by Boo Walker
Whitaker turned more toward her and brushed her hair away from her face. “You can’t go tearing up the past like this, Claire. I get where you’re coming from, and I know it hurts, but don’t go beating yourself up. We’re all trying to survive. And we all make mistakes.”
“What an epic mistake I made.”
Whitaker did not find it easy to see her beating herself up. She’d been through enough. “As you and I both know, everything happens for a reason. Even mistakes. We wouldn’t have this gift of a novel to remember David by if everything up to this moment in your life hadn’t happened. I think David wrote it to tell you exactly how he felt. What better way to share with your partner?”
“He could have tried sitting me down and telling me the truth.” Claire dropped her head in exhaustion. “Thank you for going on this journey with me. I’m so glad you’re here.”
“Me too.”
Though Whitaker was afraid of crossing boundaries, he moved closer and kissed her. To his surprise, she put her hand on his face and kissed him again and again.
“David would have liked you,” Claire said. “You two could have been great friends.”
“I don’t doubt it.” For a moment, Whitaker found it odd to kiss her and hear David’s name in the same breath. But then again, David would always be a part of her. That was the way it needed to be if he wanted to grow a relationship with her.
Letting go, he sat back and put his arm on the door. “Now, let’s go find this kid.”
The gray house with the white columns was tucked into a corner lot a few blocks away from the architecture firm. Two cardinals resting on the stoop flew away when Claire closed her car door.
Whitaker and Claire ascended the steps, and she wondered how many times David had done the same. Her pulse pounded relentlessly as she looked up to the windows of the second floor. Would it be this easy? A boy she’d read and dreamed about for months waiting behind this door, ready to share David’s secrets?
Whitaker led the way and reached for the doorknob. It was locked, so he rang the bell.
“No turning back now,” Claire said, knowing the answers waiting on the other side of the door could destroy her.
“We could turn and run if you want to. I am really nervous right now.”
“I don’t care what’s on the other side of this door. I’m not moving until someone answers.”
They didn’t have to wait long. A rather large man in an oversize T-shirt with his hair greased back opened up the door halfway. “What can I do for you?”
Claire put her hand on Whitaker’s arm, letting him know that she wanted to take charge. “We’re looking for a boy who lives here. Or used to about three years ago. This is a group home, right?”
The man had a slight lisp. “Yes, it is, but I’m sorry. I can’t help you.”
Another brick wall.
Claire put up a hand. “No, wait. I understand that you’re not able to share information, and I get it. But this is a special case.” Claire searched for the strength to be convincing. “My husband died three years ago, and he used to work at the architecture firm just north of here on Fourth. I’ve found a picture recently of my husband and this boy, and it seems my husband was helping him out of some trouble, doing some mentoring. I just want to talk to him a little bit. His name is Oliver.”
The man shook his head and started to close the door. “Even if someone named Oliver did live here, I wouldn’t tell you. I’d lose my job.”
“What can we do then?” Whitaker asked.
“You’ll need to go through the placement agency. They’re the only ones who might be able to help you. But, honestly, I’m not sure they will.”
“Wait, please,” Claire said. “Would you just take a look at this picture?” Claire didn’t wait for a response. She held out the photo and watched the man’s eyes, hoping to see the twinkle of recognition.
He glanced at it briefly. “Again, I’m sorry. You need to go about this legally.”
Whitaker backed up. “He’s right.”
As much as she wanted answers, Claire knew the man was indeed right. But they were so close. Turning away, she broke into a cry and started down the steps, following Whitaker.
She heard the man sigh behind her. “Look.”
Claire glanced back optimistically.
“He’s not here, okay? He wouldn’t have been here that long anyway. He’d either be reunited with his birth parents, placed with a foster family, or, hopefully, adopted. I hope that helps. It’s all I can do for you.”
Claire pretended to wipe tears from her eyes. “What’s the name of this place? Just so we can tell the placement agency.”
“The Oakwood House.”
Claire and Whitaker thanked him and returned to the convertible.
Buttoning his seat belt, Whitaker asked, “Did you just fake a cry?”
Claire turned to him with a smile playing at the corner of her lips. The things she was capable of to get at the truth.
“You manipulating scoundrel. How dare you.”
She put the car in “Drive” and pulled away. “How did you know?”
“I’ve heard you cry enough over the past few months. It’s the first time you crying didn’t break my heart. That’s how I knew.”
Claire hung a left. “I’ll do whatever it takes to find Oliver.”
“Yeah, me too.”
They stopped for tacos on Central and sat outside overlooking a stunning graffiti portrait of a woman trapped and floating in a fishbowl, which covered the entire side of an old brick building.
“I know exactly how she feels,” Claire said before biting into a chip. She was sitting opposite Whitaker.
He drank a sip of water from the red plastic cup in front of him. “I think we all do.”
Whitaker’s phone lit up, and he read a Facebook message to himself. “Well, look at that. The placement agency wrote me back. Sent me a contact. A woman named Laura. Let me try her.” He left a message on her voice mail and followed up with a text message.
