An Unfinished Story(15)
Though she looked like she hadn’t slept all night, Whitaker found her arresting. Nerves he hadn’t felt in a long time dizzied him. It occurred to him that he’d seen this woman before, but he couldn’t place her. The big glasses, the seductive eyes and lips—as if a red rose had a face.
“Hi there,” she said. “I’m . . .” She stopped and took a breath.
Why is she nervous? Whitaker wondered.
Stabilized, the woman touched her chest. “I’m Claire Kite.” When the name didn’t register, she said, “You probably don’t remember me, but we met at my restaurant. I own Leo’s South on Pass-a-Grille.”
That’s right, he thought. He flashed back to the days when he was single and used to type in her restaurant, a couple of years after Napalm Trees. He couldn’t remember the specifics, but he remembered her. “Oh, yeah, sure.”
Whitaker realized he shouldn’t have opened the door. He couldn’t imagine what he looked like, the robe, his wild and shaggy hair probably all over the place. “I used to love Leo’s, but it’s been a while. How can I help you?”
“I don’t even know where to begin, really.” She looked down briefly. “Can I come in?”
“Umm, I’m not exactly prepared to accept guests. Sorry. The place is a mess.” He looked down for a wedding ring and noticed a stack of composition books in her left hand. The books covered her ring finger. “You’re not some kind of journalist on the side, are you? I’m not doing interviews.” Other than the ones in my head, he conceded silently.
Stay out of it, Walter.
“No, I’m not a journalist. I just need a few minutes of your time to explain. It’s very important. To me, at least.”
Whitaker thought for a moment. No way was he going to let this beguiling woman come in and see the disaster he’d become. Cold Chinese, zombies frozen on the television. Still, he was intrigued. What did she want from him? The pleading and sadness in her voice suggested that he needed to hear her out.
He pinched his mustache. “Would you please give me a moment? Let me put some clothes on, and we can sit out front. Can I offer you an ice water?”
Claire smiled. “Yes, absolutely. Thank you.”
Whitaker ran up the stairs and pulled on a pair of blue shorts, which had become more difficult to button. Until recently, he’d always weighed around the same as he had during his college days at Emory, so the idea of wearing anything larger than a thirty-two-inch waist terrified him. He pulled on a white T-shirt and rushed into the bathroom. As he gargled mouthwash (no time for brushing), he couldn’t help shaking his head at the man in the mirror. He was still tall, thank goodness. No one could take that from him. But what was this mustache he’d grown? Between that and the unkempt wild hair, he looked like he belonged on a sailboat much farther south, running drugs. Of course that would be looking at him in a more positive light. His father would tell him he looked like a redneck who lived with his hound dog in a single-wide trailer in the middle of Florida.
There wasn’t much more he could do for his appearance while she waited, but he wondered why he even cared. It had been a long time since he’d cared what anyone thought about his appearance, but he felt this strange need to attempt to impress her. He shrugged and pointed at himself in the mirror. “Be nice.”
After a quick stop by the kitchen for her glass of water, he found Claire waiting in one of the two chairs on the front porch. A pot with a dying fern hung above her head. She stood when Whitaker came out, but he waved her back down. Sadly, a daunting engagement ring and wedding band clung to her finger as if to say, “Don’t bother.”
Almost relieved that he wouldn’t have to attempt a quick dusting off of his cobwebbed charm, he handed her the drink and took the seat opposite her. The sudden intimacy of the little porch made him uncomfortable. He wasn’t the confident man around women that he used to be, especially around this one.
A towering kapok tree was in full bloom in the middle of the yard. He’d spent many hours in awe of this tree, the giant tropical red flowers coming to life on the tree’s stubby, leafless branches. He couldn’t help but think of a Tim Burton film whenever he took the time to appreciate the wicked beauty of the kapok.
While Claire explained that she wasn’t a stalker and that a friend living nearby had told her where he lived, Whitaker scanned the park for any scandalous dog walkers. No dogs, only a man tossing a baseball with his two sons on the other side near a statue.
“Anyway,” she said nervously, “I’m sorry to bother you on a Sunday morning.”
“It seems important.” They met eyes, and then Whitaker quickly looked back to the park. One of the boys attempted to catch a poorly thrown ball.
God, she is beautiful, he thought, as their first encounter a decade before started to come back to him. He remembered being as attracted to her then as he was now.
“My husband died three years ago yesterday.”
Oh. A kaleidoscope of butterflies migrated back to his stomach. He spun his head back to her, both death and possibility knocking on his door. When he met her eyes, though, it was the stone-cold sobriety of widowhood that pulled at his heartstrings like the puppeteer of the lonely.
He gave her his full attention.
Claire sat up straight, placing her hands on her lap. “You probably wouldn’t remember, but years ago, you were writing in my café, and I walked up to your table and introduced myself.”