An Unfinished Story(17)
“Seriously, I’m a year away from hanging up this frivolous profession. You don’t want me touching your husband’s novel.”
A tear rolled down her cheek, and the air left Whitaker’s lungs. He’d only known her a little while, but her pain hit him like a dear friend was suffering. No, don’t go down that road, Whitaker. Don’t let pity or your attraction to her win out. You must hold strong. In his mind, he held out his arms so that the squire could finish assembling his armor.
“Will you at least read it?”
I want out, Matteo.
“Look, Claire, if I read every book that people asked me to read after I found some success, I wouldn’t have a moment to do anything else. Even after ten years, people stop me at least weekly.” In his grandpa accent, he said, “Have I got a story for you! Back when I was a . . .”
Claire didn’t find him funny. “I’m not a random fan begging you to write my story.” More tears came, and she struggled to get her words out. “I’m asking you to preserve my husband’s legacy. And to get paid doing it.”
He sat back and crossed his arms. “You’re asking me to write another man’s story, to climb into someone else’s head. I’m sorry, Claire. If I’m able to finally tap into some creative energy, I’m going to put it into my own work. Not to finish what your husband started.”
Claire leaned toward him, sitting at the edge of her seat. Her ice water sat untouched on the brick wall next to her. “Will you please just read it? I’ll pay you.”
Though he was tempted—for the money and to get a bit closer to her—he knew agreeing to read it wouldn’t be right. He’d be leading this poor woman on. “If I agreed to read it, I’d still tell you no. And it would hurt you much worse. So no, I will not read it.” He sliced his hand through the air. “Not even for money. Writing is a very personal thing . . . at least for me. I can’t pick up where some random guy left off—no offense to your husband.”
Claire wiped her eyes and looked up with new resolve. “What if you haven’t been able to write because this story has been working its way to you? What if you telling me no right now is the same as spitting on your destiny?”
How could he possibly answer those questions? He wasn’t a ghostwriter, dammit. Who had enough creative juice to share it in the name of charity? Besides, what if he let her down? If this project were truly meant to be, he’d feel it more. It would be calling him. Right now, he just wanted Claire to take those composition books and leave.
With finality, he said, “I’m sorry, Claire. I think it’s a noble idea, and I hope you find someone. But it’s not me.” He stood. “Can I walk you to your car?”
Claire’s face had changed from hope and determination to anger. He could see that she wanted to say more, to perhaps even cut him down with harsh words. Something about being selfish. After she stood, she didn’t make eye contact with him again.
As the widow descended the steps of the porch, she said with her back to him, “Thanks for listening.”
He started to say something else and opened his mouth. The words—all lame and pointless—died on his tongue.
Chapter 6
FATHER AND SON
Though Claire hadn’t left his mind, and he felt terribly conflicted and even ripped apart by letting the young widow down, Whitaker’s impending meeting with his family dominated his inner dialogue. No more words were written that Sunday. All the typist had done was slay zombies and pass out on the sofa. An alarm woke him, and a headache set in as he realized it was time to get ready. He showered and shaved but kept the mustache. There was something rather artistic and rebellious about it that appealed to him, and he fit in wonderfully with the vibrant array of outcasts living in Gulfport.
Whitaker’s body was tensed to the point of pain as he drove his geriatric Land Rover toward his parents’ expensive waterfront property north of downtown. What could go wrong this time? The possibilities were endless. As a loose belt slapped the engine, he couldn’t help but marvel at the absurdity of life.
If it wasn’t he and his father bickering, one of his siblings would bring some drama to the table. Somehow the Grants had missed the memo that, during family get-togethers, it was best to avoid topics of a sensitive persuasion, such as politics, religion, or dietary preferences. Whitaker had witnessed a disaster several months ago when his sister, with her heavy-left-leaning beliefs, had preached to Jack until the arteries in his neck had nearly burst.
There was always one dedicated member of a family—one brave soul—who tried to hold everyone together. In the Grant family, that dubious charge was taken up by Whitaker’s mother, Sadie, the loyal and fearless Floridian matriarch, mother of three and wife to a pain in the ass. It was she who had intervened only seconds before Jack dropped to the floor from a heart attack.
Unlike a family tree sprouting branches, Whitaker’s take on the Grant genealogy was that the Grants worked their way through the generations like cracked glass spidering outward . . . until it one day would shatter.
Using the logic that the worst part about getting a shot from the doctor was the agonizing anticipation leading up to it, Whitaker cranked up a Miles Davis album and let the loud music take him away from the impending birthday party.
His thoughts forced him to miss his right turn, so he took Central Avenue instead. Always promising a spectacle, Central would be a more distracting drive anyway. As he’d described in Napalm Trees, the upper crust of St. Pete had been infiltrated by young blood that pushed hard against the conservative values that had built this city years ago, and the result was a beautiful mix—or mess, depending on who was talking—of Republican and Democrat, native and snowbird, young and old, straight, gay, brown, black, white, or whatever, all working together to make this city one with which to be reckoned. It was a city as receptive to impressive graffiti as it was to the next high-rise.