An Unfinished Story(25)

He didn’t take it.

Whitaker watched them cross the street to the Gulfport Casino. He didn’t know what was going on over there, but his curiosity was piqued.

Settling his bill, he moved rather recklessly in their direction. The rum had given him the courage to follow them, though he had no idea what he might say if he ran into Claire. He circled to the right of the old building, working his way to the water, which the sun had painted the colors of flames. The temperature was slowly creeping back down toward the seventies. He could still smell the fried seafood and hear the commotion from the bars across the street.

As he eyed the group of maybe thirty people forming in the center of the large windowed ballroom, he considered how deceptive the word casino was in the name. Perhaps it had been a casino back in the old days, but from what he’d heard (though he’d never been inside), the Gulfport Casino now served as a gathering place for dances, weddings, and bingo.

Whitaker hid by the corner of the window and watched her. He’d never seen such a sad woman in such a captivating shell. The writer back in the old days might have come up with some poignant analogy in nature, but the typist standing there gave up after attempting to translate what he thought about her into words.

Though she didn’t look miserable, Claire looked awkward and out of place. He imagined how beautiful she might be if and when she smiled.

“Whitaker Grant,” a voice said. Whitaker spun around, feeling like he’d been caught spying, which, in fact, he was.

One of the women from Claire’s group was approaching him on the sidewalk.

“Oh shit.” Whitaker ducked his head and attempted to camouflage himself behind a palm tree. He placed one hand on the trunk to steady himself. He resisted an urge to run.

“Are you hiding from me?”

Knowing he was busted, he stepped out from behind the tree. “Actually,” he said, stroking his mustache, “I was seeing what was going on in there.” They were alone on this side of the building, the only sounds coming from the bars on the other side of the street.

With her heels, she was as tall as he was. “Is that right? I was starting to think you were following us.”

Whitaker bit his lip. “I guess you saw me across the street. And who might you be?”

“I’m Didi, Claire’s friend.”

Whitaker fixed his collar with fidgety hands. “Well, this is awkward.”

Didi took another step forward, crossing her arms. “Claire told me about the book. She said she asked you to finish writing it.”

Whitaker nodded, glad to be bypassing the discussion of why he was spying.

Didi pulled a strand of black hair away from her eyes. “Why don’t you accept her offer?”

Whitaker smiled falsely. “Did she send you out here?”

“No, Claire doesn’t know you were staring at her through the window. I snuck out.”

“It would be nice if you didn’t tell her.”

“Will you hear her out?”

Whitaker sighed and could feel himself swaying. How embarrassing this entire episode felt. He turned away from her, toward the orange water. Pivoting back, he said, “Here’s the thing, Didi. I can feel her pain. It’s almost like she and I are going through some similar things. If I were in Claire’s shoes and someone agreed to read the novel, I’d get my hopes up. I don’t want to get her hopes up.”

“Why wouldn’t you want to write it? She says you haven’t written anything in ten years and that she’s offered you money. Is there something else pressing in your life?”

“Aren’t you bold?”

Didi brushed a hand through the air. “I’m too old to filter.”

“I kind of like you,” Whitaker said.

“So . . . what is it? Are you too busy and rich to deal with the project?”

Whitaker put a finger on his chin. “As you can most likely detect, I’m not that together right now. The last thing I want to do is take on the responsibility of attempting to finish a piece of work that Claire holds so dear to her heart.”

Didi took a step toward him. “Then I just have one more question. What are you doing spying on her?”

Whitaker scratched his head and pulled at his long, curly hair. Before he could stop himself, he admitted, “I don’t know.”

“Maybe you should hear her out.”

Whitaker half smiled. “Please don’t mention to Claire that you saw me out here. I need to be anonymous right now.”

“You need to be anonymous? What a sad thing to say.” Didi turned and began to walk away. “I can tell you really care, so I’ll let you two work it out.”





Chapter 9

SALSA NIGHT

Claire had never been more uncomfortable in her whole life. Not even when Benji Solomon tried to make it to first base in ninth grade. Though she used to dance for fun in high school and college, attempting salsa petrified her. Why in the world had she let Didi talk her into this absurd idea?

It was not that the ballroom crowd there was intimidating. Not at all. In fact, they looked like the nicest group in the world. She didn’t know where Didi had run off to—perhaps the bathroom—but the other widows had melted into the crowd of dancers.

Claire was standing by herself in the corner of the large room, feeling like she was back in high school hoping a boy might come ask her to dance. She turned and looked out a window, chasing safety in the still water. A woman was working a small Sunfish, the sail taut with an easterly wind. Claire craved the protection of solitude and wanted to trade places with the sailor.