An Unfinished Story(23)
“I was well into my forties, believe it or not. How about you?”
Claire looked around nervously, like she was suddenly naked in church. “I was blessed early with a good lover.” Claire recalled her first orgasm, the night she’d reunited with David after more than a decade of lost years. The assistant wedding photographer. The groomsman. The ultimate cliché. An explosive evening. Needless to say, he’d learned a lot since their clumsy and sandy attempts on the beach as teenagers.
“Look at you, Claire Kite. You see? You’ve got this in you!”
“Anyway . . . ,” Claire said, taking more long sips. As her mind often did, she fast-forwarded through the years of David all the way to the end, to dark places. The crash three years ago. The guest he was supposed to bring. The empty seats. The meal gone cold. The knock on the door. The visitors. The casseroles. The mysterious Yankees hat. The funeral.
“What are you doing?” Didi asked. “You just checked out on me.”
Claire snapped out of it, releasing an exhausted breath. “Sorry.”
“Where did you go?”
“Where do you think?” Claire pulled the cocktail parasol from her drink and spun it back and forth with her fingers. Needing to share the details, Claire elaborated on her visit with Whitaker, how she thought he might be the one.
Didi looked across the street and out over the water, obviously debating her next words.
Claire side-eyed her friend. “What is it?”
“I’m not sure you want me to tell you what I think.”
“When has anything stopped you from speaking your mind?”
Didi shrugged her shoulders. “I like the idea . . . no, I love the idea of getting David’s book finished. But I feel like you’re putting lofty expectations on what completing it will accomplish. I think you have to ask yourself why. That’s not going to be an easy answer if you really dig deep. Do you want to make him famous? Do you want to make him as famous as Whitaker? Is it just that you want to preserve his legacy? Or do you think this is somehow going to bring him back?”
“Of course it’s not going to bring him back.” Claire tapped her foot. Getting his book finished was the least she could do for David after smothering his dream of fatherhood. “I know it’s not going to bring him back,” she repeated. “It’s a way for me to honor him.”
A loud cackle rose from the other table.
“I just fear that this could be a false direction, a false calling. You might think you hear David talking to you, but it could actually be your sorrow begging for some light.”
“Well, yes, if it is my sorrow begging for some light. What’s wrong with that?”
Jerry Garcia sang the first line of “Scarlet Begonias.”
“I guess what I’m really trying to tell you is that convincing Whitaker Grant or some other writer to finish your husband’s story isn’t necessarily the solution you’re looking for.”
“No, I know. But it could be one of the steps. He had something to say, and I think if I can get the book finished, I’ll know exactly what.”
“Ah, there it is. What’s getting it finished by someone else going to tell you?”
Claire stirred her drink and took a big sip to quench her growing frustration. “It’s hard to explain. I feel like I’m supposed to do this for him. Like he’s out there, watching and waiting. There’s a story that needs closure. He wants Whitaker to write it.”
“You are the one who needs closure. David didn’t know he would die prematurely. I mean, I get it. I’m the one who told you I talk to my dead husband. But this is different. I think it’s a beautiful idea, but I don’t want you to be let down with the results. Even if this book is as good as you say it is, and you convince someone to write it, and it gets published. Even if all that, you need to know David will still be gone no matter what.”
“If you were anyone else, I’d leave the table.” Claire resisted the urge to hammer her fist down. “Please don’t treat me like I’m crazy.”
“I just don’t want you to tie your emotional health to the outcome of this book. It sounds like Whitaker is not even the right guy.”
Claire fell back in her chair and crossed her arms. She bit her lip, her anger giving way to sadness. Attempting to escape further, she looked away and nearly lost her breath when she saw him.
Whitaker Grant.
“Are you okay?” Didi asked. “I’m sorry, Claire. I should have kept my big mouth shut.”
Claire twisted her head back to Didi. “You know why I feel like this is not a false calling?” Without waiting on a response, Claire motioned with her head. “Look over there. See the tall guy with the mustache? That’s him.”
Chapter 8
THE WOMAN IN THE BLACK DRESS
Whitaker needed a stiff drink. He pushed through the crowd on his way to the bar at Rita’s. Where else did people dance away their Sunday afternoons to the Grateful Dead? He did a double take when he saw a man with a parrot on his shoulder. More and more, Whitaker resembled the regulars there. And he was certainly becoming one.
The blonde bartender greeted him by name, and he ordered a double rum and Coke. The writer would scoff at such a pedestrian concoction. “Coke? What are you . . . sixteen?” But the typist loved it.