An Unfinished Story(36)

“I don’t love you because of your book, Whit,” she’d promised him. “And I wouldn’t stop loving you if you changed careers. I just want you to be happy.” What more could you ask of a partner?

He thought of the last time he’d seen her, a year ago. They’d met at a coffee shop, and he’d finally gotten a chance to thank her for her support and to properly apologize for being such a poor husband. He wasn’t sure if their meeting had made her feel any better, but he’d been able to find the closure he needed.

Whitaker was suddenly aware of his thoughts and couldn’t stand how he got stuck in the past. It wasn’t that he still loved her or craved her. No, seriously. It was just that first love and the crushing power she had over you—especially when you’d been married to her. Whitaker didn’t want her back. That ship had sailed. But he kind of wanted her to call him and say that she’d messed up, that she missed him. That none of her lovers since had been as good. Purely unfounded narcissistic cerebration of a man fearful that no one may ever love him again.

Letting Lisa go, Whitaker stood, barely aware that he’d left the composition books on the patio. What did it matter?

Imbécil out.





Chapter 14

WHAT GOES UP? NO, SERIOUSLY. WHAT GOES UP?

Throughout the morning, Claire repeatedly checked to see if somehow her ringer was off. Why hadn’t he called? For a moment while watching the water this morning, she’d let herself believe there was no way he would say no. Some things were indeed meant to be. At nine, she broke down and called him. He didn’t pick up, and his voice mail was full. What a shocker that was.

At nine thirty, she couldn’t take it anymore and drove back to the Bank of South Florida. It was clear that the Whitaker of today needed prodding. She was nearly shaking as she asked the mother of the soldier if Whitaker was in. When he didn’t pick up her call, the woman said she’d walk back to his office and check.

Claire watched her until she disappeared down the hall. If he would just say yes, everything would be okay.

But . . .

If he said no again, she might have to stop. She’d have to find someone else. What a mean trick the universe would have played on her.

When the woman returned, Claire watched her footsteps, which pounded to the beat of Claire’s heart. Claire almost wanted to turn and run. She wasn’t ready for a final answer from Whitaker.

“He’s actually sick today. Do you want his cell or email?”

Claire swallowed. “No, thank you. I have it.”

She drove to Gulfport, nodding to the one-drop rhythm of a Burning Spear song. “Please let him say yes,” she said, repeating herself four times.

His Land Rover was in the driveway. Maybe he was so enthralled with the story that he’d called in sick so that he could finish reading and even start writing. That would be the life break she needed.

Claire knocked on the door to no avail. She knew he was in there, though. Mrs. Claire Voyant could feel it. She knocked again and rang the doorbell. When she peered through the window, she could see a coffee cup on the table and a blanket wadded up on the sofa.

“Whitaker, I know you’re in there. I went by the bank.” She checked the doorknob; it was locked.

No way she was leaving without talking to him. No way could she endure another sleepless night. Besides, he honestly resembled a child to her, so she didn’t mind treating him like one.

Raising her voice again, she said to the door, “I’m walking around to the back. Please, Whitaker.”

Claire rounded the side of the house and looked through windows. As she reached a window in the kitchen, she caught sight of him. Feeling like she’d hooked a fish, she rapped harshly on the window.

“Please open up. I see you!” She was totally being a stalker but didn’t care.

She continued around the house. His backyard was overcome with tall grass and weeds. She climbed the steps to the back door, tested the knob, and then knocked again. “Whitaker Grant!”

He finally appeared, wearing a bathrobe. His hair was all over the place. Pulling back the door, he looked at her as if she’d done something unthinkable.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I know you’re sick, but I just had to hear your thoughts. Did you read it?”

“How do you know I’m sick?” He had coffee breath.

“I really don’t mean to come off like a stalker, but I went by your work again.” She put up a hand. “Before you say anything, please know that I need to get his book finished. It’s . . .” She shook her head. “A higher purpose is pushing me. I can’t sleep. I can’t do anything without thinking about it.”

“Claire, you can’t hunt me down at work and go looking through my windows. I’m sick and tired and obviously not accepting company.”

She ignored him and cast an eye toward the backyard. “Do you need a number for a landscaper?”

He let down his guard and rested an arm on the doorframe. “I’m going for a more natural habitat, a place for wild things to roam.”

“You’re a mess, you know that? You can’t get mad at me for stalking you. Someone needs to be checking on you.”

His voice rose an octave. “You’re coming in hot today. Is this the real Claire?”

Something about this man. His whole “thing” was comical, like a cartoon character who’d come to life. She put her hands on her hips. “I’m seriously considering Baker Acting you.”