by Boo Walker
He looked at his decision like there was no better way to invest the rest of his money other than in his dream, a dream that he’d already proved lucrative in the past. He hadn’t hinted about the project to his agent yet, because he wanted to see how the ending came out, but he knew he would be all over it. Same for the publishers.
Whitaker didn’t have time for a day job anyway, even if it was less demanding than the one his father had offered. Writing this novel was taking everything he had, demanding countless hours of editing and polishing, plus tons of research. He’d built a small network of experts in the foster care world who’d welcomed his questions either by phone or over a cup of coffee, and something was happening that he hadn’t anticipated. The knowledge he was gaining was sure to give Saving Orlando an air of authenticity, but his motivation to learn had grown beyond the project. With each heartbreaking story he heard, he felt increasingly attracted to the cause of helping these children and knew he’d be involved one way or another long after this book hit the shelves.
A little over two months after Whitaker’s blunder of a flirt, Claire finally got a chance to hear part of what he’d been working on. It was May 4, and they were both sitting on the houndstooth sofa at his house, halfway turned toward each other. TNT was running a Star Wars marathon, which played on the muted television. Whitaker had made a run to his cellar downtown, and they were drinking a fifteen-year-old Barolo.
Maybe it was the wine that had given Whitaker courage. He’d printed out his selection and was reading the passage where Kevin took Orlando to Longboat Key. Orlando had never been in the water. He didn’t know how to swim and was terrified of sharks and jellyfish and other potentially dangerous creatures.
Whitaker licked his finger and turned to the next page. “Standing waist-deep in the still water, I yelled back to him, ‘Come on!’ Rigid and afraid, Orlando looked back at me like he’d seen a fin circling. I tried again. ‘You’re not living if you’re not totally freaked out!’ Something must have rung true in those words, and the boy who’d become a son to me broke into a run, splashing into the water as if he’d done it only yesterday. A smile burst out of him as I cheered him on with everything I had. What wonder had ever dazzled me more than this moment?”
Once Whitaker had finished, he waited eagerly for her response.
“Don’t get me wrong,” she said, working hard to hold back a grin. “It’s amazing. You’re really plugged in, aren’t you?”
He tossed the stack of papers onto the coffee table with frustration. “But there’s a ‘but’ coming. I hate ‘buts.’”
“It’s just—”
“Be gentle,” he interrupted. “I know I look like some sort of barbarian, but I’m really a softy. I’m the guy who dwells on reader reviews, good or bad. Anything less than telling me I’m a writing god can send me into a tailspin.”
“I was just trying to say . . . it’s hard to take you seriously with that mustache. Can we shave it off already? I can’t look at you without thinking you’re . . . I don’t know. You look like some guy I’ve come across while on a safari in Africa. You look like you belong in a Jeep chasing elephants. All you need is some aviators and one of those vests with a million pockets. Maybe a cigar and a camera with a telephoto lens.”
“Here we go again,” Whitaker said, picking up his glass of wine.
“I’m trying to help; that’s all. If you’re wondering why the women aren’t flocking to witty Whitaker, know that it’s probably that thing above your lip.”
“I can’t shave now or I’ll risk losing the muse. It’s almost a Nazaritic vow at this point. Shaving might be like Samson cutting off his hair. The muse might get upset. Besides, I don’t see how a man can experience a true midlife crisis without some sort of mustache or beard expression. It’s how we recognize each other when passing on the street. You know, a fraternal thing, like Deadheads and their tie-dye shirts. I feel like I’m in a brotherhood with David and Kevin all fighting to find our purpose.”
Claire raised a hand. “Let’s back up to the muse. For some reason, I don’t think she cares about your mustache. I mean . . . if she’s a she. I’ve never met a woman who actually likes a mustache.”
“Tell that to the thousands of women who’ve gushed over Tom Selleck since he first blessed us with his masterpiece of facial art.”
“Whitaker, I hate to tell you, but you are no Tom Selleck.”
