An Unfinished Story(37)

“Aren’t you a firecracker? I kind of like this side of you.”

“I have my days.” Enough small talk, she decided. She lifted her glasses and rested them on the top of her head. “Did you read the book? Start it, at least?”

Whitaker’s grin vanished, and his eyes ran away as he let go of the doorframe and backed up a step. After the longest minute of her life, he ran a hand through his hair and sighed. “I did. Most of it.”

By the tone in his voice, she knew a no was coming, and she waited as if his mouth were a firing squad of anxious trigger fingers. “And?” She winced, bracing for the worst.

“It’s good. He’s a good writer. But it’s not for me.”

There it was. Finality. Claire almost lost her balance, and her breath leaped from her lungs. “What? Why is it not for you?”

“I can’t finish his book. I gave it a chance. It didn’t speak to me, and I can’t help you. This is my final answer. I’m so sorry. And I’d like to help you find someone who’s much better than me.”

They were facing each other as if about to duel. “There is no one else.”

“Sure there is.” He clasped his hands behind his back. “Why do you feel this need to get his book finished, anyway? It won’t be his words.”

Rather aggressively, she took a step toward him, entering his house. “You know what the saddest thing in the world is?”

Whitaker backed up.

“For someone to die without accomplishing their dream. This book meant so much to him, and I know he wanted to get it out there. It’s the only gift I can still give him.”

“It’s just not for me.” Whitaker’s tender heart showed through his eyes. She could see that he wanted to help her, but that he didn’t feel he could. That didn’t cut it, though. He needed to toughen up.

Whitaker shook his head again, crossing the t in finality.

Claire was so sad that when he opened his arms to her, she fell into them. He pulled her in and hugged her. Did she really have to find another writer? She wrapped her arms around his waist and squeezed him. “Please, I’m begging you. Please write the book.” She hated hearing herself beg but felt like she was fighting for her life.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, squeezing her tightly.

She held him for a while and didn’t know why. Part of her wanted to punch him, to wake him up from this fog he was living in. They both squeezed hard and held on longer than usual, and to Claire it felt like they had both needed this hug—any good hug—for a long time. She certainly had.

Claire let go first. She descended the two steps and backed up into the tall grass, wiping her eyes.

A cricket sprang from her feet to find a better hiding place.

Whitaker whispered an apology. “Can I walk you to your car?”

Claire shook her head and started back around the house.

Whitaker called after her, but she ignored him. Enough trying to get this guy to help. He was a lost cause. Why was she wasting her time?

And why the hell did she think that all of a sudden her life was so special? Just because she’d found the courage to go dancing everything would be okay? Suddenly Whitaker would say yes and he’d finish what would be considered the finest novel of all time? They’d erect statues of David in downtown St. Pete?

Oh, how absurd.

When she twisted the key in the convertible, the reggae came blasting out. She quickly reached for the knob and turned it all the way down, until it clicked off.

Before she pulled away, Whitaker called for her from the front door. Had he changed his mind? She’d seen this pivot before at the bank. He was so indecisive. Her heart soared. Maybe the world did follow some kind of order.

Then she saw him holding up the composition books, and she dropped her head.

“You forgot these,” Whitaker said, handing them to her.

Without a word, Claire set the composition books on the passenger seat and pulled away. Screw the no-smoking thing. As she left Gulfport and drove back to the beach, Claire snapped on her glove and wrapped the scarf around her hair. The smoke entering her lungs delivered a tiny sense of relief, but her mind quickly returned to Whitaker, who dampened her mood.

When she crossed onto Treasure Island—while working on her second American Spirit—blue lights flashed in her rearview.

“This can’t be happening,” she said, taking one last toke. She pulled into the parking lot of a Putt-Putt course and waited. A young family was giggling as they each attempted to putt their balls through a plastic pirate ship.

Claire looked at the cars passing by on Beach Boulevard. The only problem with having a convertible was everyone noticed you.

The officer stepped out of his car and marched her way. He had a very deep tan and filled out his uniform nicely. A small shaving cut marked his chin. “Ma’am, you’re driving way too fast. Twenty miles above the speed limit.”

Removing her glasses, Claire shook her head. “Sorry, I felt like I was creeping.”

“You were eighteen over. I should write you a reckless-driving ticket.” He pointed to her hand. “Why do you have a glove on your right hand?”

Claire couldn’t believe she’d forgotten to take it off. “Oh, that’s . . . it’s so I could have a cigarette and no one at work would know.”