After downing a salty chip with the particularly smoky and delicious salsa, Whitaker looked at Claire, who was still lost in the graffiti. “You still with me?”
She looked at him. “Yeah, sorry. What an emotionally draining day.”
“I can only imagine. But you know what? We’re getting somewhere. What a meaningful journey we’re on. And we will find Oliver. I know it.”
Claire dipped a chip into the smoky salsa.
Before she could retract her hand, Whitaker grabbed a chip from the basket and playfully stabbed hers, knocking off the salsa.
Claire gasped as she looked at Whitaker’s guilty, smiling face. Whitaker watched the tension relax in her body. “You can always make me smile. Thanks for that.”
They met eyes and shared a lovely moment.
“I like making you smile,” Whitaker whispered. After they ate their chips, he put his hand on the soft skin of her wrist. “I know this isn’t the right time to ask, but I’m doing it anyway.” He ignored the fear of rejection creeping up his throat. She’d kissed him this morning. What did he have to worry about? “Would you allow me to take you out tonight?”
She removed her glasses and wiped her eyes. “Look at me. Do you really feel like taking me out?”
“Ten thousand million percent yes. I’ve wanted nothing more for months. I like you. You like me. Let’s do this.”
She set her glasses down on the table. “Is this how the intriguing, sensitive, and complicated Whitaker Grant asks women on dates?”
He could look into her eyes forever. “I’m just cutting to the chase. Enough of this already.”
Whitaker’s phone rang, and he looked at the screen. It was Laura from the agency returning his call. “That was quick,” he said to Claire.
Leaving the table, he answered. “Hey, Laura, thanks for getting back to me. Now, may I ask what you do, exactly?”
“I do a little bit of everything these days. Been at this more than thirty years.
Was a case manager for fifteen years. Fostered kids for much longer than that. Now I’m a director here at the agency.”
Her confidence excited him. “Then I’ve found the right person.”
“We’ll see. So you need to find a boy with only a picture and a first name?”
“I know it’s not a lot to go on. We do know the group home where he was three years ago.”
He glanced over at Claire, who was watching him pace back and forth along the sidewalk.
“And if it made it into the file, my friend’s husband was acting as a mentor and had surely gone through the background check process.”
“That helps. But three years is a long time, Whitaker. I hope the boy’s not even in the system anymore. We try to place them as quickly as possible. Either way, on any given day, we’re dealing with over three thousand children. Removals and placements are happening all the time.”
“Understood. Pardon the cliché, but I know it’s a needle-in-a-haystack thing. Nevertheless, I think Oliver would want us to find him.”
“I’ll tell you what. Text me his picture and the other info and let me think on it. I’m not promising anything, but if you’ll be patient, I can turn over a few stones. How about that for a cliché?”
“Not bad, Laura. I like you already.” Whitaker eyed the fish tacos being delivered to the table. “I’ll send the picture right over. And thanks. Thanks so much for everything you do.”
“Once you get to know some of the children, it’s easy to do.”
“I can only imagine.” Whitaker thought about Orlando and Oliver. “Okay, my friend is about to eat my tacos. I look forward to hearing from you.”
Once he’d ended the call, Whitaker texted Laura the photo and other info and then sat back down. “I am carelessly optimistic. It’s a matter of time now.”
“She thinks she can help?” Claire asked.
“She knows she can help. It’s just a matter of her being careful about it. She wants to do whatever’s best for Oliver. Now about that date . . . Is tonight too soon?”
Chapter 32
I’M GETTING THERE
Whitaker had not taken a woman out on a proper date in a long time. Several hours after she’d dropped him off, as he rode along the beach toward her house in his especially clean Land Rover (he’d also fixed the broken belt), he found himself terribly nervous, his mind scrambling, his body jittery. He kept telling himself to relax, that he’d been spending almost every day with this woman for half of a year. Ah, but things were most certainly different now.
It was seven and still bright outside, and the warm breeze was blowing hard against the palm trees along Pass-a-Grille Way. Whitaker eased to a stop in front of her house and tried to compose himself. This was his chance. He’d craved her for so long.
Whitaker wanted a partner to share the fun times with. He wanted someone to remind him of what the fun times were. Claire could be that partner. She was the one who’d lifted him out of the abyss, and she was everything that Whitaker ever wanted, and he was getting his chance. What a lucky guy.
“You’d better not screw it up,” Whitaker told himself, stepping down from the Rover. He straightened his white linen shirt and ran his hands along his hair, hoping he still had some game left in him. He walked into the porch, noticing a copy of The Good Earth by Pearl S. Buck on the hammock. He knocked.
Claire opened the door, and the light bent as Whitaker searched for the right words.
She was wearing a one-piece jumper, and it pushed and pulled in all the right places. Her long hair shone as it fell past her shoulders. She looked at him through her glasses. “Hi.”
Whitaker smiled and reached for her hand. He pulled her in and kissed her. “You look amazing.”
“You look more handsome than I’ve ever seen you.” She touched his naked upper lip. “And I so love your face without a mustache.” Another kiss.
Whitaker felt his impulses trying to breach the castle walls, but he reminded himself that he needed to treat her with a tremendous amount of care tonight.