He furrowed his brow. “I’ll try not to let your sharp insult damage my fragile ego. Of course, we all know Tom Selleck is in a class by himself. Just his short shorts alone set him apart.” Smiling, he turned even more to her and put his arm on the back of the sofa. “As far as the muse, I’ve never actually visualized her. She’s just kind of there. This celestial being that shoots out words.”
“Like an alien?”
“Hmm, I don’t know.”
They were looking right at each other.
“What makes you think she’s a woman?” Claire asked.
Whitaker gave a look like he’d eaten a bad oyster. “Oh God, I hope she’s not a man. You may have just paralyzed my creativity permanently.”
“Let’s hope not.”
Whitaker looked up to the ceiling, debating the possibility of a man fueling his words. “Nah, men don’t have the kind of words I like. Men are big ugly humorless brutes. They’re like airplane wine; they have no sense of place.” He pressed his lips together and shook his head. “No, my muse is a tall brunette. She may carry a sword and shield. She rides a white horse. And when she speaks, the wind blows and the trees rustle. The birds sing back to her in collective song. The clouds spread, and the sun beams through the blue sky.”
Claire rolled her eyes. “Your muse is Wonder Woman? Of course she is. You’re such a guy.”
Whitaker closed his eyes, clearly searching for an image. “Okay, yeah, basically Wonder Woman.” He put a finger to his chin. “But I like her in glasses like yours. A sword and shield and glasses.”
Claire dodged the compliment. “Now I know why you’re having a hard time getting into another relationship. I thought it was just the mustache. But it appears you’re perfectly satisfied hanging out with the Wonder Woman in your head. And instead of kisses, she gives you words.”
“I like words but . . .”
“But what?” Claire asked.
“I do have interests outside of my muse. There is someone.”
“Do tell.” Claire didn’t like how this admission felt.
“It’s complicated. Like really complicated.”
Claire scratched an itch on her arm. “Life’s always complicated. So who is the lucky lady?” She tried to act excited for him.
Whitaker smiled hesitantly. “I’m the lucky one.”
“Who is it?” she asked again, knowing it was jealousy she felt. She could dress it up any way she liked, but it was pure jealousy. She didn’t want him to like someone. He was hers. Her writer. Her friend. They were having so much fun together. She tilted her head.
“What’s holding you back?”
“Well, I’m finishing her husband’s book right now.”
Claire’s heart stalled, a car stopped at a green light.
He waited for her to say something.
Remaining silent, she looked at him and then away.
“I think you’re a very rare and special woman. Knowing I’m going to see you is what pulls me out of bed in the morning.”
Claire’s heart started back up.
He inched toward her. “I’ve wanted to kiss you for a long time, but I’ve been afraid. Afraid to cross the line.”
Claire had wanted to kiss him too. She looked at him, looked through him. Saw the caring being radiating from his soul.
He pushed her hair away from her face and touched her cheek. When she didn’t move away, he moved his face closer. Butterflies took flight in her stomach, and want took over. She became instantly aware of her lips and felt them opening, needing his kiss.
Their lips soon came toge
ther, and she felt light all over, as if she might float away. Oh, the nearness of him. To be touched again, to be desired.
Whitaker put his hand on the back of Claire’s head and pulled her closer. She let go of her inhibitions, her body tingling as she fell further into his embrace. Their lips touched for the first time, a kiss that should have happened much earlier. A sense of warmth and excitement rushed over her as her lips parted, letting their tongues touch.
He slipped his hand up the nape of her neck and, tilting her head slightly, kissed just below her ear. A shiver rose up her spine. Despite his whiskers, he was a good kisser, gentle but passionate. Was this how artists kissed? She’d never dated one. His lips knew their way around a woman just as his pen knew its way around paper.
When they pulled away from each other, their eyes linked. Smiles played at their lips. She nestled into his arms, resting her head on his shoulder. He kissed the top of her head. Claire felt a tremendous sense of connection, and for the first time in forever, she didn’t feel alone. Actually, feeling alone felt like a distant memory.
