An Unfinished Story(45)

“Ribeira Sacra?”

“Even higher. Valdeorras.”

“Ah, how adventurous of you. A river wine planted by the Romans.”

As Claire listened, she began to understand what a budding Renaissance man Whitaker was. He was still a cartoon character, but one of unexpected depth. And she had to admit he was a good-looking man, attractive even.

Miguel turned back to Claire. “You’ll love this white. A kiss of barrel, a little age to it. Still, nice and bright but not too tart. Kind of like my friend Whitaker here.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment. All but the age part.”

“Will this work for you?” Miguel asked her, beaming from the banter.

Claire smiled. “Who doesn’t like Roman river wine?”

Miguel clapped his hands together. “Excellent. May I suggest a bowl of olives and my tortilla Espa?ola to start? You’re hungry, aren’t you?”

“Famished,” Claire said.

Once Miguel had retreated back under the yellow awning, Whitaker retrieved his computer and the composition books from his bag and set them on the table. He opened up his computer, revealing a green sticker that read: CROSS ME, AND I’LL PUT YOU IN MY NEXT NOVEL.

Claire tried to be patient while she waited for him, but she wanted to say, “Okay, Whitaker, let it out!”

Once he was settled, Whitaker finally said, “I love this book. David was a wise man, wasn’t he?”

Claire thought of the times when she’d come home from a long day at the restaurant and snapped at him for no particular reason. Most of the time, he would hear her out without reacting—sitting with his legs crossed, allowing her to vent. Typically, the move would completely snuff out her anger. That, to her, was wisdom—and was one of the reasons she loved David so much.

Swallowing the memory, she said, “Very much so.”

“I’m a bit scared that I’m not worthy, to be honest, but I’d like to help.”

His humility, as opposed to the pity seeking she’d seen before, was endearing. “You’re worthy, Whitaker. I wouldn’t have asked you otherwise.”

“Thank you.” He talked as he clicked. “How much of the story is true?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, we writers all put ourselves into stories. Especially early on in our endeavors. How much David is in Kevin?”

Claire thought about it. “They share some similarities, I guess. Same age. The same humor, of course.”

“And both going through some difficulties?”

Claire cocked her head.

“If you want me to do this, you’ll have to let me pry some.”

“I know,” she said, pondering Whitaker’s question. “I’m not bothered by the question. More, just trying to think of his difficulties. I mean, he worked too much, I guess. But he wasn’t really struggling. Almost the opposite, like he’d found the secret to life.” Claire remembered looking at David sometimes, wondering how he could possibly be so happy. Not that they had a reason to be sad anymore, but he was often on a totally different plane of existence, of enlightenment, even.

“Which speaks to my point about wisdom. I can sense it.”

“David had his midlife quirks, too, though his seemed to lean toward healthier vices, like running and biking, and then writing, of course. Once we realized we weren’t going to be parents, I opened Leo’s, and he became an exercise junkie, always training for the next marathon or triathlon. Some people buy Harleys. He bought road bikes.” Claire could see David’s shaven muscular legs protruding from his neon-green cycling shorts. “Then he read your book and started writing. He threw himself into it just as much as he had into his training. He was that kind of guy. Why do anything less than full throttle?”

“I could have taken a few pointers on negotiating the midlife bridge. He sounds much more put together than me.”

Claire tilted her head. “Um, you think?”

“Okay, let’s not get carried away. You apparently enjoy picking on me, but please know that I’m a fragile being with sensitive feelings.”

“And an awful mustache.” Claire couldn’t help but poke at him some. It was too much fun.

“Ouch.” He covered his mustache as if she was about to attack it.

Claire burst into laughter. “You know I’m kidding.”

“I’m glad knocking me down lifts you up.” She could tell by his smile that he was having fun too. He handled being tormented well, almost welcomed it.

“I’m only teasing,” she promised. “Please forgive me. But what is this mustache thing anyway? Some sort of statement piece?”

“I guess you could call it that. David bought a bike; I grew this. Same thing.”

Another shared smile.

“It’s not that bad, is it?” Whitaker asked.

“I can see the appeal for other men your age. If you’re looking for a girlfriend, you might want to rethink it.”

Whitaker smiled the smile of a man who’d spent a long time thinking about relationships and had endured the pain of lost love. “Most certainly not looking for a girlfriend. Maybe the mustache is my deterrent. Like how a single woman wears a ring.”

Claire glanced at the rings and felt her shoulders slump. For an instant, she felt a defensive anger, almost rage, bubble up, but thankfully she caught it just in time and held her tongue.