An Unfinished Story(47)

Whitaker put his elbows on the table. “Don’t let yourself get caught up in regret. You two went through a lot. Like you said, he was happy when he died. That’s what matters most.”

Claire nodded. “I know.” Whitaker had a good point, and it was probably the one positive that had gotten her through the first three years.

“Okay,” Whitaker said. “Enough prying. And, Claire, we can always wrap up and go at it again tomorrow.”

“No, let’s keep going.”

Whitaker wrapped his fingers around the stem of his wineglass. “Why Sarasota for the setting? Was David from there?”

Claire shook her head. “No, but he traveled there sometimes. He was doing projects all over Florida. He’s actually from Tampa.”

“Oh, gotcha. You’re from Chicago, right? You met up there or . . . ?”

Claire loved the story of how they met, but everything was pressing down on her. One of the tears she’d attempted to suppress rolled down her cheek, and she turned so that he wouldn’t see it.

But he did see it. “You know what? Let’s take a break. This is all tough. We have plenty of time to talk. I think you get the picture. To do this right, I have to understand him. And I suspect to understand David, I need to understand you too.”

“Yeah, I get it.” Claire quickly lifted her glasses and wiped her eyes.

Leaving the topic, they made small talk for a while, getting to know each other more. Claire started to feel better and latched back on to the excitement of finishing David’s book. It was a nearly epic gift that she was giving to him. And she liked that Whitaker was her choice. Her intuition had been correct. Though his prodding hurt, it showed her how serious he was going to take the project.

As they shared the bowl of olives and tortilla Espa?ola, Whitaker asked, “What is it you do outside of running the café, not that you have any free time? But do you have any hobbies?”

Claire popped an olive into her mouth and chased it with a sip. “I have a cat.” The wine had helped calm her, and she was enjoying herself again.

“Ah, you’re a cat lady. That explains a few things.”

She finished chewing. “I didn’t know it until I found him at the restaurant. It was love at first sight. His name’s Willy. One-Eyed Willy.” Claire could almost feel Willy rubbing up against her ankles.

Surprising her, Whitaker broke into an unabashed Sloth-from–The Goonies impersonation, saying, “Hey, you guys.”

Claire burst into laughter and covered her mouth.

Whitaker stuck his fork into the tortilla Espa?ola. “Who doesn’t know One-Eyed Willy? So outside of obsessing over eighties films and taking care of One-Eyed Willy, what makes you tick?”

With her laugh still lingering, she said, “Lately, I’ve been trying to reconnect with the beach. Bought a little place on Pass-a-Grille recently. I think it’s fair to say I’ve neglected the brighter side of my world since David died. It’s been a long three years.”

“I know what you mean.” He raised a hand. “My pain pales in comparison to yours, but I’ve had my troubles too. I’ve barely looked at the water in forever. It’s such a shame. We live in one of the most beautiful places on earth, but life can get in the way, and . . . and then you forget to take the time to appreciate the things that actually matter.”

How right he was. “Exactly, but I’m trying to find the magic again. And as far as hobbies, I used to be into photography. For a minute, I wanted to be the next Annie Leibovitz. But that’s gone to the wayside too. This is going to be my year, though.” She hammered the table, feeling a lovely sense of possibility coming over her.

Claire turned the conversation to him. “So what about you? Why the long two years? A divorce, right?”

Whitaker stretched his arms. “I guess the whole town knows.”

“You kind of did that to yourself, you know. You wrote a book and went and got famous.”

“That I did.” He put his hands behind his head. “Anyway, yeah, a divorce. A terrible divorce. Not like we were fighting. It was actually a gentle divorce as far as those are concerned. I guess you could call it a Divorce Light.” Claire didn’t laugh, so he tried to clarify. “You know, Bud Light. Divorce Light.”

Claire offered an aware grin. “I get it.”

“Anyway,” he said. “Let me pop the top on my Divorce Light and share a sip.” He made a whooshing sound, as if he were opening a can.

“Oh my God,” she said, shaking her head in near disbelief. “So if the joke doesn’t work, just keep trying?”

Whitaker lifted an imaginary can and then pretended to gulp it down. Then he crushed it and tossed it over his shoulder. “Don’t worry. I’m earth friendly. That was a recycling bin behind me.”

Claire found herself laughing again, and it felt wonderful. “Not bad. Your routine could use some work, but I could see you being funny.”

In an instant, the curve of Whitaker’s lips reversed. “There was no fighting. I was checked out. She called me on it, gave me a yellow card. I ignored it. And then she was gone. I was so wound up in trying to write again, trying to express myself. When all I really should have been doing was loving her.”

Claire imagined Whitaker being a handful to live with, but a ton of fun, nonetheless. “You still love her?”