“I thought I’d be waiting on you forever. And I would have. You know that?” He kissed her head again. “I’d wait a lifetime for you.”
She snuggled deeper into him, hearing his heartbeat. Her eyes had closed, and she was relishing his words and the feel of his arm around her. For the first time in years, she felt protected, as if she didn’t have to go it alone anymore. He was the kind of guy who could lift you up even in the dreariest of days.
Claire raised her hand to his chest and opened her eyes. Before she could say what she’d intended, the sight of her diamond ring and wedding band stopped her short. Memories of David splashed over her like she was standing at the base of a waterfall. His last words. “Infinity times infinity.” She became hyperaware that it wasn’t David’s arms around her. She felt like she’d done something wrong.
She pushed up and away—her words came out in a jumble. “I . . . I . . . We.” She shook her head as she stood and backed away. “We can’t do this.”
Whitaker frowned and his blank eyes expressed frustration but not confusion. She knew she didn’t need to explain further.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “But I need to go.”
A quick nod. “I understand.”
Claire turned to look for her purse. She wanted to say something else but had no idea how to explain what she felt inside. None of this was Whitaker’s fault. Her purse was hanging next to the binoculars on the coatrack in the foyer. She moved that way.
“Hey, Claire,” Whitaker finally said. “It’s okay.”
Slinging the purse on her arm, she looked back at him. He got up from the sofa.
“I can’t do that again.” She touched her heart. “He’s still here. I don’t know how to explain it. But he’s still here, and it doesn’t feel right.”
“I get it,” Whitaker said, approaching her.
Claire inched away, reaching for the doorknob behind her, afraid to feel more of what she’d just felt.
Whitaker stopped his approach. “Go home. We can talk later.”
She looked into his kind eyes and nodded. “Yeah.”
With that, she turned and left his house.
As she climbed into her convertible, she heard him calling for her. He walked to the car and leaned down to her level, resting his hand on the door. “It’s okay to be confused, you know. I definitely am.”
Claire nodded and averted her eyes momentarily.
“Seriously,” he continued. “Don’t beat yourself up. It’s okay to have feelings for someone else. You’re too incredible of a being to live the rest of your life alone. It doesn’t have to be me.”
She drew in a long breath, wondering what to say. No one could ever replace David, and she’d rather be alone than spend the rest of her life pretending to love someone else as much.
Catching her off guard, Whitaker reached over and took the fingertips of her left hand. “You don’t have to respond. I’m just saying . . . be easy on yourself.”
Claire pressed her eyes closed. She wanted to tell Whitaker that she did have feelings for him, but she couldn’t allow herself to act on them.
Finally turning to him, she said, “Thanks for understanding. I’m so sorry.”
Whitaker let go of her hand. “Let’s talk soon, okay?” She nodded, and he stood and began to back away. “And, hey, Claire.”
“Yeah?”
He held up his hand and offered the Vulcan salute. “May the fourth be with you.”
She shook her head with an ever-so-slight grin. “You’re confusing your sci-fi.” But she knew he knew that. A smile eventually forced its way out, but she was sad and guilty and lost inside.
He patted the door and turned away.
Chapter 22
LONG-STEMMED QUESTION MARKS
The day after the kiss—the first time Whitaker and Claire hadn’t seen each other since they started the project—Whitaker found himself struggling to sit down and write. Looming like the sentence awaiting a prisoner, the end of the plot was coming, and he was terrified. Tackling the blank space ahead would take everything he had. Some days he felt like he would be ready; today he did not.
After pondering for a long time what he might say, he had finally broken down and texted her. If I could, I’d send you a bouquet of long-stemmed question marks. I just want to know what you’re thinking, and that you’re okay.
She hadn’t responded. He could only imagine what she was going through and knew it had nothing to do with him. How could he blame her for still loving her husband?
