humor runs away from funny.”

  It wasn’t an awkward moment at all. She’d come to enjoy their banter immensely and didn’t mind when he crossed boundaries. But in a more serious tone, she felt an obligation to say, “You realize this whole dog poop thing is you distracting yourself from doing the hard work: breaking through your writer’s block. You’re latching on to something you think you can control because what you really want to control—your writing—seems out of your reach.”

  “I suppose it could be interpreted that way.”

  Noticing his sudden discomfort, she steered away from exposing any more of his wounds. “Isn’t it hot in the wayback?”

  “Not bad with the windows down. And I bring a cooler with drinks.” He pulled back the screen door. “Let’s head inside. We don’t want to give away our position.”

  Following him, she asked, “Did you find the perp?”

  “Not even close. I’m beginning to think that whoever it is has a military background.”

  “They’re that stealthy, are they?”

  “Incredibly so.”

  They sat at the table in Whitaker’s dining room. Knowing her way around by now, she asked if he wanted something to drink on the way to the kitchen. She did a double take when she noticed a bowl of lime and lemon wedges resting on the counter near the fridge, just like she’d told him David used to do. One wedge of each in his ice water.

  When she returned to the table, she asked, “What’s with the lemons and limes?”

  “I figured you’d notice,” he said, taking his first bite of pizza. “God, that’s good.” He finished chewing. “Just trying to get into his head, you know. I keep feeling like I’m missing something. The writing is going really well, but I’m only working with what he’s already written. What I’m nervous about is the actual last part of the book. I want to know where he was going.” He laid his slice down. “What his thought process was. I feel like he knew how it was going to end, whether he’d written it out or not. Does Kevin save Orlando from getting into deeper trouble, or is it more tragic? Does one of them die?”

  Claire frowned. “No, I don’t think anyone dies.”

  “Me, either, but it’s important to stay true to the story, not necessarily to make it a happily ever after just because.”

  “David was a happily ever after kind of guy.” Even though his life didn’t go that way, Claire added to herself.

  Whitaker picked up his slice. “That’s good to know. I’ll tell you, he definitely knew a lot about the foster care system. Any idea where that came from?”

  Claire shook her head. “I wouldn’t put it past him to have done a lot of research. Like I said, when he got into something, he fully committed himself.” She reached for her first slice and fought to keep the cheese from sliding off the end.

  “I’ve been doing some research myself. Read everything I can get my hands on. And I’ve connected with a few people involved with the system here, so I’m getting a better feel for what this world is like. I’ve also reached out to the lead agency for child welfare in Sarasota, who is contracted by the state to run the foster system down there. They manage the case managers, track the kids, all that. If they’ll talk to me, it will bring a much more truthful feel to the story.”

  “Look at you, Sherlock. I’m actually impressed.”

  “Well, I was in journalism before I tried my hand at a novel.”

  Claire folded her slice. “I guess I knew that. It’s just that sometimes I underestimate you.”

  With a mouthful, Whitaker said, “That’s very easy to do.”

  “You went to Emory, right?” As he nodded, she asked, “An English major?”

  Another nod, still chewing. With crumbs spilling out, he said, “A triple major in French, Spanish, and English.”

  “Impressive! How about grad school?” She finally dug in, noticing how perfect the sauce was, not too rich with a nice zing.

  With a final swallow, he answered, “A one-way ticket to Europe was my grad school. I sold just enough of my work to newspapers and magazines to keep me afloat.”

  “What kind of stuff were you writing?”

  “It was mostly travel pieces. I wrote for my high school and college newspapers and built my portfolio from there. Back then, it was so much easier to make money freelancing. So mostly travel, but they’d accept almost anything I proposed.”

  “And Napalm Trees was your first dive into fiction?”

  “No, I wrote a collection of short stories in college.”

  “Why don’t you publish it?”

  “It was absolute trash. And long gone by now.”

  She wiped pizza sauce from her lip. “We really do need to talk about this dog poop thing, the investigation. It’s not normal. You know that, right? You’re staking out your neighbors.”

  “It’s my civil doody.”

  Claire rolled her eyes. He didn’t know how to stop with the humor. “I wonder what your alma mater would say about you now.”

  “Perhaps revoke my degree. But they kind of like me over there in the English department. I’m somewhat of their darling.”

  “If they only knew . . . So what will you do when you catch the offender? A citizen’s arrest?”

  He shook red pepper flakes onto his next slice. “I was thinking about that the other day. I really don’t know. Maybe I can give him the evil eye, and that will be enough.” He showed her his best evil eye, which was more adorable than threatening.

  “Oh, that will put the fear of God in him.”

  “Can I just say something?” Whitaker asked. “Enough about me. You’ve really come alive in the past few days. I don’t mean it to sound like I’m hitting on you, but you’re so much more beautiful when you’re happy. And so fun to be around.”

  “I feel happier,” she admitted, welcoming the compliment. “Thank you. And you look pretty good yourself.”

  “Thanks for noticing. Turns out all I had to do was run a few miles in the mornings and stop eating like a goat. But anyway, it’s nice having you around.”

  Claire blushed. “You too.”

  “Not to mention, you’re the only one who thinks I’m funny these days.”

  “Or I’m really good at faking it.”

  Whitaker raised his hand. “Medic
, please. Someone just stabbed me in the heart.”

  Claire laughed, and there was nothing fake about it.

  After cleaning up, they moved their conversation to the living room. “I woke up in the middle of the night,” Whitaker said, resting his feet on the coffee table, “and for a minute I thought I was him. I was in a group home, waking up in a bunk bed. It breaks my heart thinking of all the kids out there who grow up without parents.” He shook his head. “To think I’ve spent so long in a mental gutter while children like Orlando are out there fighting real battles. I need to get over myself sometimes.”

  Sitting on the other side of the couch, Claire let his thoughts settle in the air. “I can’t wait to read what you’re writing. I can tell you’re changing. For the better, I mean. Just don’t do what David did and keep it all from me. You have to share some of it. At least a few teasers here and there.”

  “Soon enough,” Whitaker said. “I’ll share soon enough.”

  “I will sneak into your house in the middle of the night if I have to.”

  “Is that a threat or a promise?”

  Though she couldn’t deny feeling guilty, it felt nice to be hit on, to be wanted. Whitaker was attempting to hide his feelings for her less and less. “I don’t know,” she said. “Is that a flirt or a blunder?”

  Whitaker showed all his teeth. “I’d say a blunder of a flirt.”

  Their eyes locked, and Claire could see that he was waiting for her to say something, to take a step forward.

  Instead, she looked away.

  Chapter 21

  MAY THE FOURTH BE WITH YOU

  After three weeks of writing David’s novel, Whitaker made the final decision to quit his job. He didn’t tell anyone but Claire the news. He still had royalty checks from Napalm Trees coming in and a few last stocks he could sell; plus Claire had given him 20 percent of her promised offer. It wasn’t possible to continue trying to help people invest when all Whitaker cared about was the written word.