An Unfinished Story(24)

While waiting on his drink, Whitaker revisited his meeting on the boat with Jack. Though a job offer from his father wasn’t the biggest shock in the world, it was still a punch to the gut. Not an insult, more like reality knocking on his door. Would he sling mutual funds the rest of his life? Even the thought made Whitaker want to sneak one of the plastic cocktail picks in the shape of a sword from the bartender and jab himself in the eye. No way could he sit in his Bank of South Florida office and pretend a stock surge was what kept him up at night—or got him out of bed in the morning. Not that there was anything wrong with banking, but it simply wasn’t his personal dream.

He’d proved that he did have the creative juices to make a living writing. And even if he took money out of the equation, all the people who wrote him and stopped him on the street had validated his ability and, dare he say, talent. He’d affected people’s lives; what was better than that? Of course, writing for a living was different than typing or procrastinating for a living. No one paid for procrastination. Which was a damned shame, actually. He’d be a billionaire. He could teach college courses on the art of not getting things done.

Back in the old days, standing in the afterglow of his book’s release, one of the most common questions people had asked was, “How do you avoid writer’s block?” Whitaker could still see his confident younger self unable to even imagine writer’s block. “It’s a mind-set,” he had told them. “You have to put your butt in the chair and make something happen.” Whitaker would always finish with his most important thought on the matter. “One word after another. If you do that enough, the muse will write the story for you.”

When the rum drink came, he took down half the dark liquid in a large gulp. “Ahhhh.”

“Easy there, killer,” the bartender said. “We might run out.”

Setting the glass down, he said, “Run out of rum, I’ll switch to tequila.”

They shared a smile.

Whitaker put an elbow on the bar and fell back into his thoughts. Apparently, the muse was gone. One word after another. As if! Typing a word these days was like removing a tooth. Writing a sentence would be removing an entire rack of pearly whites. Sadly, it all came down to pressure.

The limelight had become an anchor. It wasn’t simply “one word after another” anymore. Each word had to be great. The people demanded it. So did his agent, his publisher. It was quite obvious, even to Whitaker, that he was putting unfair expectations on himself. But it was in this world of fear that the writer (“a vermouth spritz if you have a decent vermouth, an Americano if not”) had died, and the typist (“double rum and Coke, no preference on the rum”) had been born.

With nothing left but two large cubes, he shook the glass. The ice clinked like dice. The syrupy Coke had melted down the sides like the legs of a viscous Sauternes. Writing used to be fun, didn’t it? Wondering what might happen next. Getting to know a character that only exists in your mind. Toying with word choice and sentence construction until everything was just right. It wasn’t a bad way to spend your mornings.

The bartender slid the next drink across the bar, and Whitaker snatched it like a five-year-old reclaiming his toy from another child.

“Bottoms up,” he mumbled, thinking this one would surely kill the pain.

Whitaker felt eyes on him and suddenly became terribly self-conscious about his overindulgence. He was used to eyes on him. He liked Gulfport because they’d let him be anonymous, but there were always a few people from outside of Gulfport catching sight of him for the first time. “Isn’t that the guy who wrote . . . ?” Weren’t writers supposed to be able to get away with their fame? Everyone in the country knew his book, but not many knew his face. Except in the Tampa area. He’d enjoyed too much press, especially with the movie.

He looked about. Each table was full of modern-day hippies bobbing their heads to the music, telling stories, and laughing. The Grateful Dead played louder and louder, drawing everything they could out of each tune. Whitaker was appreciating the view to the water when he saw her.

Claire Kite.

Quickly averting his eyes, he turned back to the bar. Staring at his drink, he wondered if she’d seen him. Was she there for him? That would be quite a stalker move and not something he’d put past her.

Unable to resist, he turned his head again. Claire was sitting with several other women at a plastic table on the sidewalk. Her arms were crossed, and he could tell she wasn’t in the best of moods. It reminded him how much pity he felt for her. To lose your partner to premature death was not something any human should be forced to endure.

Whitaker had an urge to go say hi, but it would only muddle his message to her. She’d been so sure he was the right person to finish her husband’s novel. If they ran into each other, she’d use that as justification that she was right. It was meant to be.

He turned back to the bartender and ordered the grouper and chips. The second double began to take its toll, and he fought off further considerations of accepting his dad’s offer. He fell into a worthless conversation with the man next to him at the bar. When the food came, Whitaker scarfed it down. As he was wiping his mouth with a paper napkin, he turned back toward Claire’s table. He craned his neck to see past a circle of people raising shots.

Claire and her group were leaving. This was his chance to say something. To be a kind citizen.