An Unfinished Story(63)

With her eyes closed, she could hear a seagull calling its mate, the wind blowing against her ears, the waves crashing onto the sand, the shuffling of the shells. The bliss of her youth on this beach had returned.

She looked up to see a black skimmer flying across the water, its beak skimming the surface, searching for food. Her grandmother Betty had first introduced her to this bird. With oversize orange-and-black beaks, they looked almost top-heavy, and, to Claire, resembled a toucan. During one of their many beach walks, Betty had told her that they had vertical pupils that helped cut the sun’s glare.

It had been a few days since she’d seen Whitaker, and she missed him. Even when she did her best to think of something else, distracting herself, his name would flash before her one letter at a time. W.H.I.T.A.K.E.R.

When she returned to her bungalow, Claire checked in with him. Only a few seconds into their call, she detected that something was bothering him. “What’s going on with you?”

After a long beat of silence, he said, “I don’t want to rain on your parade, Claire. It thrills me to hear you so happy and bubbly. But I’m having a tough time today. I . . .”

Claire sat down on the rocking chair on the porch, knowing bad news was coming.

“I can’t put my finger on the ending. I don’t know where David was going. I feel like I’m lost.”

Claire swallowed her disappointment and said encouragingly, “Maybe you need to walk away for a few days. You’ve been staring at the story nonstop for months. Seriously, have you even taken a day off?”

“No, but it’s not that. The muse doesn’t reward you for taking vacation.”

“Enough about the muse.” Claire stopped before saying more. Be gentle, Claire. “What can I do to help?”

“That’s just it,” Whitaker said. “I don’t know if there is anything anyone can do to help. I’ve stared at David’s last line for days. This is exactly why I didn’t want you to tell anyone.”

Knowing she needed to give him encouragement, she made a firm decision on an idea she’d been pondering. “I’ve been thinking. I want to give you something.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s a surprise. Why don’t you take the day off from writing and relax. Put your feet up and stop thinking about it. I’ll be over this afternoon after I close the restaurant. Okay?”

“All right.”

Claire took a quick shower and rode down the beach to the café. After an hour of computer work, she helped the chef with inventory. Just before closing, she asked Jevaun if she could borrow his truck. He followed her back to her bungalow and helped her lift David’s desk and chair into the truck bed. After watching him drive away in her convertible, his dreads blowing in the wind, she stepped up into his Chevy. The woven steering wheel cover was the colors of the Rastafari: red, yellow, and green. Don Carlos was singing through the speakers. She turned it up and drove across town, moving her head to the Jamaican grooves.

When she pulled up, she found Whitaker slumped in a chair in the front yard under the kapok tree, which had shed its white fibers all over the yard, spreading its seeds. He was shirtless in surf trunks, and she couldn’t help but notice how much leaner he’d become.

He pulled on his shirt and greeted her when she climbed out. “New truck?”

“I borrowed it so I could deliver your gift.”

Whitaker looked into the back. “A desk?”

“They’re David’s. A Victorian pedestal desk. And the chair is Herman Miller. I figured it would be an upgrade.”

“From my card table? I’d say. But you don’t have to do this.”

Claire walked to the back and dropped the tailgate. “I thought they might help you tap in. Really, I don’t see how you get anything done in that awful office of yours. I can’t think of a less creative space in the world.”

Whitaker pointed to his forehead. “This is where the creative space is supposed to be. But I’ll take any help I can get.”

“I think we ought to clean up your office and make it more writer friendly. I’m sensing some blocked chi in there—whatever the opposite of feng shui is.”

“I don’t disagree, but I’m dealing with it. Just hit a slump; that’s all.”

Claire saw the pain in his eyes. “What you need is a hug.” She stood onto her toes, opened her arms, and pulled him in, wrapping her hands around his neck. “You’re such an awesome man, Whitaker. And an amazing writer. Don’t get discouraged.”

He whispered a thanks, giving her a light squeeze.

Claire kissed his cheek, surprising even herself. Whitaker lost his breath. She felt his heart kick. Not wanting to push away, she ran a hand through the hair on the back of his head and pulled him tighter. “I believe in you,” she whispered into his ear.

When she finally took a step back, with a flutter in her stomach, she looked at his face. He was as surprised by the kiss as she was.

She quickly spun toward the truck. “Now help me get this out. I’m not leaving until your office is worthy of your words.”

As they struggled to ascend the steps with one of the desk’s pedestals, Claire was thinking about two things simultaneously: how nice it felt to be in his arms and that they should have taken the drawers out to make this easier. She almost said as much when a pair of lovebugs landed on her arm.