An Unfinished Story(33)
“I’ll have to revisit it soon.” Whitaker beat a nervous rhythm on his desk.
It was as if all the joy had been sucked out of the room.
He sat back in his leather chair. “See this office. This suit. That lobby out there. It’s my life for now, and I’m kind of good at it. My writing isn’t up to par. I mean . . . I have a story coming along, but I’m not up to a new task. What I’m trying to say is . . . you don’t want me to write your husband’s novel. I’m currently deleting everything I type. It’s almost like I was gifted one book, and that’s it. Time to move on.”
This was her moment. She had to be strong. Sitting up straight and finding her courage, Claire said, “You’re the only one I want to write his novel.” She took a slow breath. “I sold the house, and I have money. You can have everything I have left after I pay off my debts. I don’t care.”
Trying to cover all angles, she decided to push harder into the cosmic with her appeal. Pounding her fists with each syllable, she repeated what she’d told him at his house. “You’re. Meant. To. Write. This. Book.” Even as she said it, she wasn’t sure she believed her own words.
Whitaker smiled sadly and threw up his hands as if she’d just charged him with treason. “I hate to disappoint you. Truly. But I think you’re mistaken.”
Claire sat back in her chair with frustration. She set the books on his desk and fired a finger at the first composition book. “I’m not some girl thinking her dead husband’s novel is the best thing in the world when it’s not. But you sound like you’re out of stories.” She opened her hands. “I’m giving you one.” She realized she was raising her voice. Lowering it, she added, “And I’m willing to pay you to write it.”
Feeling like she was making progress, Claire made a show of looking around the room, the cheap furniture, the barren walls. His ego needed to be fed. “This isn’t you. Why aren’t you writing? The world deserves to read more of your words.”
Whitaker looked at his watch, a silver Rolex.
She was losing. “I’ll pay you one hundred thousand dollars to write the rest of it. He’s already done all the hard work.”
Whitaker’s eyebrows floated up, and she saw some temptation.
She didn’t care about the money. She could live off the café. All she cared about was getting this book done by a reputable author, preferably this guy. “You can even put your name on the book if you want. I don’t care. It’s not about making David famous. It’s about getting his story out there.”
Whitaker tapped his fingers on the desk. “It’s a tempting offer, but what you don’t understand is that a writer, a true writer, can’t step into someone else’s style. It won’t be authentic.”
“You could figure out his style; don’t play dumb with me. I’ll pay you five thousand just to read it. If the story doesn’t strike you, then give it back.” She dusted off her hands. “I pay you, and you’re done.”
Whitaker flashed a smile, and again Claire saw the charm of the man who used to come into her café. Why couldn’t he just say yes? Lowering his voice, he said, “If I agreed to read even the first of those books, you would never let me off the hook.”
Claire could hear and see that he cared. Maybe there was some substance behind his ego. She put her hands together in prayer. It was now or never. “I swear to God I would.”
“Honestly, I’m tempted to take your money. But the project isn’t my cup of tea. When and if I finally tap back into the source, it’s going to be with a book that I start. Do you know how many people approach me with a story?”
Claire resisted the urge to roll her eyes.
“I’m the one who has to sit with these characters for hundreds of hours.” He jabbed his thumb to his chest. “They have to be my creations.”
“You can change as much of his book as you want. How could you possibly not accept one hundred thousand dollars?”
“Because, Claire, I can’t take someone else’s story and run with it. That’s cheating.” He paused to think, starting to speak a couple of times before retreating again. Finally, he touched his chest and lowered his voice. “The part of me that wants to agree is not the part of me that you want as your writer. I would let you down; trust me.”
Biting her tongue, Claire pointed to the composition books again. “You’d be lucky to put your name on this project.”
“I don’t doubt it. And I’m really not trying to be a jerk. I want to help you, and if you were asking something else, I’d happily oblige.” She sensed the defeat in his voice. “It’s just that you’re asking the one thing I can’t do. I feel like I’m carrying the bones of my writing back from war. I need to go put those bones back together and then figure out how to make the dead come alive again. I really have to get back to work. I’m so sorry.”
“You are sorry,” Claire admonished. “And I’m not talking apologetic. You’re a sorry person. Your ego is getting in the way of doing something amazing.” She shot a finger at him. “You think you’re an artist. An artist would see the beauty in this project. He’d see the beauty in doing something for someone else.”
Whitaker stood. “I wish you the best, and if you’d like my help finding someone else, let me know.” He handed her one of his Bank of South Florida cards.