An Unfinished Story(34)

Swallowing her own defeat, she looked at the card and tossed it back onto Whitaker’s desk. She collected the books and turned and left him. She wasn’t sad. She was angry. Not just angry at Whitaker.

Angry at the world. Why this pull to Whitaker? There were so many authors in the world, so many who could bring out the best in David’s novel. So why all these signs? Was it because Whitaker was meant to write this novel? Or was it something deeper? The frustration she felt toward him dizzied her.



Whitaker watched her go. For someone he barely knew, she had a very fine ability of making him feel like the biggest jerk on earth. He scratched his head, wondering why he was so against saying yes to her. Was he that much of a hardheaded eccentric that he couldn’t ghostwrite? What was wrong with ghostwriting, anyway, especially with money on the line? One hundred thousand dollars. He wasn’t making much more than that with this gig.

The guilt rode Whitaker hard, and he couldn’t take it anymore. Hoping he could catch her, he charged out of his office. A coworker stopped him to tell a story, but Whitaker replied he was in a rush. Leaving the building, he scanned the parking lot. A kid was attempting ollies with his skateboard on Central. A homeless man was dragging a bag of empty cans. Whitaker finally found her convertible on the far end of the lot.

“Hold on,” he said, running to her.

As he approached the car, he was caught off guard. Claire was wearing a head scarf and a latex glove and smoking a cigarette like her life depended on it.

“What in the world are you doing?” he asked.

Claire quickly stubbed out the cigarette as her face flushed. She reached under her glasses and wiped a tear from her eye. “It’s a habit I picked up recently. A bad one.”

“You’re way too beautiful to be smoking.” Though he meant what he said, he regretted crossing that line immediately. How dare he hit on a grieving widow. Shame on you, Typist.

Claire flushed red.

Whitaker reached for a lifeline. “I’ve picked up a few bad habits myself lately.” He waved his hand. “No judging here. Listen, I don’t want to get your hopes up, but I’ll read the story. I clearly have nothing better going on.”

Black to white in a blink. He’d never seen such a transformation in a person. Her sad face lit up in a wonderful way, like a volcano erupting, a caterpillar metamorphosing into a butterfly, a distraught child finding the golden Easter egg.

Realizing what he’d done, Whitaker held up a finger. “But I’m not promising anything. This is what I was afraid of. If the story doesn’t jibe with me, I can’t write it. And I refuse to write it unless it speaks to me. I need you to understand that should I decline, you need to respect my decision.”

Claire was nodding like a Tampa Bay Rays bobblehead. Did she even hear him? She reached over to the passenger side. “Can I write you a check?”

“I’m not going to take your money. Yes, if for some reason, I decide to write the book, I will. But I’m not going to let you pay me to read it.”

She handed him the three composition books. “Please take care of them. They’re the only copies.”

That notion scared Whitaker as he took them with both hands. He wasn’t the most responsible man of late. “I will. I’ll take them straight home after work.”

“When do you think you’ll take a look?”

“The next few days.”

In a move that nearly took his breath away, Claire placed a hand on his. “Thank you. Seriously.”

As he smiled at her, he wondered what she was thinking behind those dark lenses and panda bear eyes. “You’re very welcome.”

He was the one who broke eye contact, and a dangerous thought passed through him. Was he agreeing to help her because he liked her? Did he think he was some knight swooping down to help a damsel in distress? Regardless of the reason, Whitaker needed to at least read the story. Then he could tell her no officially—a conversation he dreaded like no other.



Claire felt alive. So damned alive. The world was finally making sense. Though she’d promised him she wouldn’t get her hopes up, she knew he would agree to write it now. It was meant to be.

Riding back toward the beach on Central, with Buju Banton singing “Wanna Be Loved,” she lifted her arms high in the air and screamed at the top of her lungs. Some random person sitting at a table outside of a taco joint yelled back. Claire waved. She didn’t care who could see or hear her. Today was a victory in so many ways. Most importantly, she was doing right by David. He deserved this more than anyone.

After her fit of exaltation, she turned down the reggae and called Didi. “He’s going to read the book!”

“What?”

“Yeah. Whitaker Grant. I went by to see him at his work, and he’s agreed to read it. I didn’t even have to pay him.”

“That’s amazing,” Didi said. “I’m so happy for you.”

“The last two days have been . . . it’s like I’ve finally turned the final corner. That’s how it happens, isn’t it? The pain doesn’t really go away, but you move it around a little bit, almost like giving it less light and water. I still have a hole in my heart, but it’s not as all-consuming. I was sleeping through life and didn’t even realize it.”

“Good for you,” Didi said.