But what rode Whitaker like an Indy driver running a track on spent wheels was the idea that she might never kiss him again. He liked her. A lot. Spending this time together over the past two months had been a joy. The sad widow he’d first met had many layers worth exploring. Not to mention, she’d broken him out of his chains. He’d held off sharing his feelings for long enough, and it truly felt like he was kissing his muse.
When he finally sat down to write, he toyed with the opening paragraph for a while. It still wasn’t there yet. Distracted, he looked at his phone again and wondered what was going on with Claire. Part of him feared she might burst through the door any minute and take the composition books back. What if she felt like Whitaker had disrespected her with the kiss? What if she felt like he’d taken advantage of her? A bouquet of long-stemmed question marks, indeed.
Two hours later, she finally called.
“Hey,” Whitaker said. He bit his finger, wondering what she was thinking, what she might say.
“I’m sorry for running out like that.”
“Don’t be.” He felt like she’d just stuck a needle into his balloon.
Almost like she was reading his mind, she said, “I’m just not over him, Whitaker. I still feel his warmth next to me in the bed. I still see his smile. I’m not ready to move on. I don’t know that I ever will be. It’s not fair that I led you on.”
With a combination of heartfelt sorrow for Claire and a self-pity that could be heard in his voice, Whitaker replied, “I get it, Claire.” Trying to toughen up, he stressed, “Trust me. I get it.”
“Thanks for understanding.”
Whitaker looked at the blank page. “Why don’t we take today off, okay? I’ll call you tomorrow.” He looked at the words on his screen. “Let’s not let this get in the way of what we’re trying to do. Don’t beat yourself up. We’re all lost sometimes.”
“You’re a good man, Whitaker Grant. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”
“Thanks, Claire.”
He could have talked to her all day. But where would that have gotten him? Another round of heartache, a graveyard of roses?
Three days passed before she visited again. He opened the door to find her standing on the stoop with her arms crossed. She wore short, ripped denim shorts and a deep V-neck. Three necklaces of varying lengths hung down her chest. Whitaker noticed turquoise beads, a few tiny silver medallions, may
be a feather. Though he could have gotten lost in her V-neck, he kept his focus on her face.
She removed her glasses and folded them. “I’m sorry I disappeared.”
“I know. You don’t need to explain.”
Her eyes drew him in more than the V-neck. Pupils the color of tigereye crystal, thirsty for life, unsatisfied yet undeterred.
A wave of the afternoon heat pushed past her into the foyer. He invited her in, and they faced each other awkwardly. Other than the coatrack with a set of binoculars and an umbrella, the room was empty and echoed as they talked.
Claire fiddled with her keys. “How’s the writing coming?”
He shrugged. “Good. Maybe another week, and I’ll be ready to tackle the ending. I’m really proud of everything else.”
“The part you read me was really touching. I can’t wait for more.”
“There are some great nuggets in there.”
“Look, Whitaker. I’m sorry, seriously. I’ve been beating myself up.”
“Don’t beat yourself up. Your husband died. I get it. You have every reason to . . . I don’t know . . . to not get out of bed in the morning. I think you’re awesome to even do that.” He clasped his hands in front of him. “Just know that I care about you. I mean, as a friend. I’m here for you and always happy to listen. Don’t run out on me, okay?”
A tear slid down her cheek and settled near her jaw. He stepped toward her, wiped it away, and pulled her into a hug. “We can’t stop now. Are you with me?”
Claire sniffled into his neck, nodding.
As he held her, he realized he might have a larger role to play than simply finishing David’s book. And maybe it wasn’t in dating her, in losing himself in her eyes. Not everything in life can be a romance. Maybe he was supposed to help show this wonderful woman the light again, even if that meant she found someone other than him to grow old with. We all needed that selfless person, someone willing to jump into our own darkness and drag us out of it—even when they get nothing in return.
But the truth was . . . Claire had definitely pulled Whitaker out of his own steady decline. Now, it was time to return the favor. If you cared about someone enough, their happiness trumped your own.
