by Boo Walker
They checked into their rooms at the Sarasota Modern, which they’d booked online on the way down. Hearing the Latin electronic beats easing through the lobby and seeing the pool with its fancy cabanas, tall palm trees, and slick outside bar, Whitaker felt like he was in Miami for a moment. Claire said she’d go through the list of websites, looking at pictures in her room, while Whitaker worked Facebook from his. They asked the concierge for restaurant recommendations and agreed to meet back in the lobby in an hour.
After a quick shower, Whitaker perched up on the balcony overlooking downtown and logged into Facebook. Finding a few of the groups he’d been stalking, he announced himself and mentioned that he was helping someone locate a boy, but all he had was a picture and a first name. Hopefully, he could appeal to someone who could help.
Claire propped three down pillows behind her on the bed in her room. A group of children were playing Marco Polo in the pool below, and Claire loved the sound of their voices sneaking through the cracked balcony door. With the picture of David and Orlando in her hand, she pulled up the first website the woman at the placing agency had shared and navigated to the available children.
Her heart sank as she put her eyes on the first page. The children were of all ages and colors. Some of the pictures showed two or three siblings. Big, bright smiles, all of them staring at the camera, as if they were all asking for help. Or, at least, for a family. Though Claire was still furious at David for lying, she found herself looking through his eyes, seeing the importance of supporting these beautiful beings that had been dealt a difficult hand.
Claire rolled her cursor over a teenager holding a basketball. She was laughing in the picture—a gorgeous smile—and her image had been captured at the perfect moment. Clicking on the photograph, Claire discovered several more shots. One depicted the girl spinning the basketball on the tip of her finger.
Claire stared at her pictures a long time before wiping her eyes and clicking away. This would take longer than she thought. And it would take more out of her than she could have ever imagined.
It didn’t feel right to rush through the pages. She clicked on each child and took a moment to attempt to understand them, to imagine the strength these young boys and girls had tapped into in order to survive and thrive. It broke her heart to think about how many more were out there, not just in Florida but all over the world. Every one of them belonged down in the pool playing Marco Polo.
Clicking on a boy about Orlando’s age, she broke into a full-on cry when she read the words at the top of his profile. Status: On Hold.
Her mouth went dry. How could we live in a world where a human is on hold? Was he being tested out by a family? Like one might test-drive a car? Claire put her hand to her chest and looked into the boy’s eyes. She wanted to reach through the screen and pull him out, to save him from the hard times he was enduring. She wanted to protect him so that he could grow up gradually, not all at once like she imagined most of these kids had been forced to do.
Claire lost hope in finding Orlando as she reached the end of the last website. Lying there on the bed, she set the computer down and breathed through what she’d just experienced. No wonder David had taken to Orlando. What could possibly be more important in life than helping a child thrive?
But why? Why the hell had he not brought her in earlier? Why hadn’t he included her? Staring at the blank screen of the television in front of her, she tried to imagine how she might have handled it if he’d told her about Orlando. She liked to think she would have welcomed Orlando with open arms.
Claire texted Whitaker, updating him and telling him she would need a little extra time to get ready. She sat up, putting her feet on the carpet. Somehow, despite the thousands of children who needed help, and despite David and his lies, she had to keep on living her life.
And that was it, Claire thought. Your heart was ripped to shreds and then you had to turn right around and keep living. But she had a feeling that these children, this thing David had been doing, wasn’t going to leave her. The compulsion to do her part had wedged itself into her heart. For now, though, she stood and went to the shower.
With the long healing cleanse, sadness began to leave her. She committed to figuring out a way to carry on what David had been doing, not for him, but because she’d stumbled upon the call herself. There was no way she could be shown this world and not commit a part of her life to doing something about it.
Knowing Whitaker had reached this conclusion as well, her thoughts went to him. And she felt a sudden urge to be near him, to hear his voice, to share her emotions with him.
With a towel wrapped around her chest, she dried her hair and then walked to the closet to debate wearing the baby-blue dress she’d brought. Not risqué but certainly a little much for two friends getting a bite to eat. She had wanted to wear it tonight, to imply her feelings for him, but something else needed to be done first.
Returning to the bed and taking a seat, she held her hand out and looked at the wedding band and diamond David had given her.
A flash of good and bad memories hit her, and she nearly saw his face as she spoke to him. “I hate my anger toward you. It seems so unfair to make all these assumptions about you lying to me without you being here to defend yourself. I want to believe this was the only lie you’ve ever told me. That you truly just wanted to protect me and were terrified of how I might react. To that end, I’m going to try to forgive you, but . . .” She clenched her fist. “You’re making it hard.”
Claire paused and focused on what she really wanted to say. Looking at the rings again, she said, “I think I’m doing what you’d want me to do. I like him, David. What a weird thing to say, something I never could have imagined. But I know you’d understand. He makes me laugh, and I feel so good around him, like the way I used to be with you. It’s different but also kind of wonderful. Don’t think for a moment that taking off these rings means I’m forgetting you, and it has nothing to do with me being mad at you. It’s just time I accept that you’re gone.”
