An Unfinished Story(52)
After cleaning the house, she relaxed in the hammock with Willy and read a few selections from The Essential Rumi. She reached for a cigarette but decided against it. Feeling so carefree and peaceful, she shook her head at the wasted hours in which she’d wallowed in the madness of David’s death. She so wished he could see her now, the widow finally coming alive and accepting that death was a part of life.
Between poems, Claire exchanged text messages with Whitaker. He told her he hadn’t eaten all day, and that he’d called in sick—yet again—from work. Having already paid him a deposit and seeing how invested he’d become, Claire wouldn’t be surprised if he quit his job soon. She told him she’d bring over a pizza, and they could visit more. She had come to look forward to their daily chats. Her whole life had been so involved around work that she’d forgotten what it was like to truly connect with someone.
There was no shortage of good Italian food in Florida, a result of the Southern European snowbirds bringing down their cuisine. Claire picked up a pie at her favorite spot, Tony & Nello’s in Tierra Verde. Though not the fanciest, it was as authentic as you could find outside of Italy, and the smells of oregano, garlic, and ripe tomatoes rising from the box made her mouth water as she returned to her car.
Pulling up to Whitaker’s house, she noticed the park was crowded with people walking their dogs, running, and throwing Frisbees and baseballs. They must have all just returned home from work. Pizza in hand, she approached Whitaker’s front door. Before she knocked, she heard a car door open and spun around.
“You’re early,” Whitaker was saying, stepping out of the back seat of his Land Rover. She could tell he’d lost some weight.
“What in the world are you doing?”
He wiped the sweat from his forehead. “I was just cleaning my car.”
“In the back seat with the door closed?”
He took the pizza from her. “You know how I mentioned that I’m having a problem with someone not picking up poop in the park?” He dropped to a whisper. “I . . . was . . . on a stakeout. I find that hiding in the wayback and watching through the tinted glass is my best vantage point.”
“You may just be the most ridiculous man in America.”
“You think there’s someone outside of America more ridiculous? A Russian Whitaker dressed in camouflage hiding in a tree stand in Gorky Park tracking potential offenders with a sniper rifle?”
She couldn’t help smiling but said sternly, “Sniper jokes are not allowed right now.”
“Fair point,” he conceded. “Sometimes my humor runs away from funny.”
It wasn’t an awkward moment at all. She’d come to enjoy their banter immensely and didn’t mind when he crossed boundaries. But in a more serious tone, she felt an obligation to say, “You realize this whole dog poop thing is you distracting yourself from doing the hard work: breaking through your writer’s block. You’re latching on to something you think you can control because what you really want to control—your writing—seems out of your reach.”
“I suppose it could be interpreted that way.”
Noticing his sudden discomfort, she steered away from exposing any more of his wounds. “Isn’t it hot in the wayback?”
“Not bad with the windows down. And I bring a cooler with drinks.” He pulled back the screen door. “Let’s head inside. We don’t want to give away our position.”
Following him, she asked, “Did you find the perp?”
“Not even close. I’m beginning to think that whoever it is has a military background.”
“They’re that stealthy, are they?”
“Incredibly so.”
They sat at the table in Whitaker’s dining room. Knowing her way around by now, she asked if he wanted something to drink on the way to the kitchen. She did a double take when she noticed a bowl of lime and lemon wedges resting on the counter near the fridge, just like she’d told him David used to do. One wedge of each in his ice water.
When she returned to the table, she asked, “What’s with the lemons and limes?”
“I figured you’d notice,” he said, taking his first bite of pizza. “God, that’s good.” He finished chewing. “Just trying to get into his head, you know. I keep feeling like I’m missing something. The writing is going really well, but I’m only working with what he’s already written. What I’m nervous about is the actual last part of the book. I want to know where he was going.” He laid his slice down. “What his thought process was. I feel like he knew how it was going to end, whether he’d written it out or not. Does Kevin save Orlando from getting into deeper trouble, or is it more tragic? Does one of them die?”
Claire frowned. “No, I don’t think anyone dies.”
“Me, either, but it’s important to stay true to the story, not necessarily to make it a happily ever after just because.”
“David was a happily ever after kind of guy.” Even though his life didn’t go that way, Claire added to herself.
Whitaker picked up his slice. “That’s good to know. I’ll tell you, he definitely knew a lot about the foster care system. Any idea where that came from?”
Claire shook her head. “I wouldn’t put it past him to have done a lot of research. Like I said, when he got into something, he fully committed himself.” She reached for her first slice and fought to keep the cheese from sliding off the end.