An Unfinished Story(54)
He looked at his decision like there was no better way to invest the rest of his money other than in his dream, a dream that he’d already proved lucrative in the past. He hadn’t hinted about the project to his agent yet, because he wanted to see how the ending came out, but he knew he would be all over it. Same for the publishers.
Whitaker didn’t have time for a day job anyway, even if it was less demanding than the one his father had offered. Writing this novel was taking everything he had, demanding countless hours of editing and polishing, plus tons of research. He’d built a small network of experts in the foster care world who’d welcomed his questions either by phone or over a cup of coffee, and something was happening that he hadn’t anticipated. The knowledge he was gaining was sure to give Saving Orlando an air of authenticity, but his motivation to learn had grown beyond the project. With each heartbreaking story he heard, he felt increasingly attracted to the cause of helping these children and knew he’d be involved one way or another long after this book hit the shelves.
A little over two months after Whitaker’s blunder of a flirt, Claire finally got a chance to hear part of what he’d been working on. It was May 4, and they were both sitting on the houndstooth sofa at his house, halfway turned toward each other. TNT was running a Star Wars marathon, which played on the muted television. Whitaker had made a run to his cellar downtown, and they were drinking a fifteen-year-old Barolo.
Maybe it was the wine that had given Whitaker courage. He’d printed out his selection and was reading the passage where Kevin took Orlando to Longboat Key. Orlando had never been in the water. He didn’t know how to swim and was terrified of sharks and jellyfish and other potentially dangerous creatures.
Whitaker licked his finger and turned to the next page. “Standing waist-deep in the still water, I yelled back to him, ‘Come on!’ Rigid and afraid, Orlando looked back at me like he’d seen a fin circling. I tried again. ‘You’re not living if you’re not totally freaked out!’ Something must have rung true in those words, and the boy who’d become a son to me broke into a run, splashing into the water as if he’d done it only yesterday. A smile burst out of him as I cheered him on with everything I had. What wonder had ever dazzled me more than this moment?”
Once Whitaker had finished, he waited eagerly for her response.
“Don’t get me wrong,” she said, working hard to hold back a grin. “It’s amazing. You’re really plugged in, aren’t you?”
He tossed the stack of papers onto the coffee table with frustration. “But there’s a ‘but’ coming. I hate ‘buts.’”
“It’s just—”
“Be gentle,” he interrupted. “I know I look like some sort of barbarian, but I’m really a softy. I’m the guy who dwells on reader reviews, good or bad. Anything less than telling me I’m a writing god can send me into a tailspin.”
“I was just trying to say . . . it’s hard to take you seriously with that mustache. Can we shave it off already? I can’t look at you without thinking you’re . . . I don’t know. You look like some guy I’ve come across while on a safari in Africa. You look like you belong in a Jeep chasing elephants. All you need is some aviators and one of those vests with a million pockets. Maybe a cigar and a camera with a telephoto lens.”
“Here we go again,” Whitaker said, picking up his glass of wine.
“I’m trying to help; that’s all. If you’re wondering why the women aren’t flocking to witty Whitaker, know that it’s probably that thing above your lip.”
“I can’t shave now or I’ll risk losing the muse. It’s almost a Nazaritic vow at this point. Shaving might be like Samson cutting off his hair. The muse might get upset. Besides, I don’t see how a man can experience a true midlife crisis without some sort of mustache or beard expression. It’s how we recognize each other when passing on the street. You know, a fraternal thing, like Deadheads and their tie-dye shirts. I feel like I’m in a brotherhood with David and Kevin all fighting to find our purpose.”
Claire raised a hand. “Let’s back up to the muse. For some reason, I don’t think she cares about your mustache. I mean . . . if she’s a she. I’ve never met a woman who actually likes a mustache.”
“Tell that to the thousands of women who’ve gushed over Tom Selleck since he first blessed us with his masterpiece of facial art.”
“Whitaker, I hate to tell you, but you are no Tom Selleck.”
He furrowed his brow. “I’ll try not to let your sharp insult damage my fragile ego. Of course, we all know Tom Selleck is in a class by himself. Just his short shorts alone set him apart.” Smiling, he turned even more to her and put his arm on the back of the sofa. “As far as the muse, I’ve never actually visualized her. She’s just kind of there. This celestial being that shoots out words.”
“Like an alien?”
“Hmm, I don’t know.”
They were looking right at each other.
“What makes you think she’s a woman?” Claire asked.
Whitaker gave a look like he’d eaten a bad oyster. “Oh God, I hope she’s not a man. You may have just paralyzed my creativity permanently.”
“Let’s hope not.”