She worked both rings off and clasped them in her hand. David wasn’t speaking to her, but she thought that if he was, he’d say something like, “What took you so long? Go for it!” And, hopefully, he’d say, “I’m so damn sorry for keeping Orlando from you.”
Claire was standing in an all-too-tempting, short light-blue dress, looking at her phone. He couldn’t help but peek at her long legs, which eventually led down to rose gold thong sandals. Before he was caught, he forced himself to divert his eyes. He needed to tread carefully. When she turned, he noticed how low her dress was cut, and he thought to himself, Not fair at all.
Before he was busted exploring dangerous territory, Whitaker turned to the door and said expeditiously, “You look great. I think our Uber is here.” In hindsight, he’d never spoken two sentences so quickly in his life. Didn’t she realize what she was doing to him?
She’d suggested they leave her car with the valet so they could enjoy a bottle of wine. Once he’d located their ride, he opened the back door for her and noticed she’d removed her rings. Was that recently? He couldn’t recall the last time he’d seen them. More importantly, why had she removed the rings? Was this her way of saying she was finally ready to take the next step? Knowing him, he might read into this bit of good news and get his hopes up, only to find out she’d left them with a jeweler for polishing.
Either way, it wasn’t a question he would run by her, which forced a rather quiet ride through town. The ball was in her court, period. He’d already made his move, and she surely understood his fear of rejection. Removing the rings wasn’t going to cut it as a green light. If she wanted to take their relationship into romantic territory, she needed to fly a banner behind a plane.
Why was Whitaker being awkward? Had he noticed her naked finger?
Claire thanked him for opening the door for her and stepped into the quaint Italian restaurant the concierge had suggested. It was six o’clock and already packed. Being a restaura
teur herself, she couldn’t help shaking down the restaurant’s first impression.
The first thing she noticed was the opera music, and it fit well—authentic, not hokey. Just the right volume. The lights were dimmed down nicely. A man was shaping dough in front of a real brick oven. Golden candelabras with years of dripped wax stood on a center table along with several large bottles of wine. The hostess welcomed them with a smile and led them to their seats by the window, where a small candle burned atop a white tablecloth. It was feeling more and more like a date, but she was the only one who knew it. Or was she?
As they both perused menus, Whitaker said, “I could eat Italian every day of the week.”
“I know this about you,” she said. “That’s why they all know you at Pia’s in Gulfport.”
Their server approached the table and, in a heavy Italian accent, said, “Excuse me. Happy to have you here. What to drink?”
Whitaker tapped the table. “Lista dei vini, signore.”
The server lit up. “Sei Italiano?”
“No, no, amo il cibo Italiano.” From there, Whitaker fell into a lengthy exchange with the man.
To stoke his pride some and to keep his confident smile going, she said, “Even after three months of knowing you, I’m still trying to process the fact that you’re fluent in four languages.”
“Thank you. It’s just about the only thing I do well.”
She wasn’t sure that was true and had a feeling there were many more layers to be pulled back. “What did you two talk about?”
“I told him my roots are far from Italian, but that I loved Italian food so much that I had to learn the language. And then I told him I considered it a travesty that they grow cabernet sauvignon and merlot in Tuscany and asked if he had a nice Sangiovese. He’s bringing it now.”
“What’s wrong with cabernet and merlot?”
“Absolutely nothing, but sadly, many Italian farmers pulled out their ancient indigenous varieties to plant grapes more familiar to the Americans, who happen to be the largest consumer of Italian wines in the world. Though there are many Tuscans who would disagree, I think they are putting their business before their art—something I’m not a fan of.”
“What are you supposed to do if you don’t recognize the wines on a list, then?” She squinted momentarily. “I’m asking for a friend.”
Whitaker took a sip of water. “Good question. Take a chance or ask the server or somm. That’s what they’re there for.”
“You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you? I’ve always hated that I can’t speak another language.” It was true, a deficiency that had always bothered her.
“Oh, c’mon. You didn’t learn Spanish growing up?”
“A few words, but I’m a long way from fluency.”
“Hang around long enough and maybe I can help.”
Claire was actually thinking about hanging around him for a while. Did he know that?
“Repeat after me,” he said. “Prometo aprender otro idioma antes de cumplir los treinta.”
Claire said, “Whoa, whoa. That’s a lot to say.”
“A couple words at a time.” He walked her through it.
“What did I just say?” Claire asked, going along with this little game of his.
Whitaker leaned in toward her. “I promise to learn another language before I’m thirty.”
Claire chortled with delight. “Thirty! I wish.”
“Did I get your age wrong?”
Was he joking? “You really think I’m under thirty?”
“We’ve never talked about it. It’s not polite to ask a lady her age.”
“For your information, I’m well over thirty, and we’ll stop there.” She blushed. “Thank you for the compliment.” Claire adjusted in her seat. She liked seeing Whitaker open up and continued to play her part in being a good conversationalist. “So how do you say, My name is Whitaker, and I’m an intriguing, sensitive, and complicated man?”
Whitaker flashed a smile. “Mi chiamo Whitaker e sono un uomo intrigante, sensibile e complicato.”
Claire loved to hear him speak. He helped her repeat it. “How about in Spanish?”
