An Unfinished Story(31)
Seeing the dog spread his legs, Whitaker sped up, preparing to run. When the man turned back, Whitaker spun the other way and feigned analyzing a nearby bird-of-paradise.
Only one thing could feel as great as writing another book or drawing a smile from his father, and that was catching this man red-handed. How long had Whitaker been spying on dog walkers? Weeks. He’d put true effort into it, as if the mayor had tapped him on the shoulder with this important task. An agent for MI6, a mission to save the world. This message will self-destruct in five seconds.
To finally have come to a conclusion, to have solved the mystery, was so gratifying that Whitaker considered taking himself out to dinner. A bone-in rib eye and a bottle of Washington State Syrah. Didn’t James Bond always dine after catching the bad guy?
Ready to finally nab the perp and celebrate his victory, Whitaker turned away from the bird-of-paradise just in time to see the man pulling a bag from his dog’s collar. How could Whitaker have missed the poop-bag dispenser attached to the dog collar? Oldest trick in the book!
Returning to his house in failure, Whitaker decided he certainly didn’t deserve a steak. He finished off a bag of boiled peanuts and fell into a deep sleep on the sofa.
A midnight chirp stole him from his dreams. Whitaker sat up so fast that he hit his knee on the coffee table. He looked left and right, wondering where he was. As his vision settled, he realized he was in his living room, and it was still dark outside.
Another chirp sent his heart to pounding in anger. Had the battery already run completely out of juice? Enraged, he jumped onto the sofa. Seeing a reflection in the window, he realized the absurdity of the scene: a middle-aged male in his underwear standing on the sofa in the middle of the night waging war with a fire alarm. He removed the battery, hoping that might stop the chirp.
Nope, it didn’t.
Whitaker cursed and went to find another battery, but he came up empty. The fire alarm screamed while he desperately searched the other boxes. He marched back down the hallway screaming in Spanish, “Cállate!”
As if the fire alarm had a mind of its own, it chirped over and over, one shrill shriek every five seconds, taunting him like the cursor on the blank screen.
Whitaker jumped back onto the sofa and ripped it from the ceiling. Or at least he tried. The hardwired line was still attached. Red, green, and black wires. He was no handyman, so the colors were irrelevant. He was half-asleep anyway, and the piercing scream made rational thought impossible. As he tugged at the wires, the dangling alarm began to break free. Only one intact wire remained. Out of pure stupidity and in the haze of the madness, he reached for the wire.
A trembling shock ran through him as he fell backward and hit the coffee table, his shoulders slamming into the wood. He rolled onto the floor, still shivering from the electricity.
Looking up toward the free wires, Whitaker began to laugh. What an absurd, miserable existence he was living, and this moment of being attacked by a fire alarm pretty much summed up his whole life.
Chapter 12
CRAB CLAWS AND SHARK JAWS
On Thursday, Claire woke to yet another day of feeling good. Ever since saying yes to dancing salsa, she’d felt like the universe had started to open up to her. She stopped by the café to help open, but once the tables were full, she left her shoes in the office and strolled the two blocks to the beach. Smiling at the beauty of the morning, she took her first steps onto the sand and felt as light as a feather as the sun’s rays bathed her in warmth. Was there softer sand in the world? One small step for woman, one giant leap for womankind.
For a while, Claire watched a cruise ship she guessed had left the port of Tampa as it floated along the horizon, destined for Mexico. Then she walked north, at a snail’s pace, looking down at the shells, returning to the girl strolling this same tide line with her grandmother. What had changed since then? Betty had now passed. Claire had loved and lost. The Don CeSar still stood tall and illustrious. The houses of Pass-a-Grille were fancier, more modern. But this little stretch of beach was still undiscovered, a slice of the 1950s. Hopefully, no writer would ever put her little treasure on the map.
A thought had hit her when she’d woken to this beautiful day. What if she had accepted Whitaker’s rejection too easily? She wasn’t the type who gave up. Especially when it came to her love for David.
No way on earth she was going to let Whitaker Grant say no. Life often served up surprises. And challenges. Just because people said no didn’t mean you couldn’t change their minds. David wouldn’t have let Whitaker say no. Look at the way he went after getting in shape, the way he dived into writing. Once he’d committed to something, nothing could stop him.
Claire noticed a crab leg sticking out of the sand. She picked it up and opened and closed the pincers. “I’m coming to get you, Whitaker Grant,” she whispered in a creepy, Wicked Witch of the West voice. “You can’t say no to me forever.”
Dropping the claw to the ground, she jogged back to the café barefooted, ran in to grab her sandals and keys, and left with nothing more than a wave to Alicia. Returning to Gulfport, Claire was disappointed to find Whitaker’s driveway empty. She pulled in and put the convertible in park. It was nine thirty. Maybe he had a day job. He’d surely made a good amount of money with his novel, but she didn’t know if it was enough to retire. Of course, his family was wealthy from their construction business, so maybe they were supporting him.