“Come in for a second.” She took his hand and pulled. “I have something for you.”
“Oh yeah?” Whitaker asked, letting her drag him inside.
Whitaker waited with Willy while she scurried into the kitchen and returned with a beautifully wrapped present, clearly a piece of framed art, a couple of feet tall. As she handed it to him, she said, “You’re the one who encouraged me to pick up my camera again, so I thought it only fitting.”
Whitaker carefully untied the elaborate gold bow and pulled back the emerald paper. Holding up the reclaimed wood frame, he looked at the photograph. It was a picture of a manatee in the surf.
“You took this?” he asked, looking at her, blown away by her skill.
“Yeah. Like a month ago.”
“What the . . . ? Where in the world did you find a manatee in the surf?”
“Right out here.” Claire pointed toward the Gulf. “I don’t know if he lost his way, but as you can see, the water was pure glass, so I guess he was exploring.”
Whitaker returned his wide eyes to the photograph. To get a better view, he leaned it on the sofa and stood back. The manatee was looking right at him, his puffy eyes lingering above the water. Whitaker pinched his chin and bathed in her art, noticing the way she’d framed the shot: low and tight.
He turned and took her hand. “It’s the greatest present anyone has ever given me. Really. I’m so touched.” He pulled her in, and they embraced. “And I thought I was the artist. You have such a talent.”
Claire thanked him modestly. “Now take me to dinner. I’m starving.”
Whitaker didn’t eat out like he used to, but there was a time when he’d gallivanted all over town chasing the newest restaurant, the latest exciting bottles of wine. At the height of his foodie obsession, before the grand collapse, Brick & Mortar on Central Avenue had been one of his absolute favorites. It turned out Claire and David had dined there several times as well.
The outside tables were occupied, the diners enjoying a breeze from the fans above. Passing by a wine barrel featuring the evening’s menu, Claire and Whitaker walked into the boisterous and crowded space. A woman with hair the color of obsidian and a welcoming smile led them to their table. A hanging steer skull looked down on the patrons sitting on stools along the bar.
Whitaker helped Claire into her seat and sat opposite her. The foursome next to them was working on a bottle of Château Blaignan, and their laughter was loud. But not annoying. Who could get mad at people for being too happy? The old Whitaker could, but hopefully the typist was six feet under for eternity.
The writer reached for the wine list straightaway and recognized a few names he’d been reading about lately. The owners had always procured a fine list of producers that leaned toward conscious farming and minimalist intervention. By the time their server arrived, he was ready. He pointed to the chosen one. “I think we’ll do this Morgon. And if you don’t mind dropping it in ice, that would be lovely.”
With that out of the way, he turned his attention to his date. Claire was working her way down the food menu. Her light-brown eyes and those glasses made him smile. That they’d gone so long just as friends amazed him. To think there was so much more between them to explore.
She looked up. “What?”
“You make me happy; that’s all.”
“Right back at you.”
Once they’d both scanned the menu, Claire asked, “Have you given any more thought to the ending of Saving Orlando? Have these new developments with Oliver registered?”
Through the window, Whitaker watched a heavily tattooed man toss his little girl into the air. They were both giggling. “I’m trying not to go there yet. I want to meet him, Claire. I want to shake his hand. I want to see that he’s a real boy.”
“Yeah, me too.”
Chills fired on his arms as he thought about it. “What will you say to him? What’s your first question?”
“Oh go
sh.” She looked off toward the noisy bar. “I have so many. Ultimately, though, I want to know why David hid him from me. And if there was anything else he was hiding. How about you?”
Whitaker blew out a long breath. “I guess I want to know how much of the book is true.”
They paused when the server appeared with the wine. Whitaker gave the cru Beaujolais a good sniff and sip and relished in the vibrancy, the way the red fruit danced on his tongue. He signified his approval with a thumbs-up, and then they fell back into conversation.
Though she’d told him a lot about her life growing up in Chicago, he pushed further, learning more about her with each anecdote. The moment he told her he wanted to meet her mother, he realized he’d opened up a door he might regret. No, nothing to do with meeting her family. He would love that.
But after she admitted it might be a while before her mother visited St. Pete, she said, “The bigger question is: When am I going to meet Jack and Sadie Grant?”
Whitaker dabbed his mouth with the napkin. “Oh, you don’t want to do that.”
“Of course I do.”
And of course he wanted to introduce her. A few months ago, he might have dodged the question. Or lied and said he would set something up, only to put it off as long as possible. Though he felt a prick of anxiety, he liked the idea of sharing her with them.
Whitaker spread the napkin back over his lap. “I’ll set something up. Jack and Sadie would love to meet you.”
They stayed at the restaurant for three hours, talking nonstop and enjoying superbly plated, creative, and colorful dishes that paired brilliantly with their gamay. They shared a shrimp-and-white-bean appetizer, and then she opted for the bouillabaisse. Whitaker abandoned all discipline and chose the homemade noodles with slow-braised short ribs. They didn’t stop there. The bread pudding, smothered in fresh whipped cream, was the best they’d ever had, and they fought over it with their forks.