Sounding like a completely different person, Whitaker spat out his translation. “Me llamo Whitaker y soy un hombre intrigante, sensible y complicado.”
“And French?”
In more of a high-pitched song with guttural edges, Whitaker said, “Je m’appelle Whitaker et je suis un homme intriguant, sensible et compliqué.”
“Compliqué,” Claire repeated. “What a lovely language.”
“It really is, both beautiful and angry at the same time.”
“Okay, mister. How about Japanese?”
Without hesitation, Whitaker broke into Japanese.
Her mouth dropped. “I don’t believe it. What did you really say?”
“Your fish is old.” He shrugged. “It’s the only thing I know how to say.”
Claire inclined her head and said quietly, “Let’s hope my fish isn’t old.”
They shared a plate of spaghetti alle vongole and discussed the next day. They had not expected to hit so many roadblocks in the search, but it made sense that everyone was bound by law to protect the children. Using Google, Whitaker had found a short list of licensing agencies. They would start there and visit each one. And they’d both attempt to spread the word via social media.
After polishing off the bottle of wine, they finished the meal with two glasses of limoncello. Claire was feeling both light-headed and distracted. She was sure by now that she wanted to kiss him tonight but didn’t know how to initiate it. Was he waiting on her to make the first move? Didn’t he know she was completely out of practice?
Back at the hotel, she stood facing him in the lobby, wondering if he might ask her to the bar for a nightcap. “That was a good meal,” she said flatly, anxiously.
“A beautiful meal. A great recommendation. Want to meet for breakfast early? I’m diving into a little more research now.”
She couldn’t bring herself to suggest a nightcap, not that she needed one. Agreeing to meet at seven, they both entered the elevator and rode up in silence. Why couldn’t she just plant one on him? He was obviously still interested in her. The looks he gave her, the way he listened. He’d already tried once. What was she afraid of?
When the door slid open on her floor, she stepped out of the elevator and offered a quick smile. “Thanks for dinner.”
A handsome smile back. “My pleasure.”
And then the door closed, and she stood there cross armed for a while, wishing she could try again.
Chapter 30
WHAT’S BETTER THAN CEREAL FOR BREAKFAST?
Upstairs in his room, Whitaker sat on the couch again, flipped on cable news, and opened up his laptop. Apparently, his name was still recognizable, as he’d drummed up quite a few comments in the Facebook groups. As part of his post, he’d asked if he could post Orlando’s picture. Several people, one even in all caps, had typed: DO NOT POST HIS PICTURE. Others suggested that surely someone at the placement agency could help. Another said he should talk to the Sarasota Herald-Tribune. One woman told him to PM her, which he did. He almost posted that Orlando could be in trouble and that the search was time sensitive, but that didn’t feel entirely true. Three years had gone by.
After checking, Whitaker brushed his teeth and climbed into the comfy bed with David’s composition books. Now that they were onto the truth, maybe he could learn more. He began reading, taking in the story with an entirely different view. No wonder David had struck a chord; he’d based the story off his own life.
Whitaker yawned as he moved to the second composition book, but something was telling him to keep going. What if a clue lay within these sentences?
Three hours later, Whitaker was flying through the third book, utterly lost in the story. He felt like he’d drunk a cup of coffee. Amid David’s skilled handwriting, Whitaker ran across a scratched-out word that brought him back to reality. There wer
e plenty of mistakes that David had corrected with his pen, but this one in particular stopped Whitaker in his tracks. David had originally written that Kevin was driving south on MLK Jr. Street toward Orlando’s group home. He’d scratched out “south” and written “west.” Not that big of a deal.
Unless you know that MLK in Sarasota doesn’t run south.
But that it does in St. Pete.
Whitaker sat up straighter and pondered the mistake. He tried to put himself in David’s shoes. How do you accidentally mess up directions? If David was writing a scene in Sarasota, he’d be picturing the scene as it was taking place. He’d be driving west in his head on MLK in Sarasota. To accidentally write the word “south” meant that David was picturing the scene in St. Pete.
The boy was real.
What else in the story was real?
And had they known each other for days, weeks, or months? Whitaker had a feeling it was more like months. Whatever the answer, it seemed more plausible that they’d met and bonded in St. Pete.
Ah, but what about the picture at the Orioles game in Sarasota? If David were taking Orlando to a game, why not go to a game in St. Pete? Why would they drive all the way to Sarasota?
But why would David have moved the story to Sarasota in the first place? Well, David had obviously fictionalized the majority of the story. David was Kevin. Sarasota was possibly St. Pete. Then Orlando was almost surely a fictional name. Perhaps David had moved the story to Sarasota to further separate truth from reality and to protect Orlando. To that end, he would never use Orlando’s real name.
Whitaker looked at the time. It was four in the morning. He could barely wait to break all this to Claire.
Claire woke with Whitaker on her mind. He deserved to know that she’d turned a corner in her overcoming the loss of David. And that she couldn’t stop thinking about Whitaker. She imagined his breath on her neck, his arms wrapped around her, protecting her from this sometimes harsh world. Removing the rings was definitely not enough of a message. Why couldn’t she just kiss him already?
