An Unfinished Story(59)
Claire wiped her eyes along with the rest of the women in the circle.
After visiting with several of the widows after the meeting, Claire left with Whitaker on her mind. What she hadn’t shared was that she was worried that she was attracted to Whitaker for the wrong reasons. Yes, she saw the charm of Whitaker Grant. He was just about the wittiest person she’d ever met, and he was brilliant and handsome. If he continued to clean himself up, he’d be one of the most sought-after bachelors in Florida. She certainly couldn’t deny that she enjoyed spending time with him.
But who had she really kissed that day? Was it Whitaker? Or had she put a mask of David on his face? What a sick thought, but she had to come to grips with the possibility. It wasn’t fair to lead Whitaker on if he were nothing more than the closest she’d ever get to David again, a mere replacement.
One last doubt remained . . . How could she ever truly love someone as much as she loved David?
Chapter 24
BAD NEWS BEARS
Downtown, Whitaker eased into a spot next to Straub Park under the shade of one of the many giant banyan trees, their long, straggly vines conjuring up Tarzanian memories from the playground of his youth. A light rain had fallen long enough to dampen the ground, and the acres of grass shined green in thanks. Across the street, diners broke bread under the umbrellaed tables that stretched for blocks along Beach Drive.
Whitaker strolled past the Museum of Fine Arts, remembering the day he’d given a writing lecture from between walls that hosted some of the finest art in Florida. It had been a long time since he’d strolled through a museum, since before Lisa had left. God, when was the last time he’d attended any of his city’s offerings? Had he lost touch with the city he’d professed his love to?
Established more than a century earlier, the Baywater Yacht Club stood between the lines of restaurants along Beach Drive and the legions of boats bobbing in the marina. Whitaker circled to the front of the building and passed under the flagpole that had been designed to look like a ship’s mast. Though he always felt like a fish out of water, Whitaker had been visiting this club since he was a child, and familiar faces welcomed him as he worked his way to the dining room. Lines of the black-tied commodores who’d run the club looked back at him from their black-and-white photographs on the walls.
Whitaker hated dressing up and felt awkward in his khaki pants and pink polo shirt, but he’d tucked in his shirt to avoid his father’s scrutiny, which could sometimes draw blood. The floors of the grill were covered in a carpet the colors of autumn, and Whitaker thought the pattern might have served well as window curtains for his deceased grandmother’s house . . . back in the 1970s.
Upon seeing their son, Staff Sergeant Jack Grant and his wife, Do?a Quixote, stood from their table, which was draped in blue. Sadie came around the table, hugged Whitaker, and kissed him on the cheek. He complimented her blouse and then turned to his father, taking his hand. Having left his veteran’s hat at home, his bald spot was shiny on the top of his head. He wore pressed khaki shorts and a Tommy Bahama shirt. No one offered a stronger grip than Jack Grant. He made sure of that. Whitaker had often wondered if Jack sat in his office tugging on a cigar and squeezing a stress ball, working his hand muscles, making sure he was always the dominant one. Jack could turn a chunk of coal into a diamond in one squeeze.
“Son, it’s good to see you. You’re looking fit.”
“Thanks.” Whitaker squeezed hard, determined to crush his father’s grip. But there wasn’t a chance in hell.
As the three of them sat, Whitaker looked around the room. Half the tables were occupied, many by the remaining snowbirds spending their last few weeks before sailing north for the summer. Looking toward the small bar with two wine fridges behind it, Whitaker nodded at one of the managers he’d known for a long time. Returning his eyes to the table, Whitaker marveled at the sixty-four forks aligned perfectly on the left side of the stack of twenty-seven china pieces decorated with ocean scenes. He looked at the twenty-five knives, wondering which one he should use first. And then the six water glasses lined up next to the four different wineglasses. Sometimes he had a hard time deciphering reality from his exaggerations. The club wasn’t that fancy. Nevertheless, all he needed was one lowball glass filled to the rim.
As the three of them tested the waters of conversation, Whitaker noticed Jack was particularly silent, which was scary. This evening was obviously a dinner invitation that came with an agenda. For some reason, Whitaker had hoped that maybe, just maybe, Jack and Sadie had wanted to spend some time with their oldest son. Truth be told, Whitaker was very excited—slightly hesitant but eager, as well—to share his new project with them. He hoped they’d notice the fire in his eyes. The Whitaker sitting there before them was a new man, one who worked out and cared about what he put into his body.
Abandoning his grunts and nods, Jack finally cut through the niceties. “We heard you left your job.”
Whitaker thought it was absolutely amazing how Jack’s minimalist delivery could rumble an entire block like thunder. It took Whitaker paragraphs to say something as powerful as Jack could in one short, terse sentence. He could be a character in a Hemingway novel.
After recovering from his father’s thunderous assertion, which felt oddly like an accusation, Whitaker fingered the napkin on his lap. “Nothing gets by you in this town.”