An Unfinished Story(69)
“I got that. It didn’t take you long to bring up David and flash your ring in my face. It’s just funny to think about. How lives intertwine.” He added, “I wish I’d been more open to your request to finish his book from the beginning. I can’t believe I lied to you and kept trying to back out. I’m so sorry.”
She was touched by his sincerity. “Well, now that you’re out of your cave, think about this. Everything you and I have both been through was meant to be. I might never have found that picture if I hadn’t given you the desk.”
“And if I hadn’t stormed into my office, almost deleted everything I’d written, and—”
“Almost deleted the files?”
“I didn’t do it.” He wagged his finger. “Thought about it for a second but didn’t do it.”
Claire’s eyes widened. “Why in the world would you consider deleting months of work? You’re such a drama queen, a bona fide kook.”
Whitaker smiled and stuck out his fist for a fist bump. “Here’s to two kooks looking for answers in a world full of question marks.”
“The long-stemmed variety of question marks, no doubt.”
“Bouquets of them.” Claire gave him a bump and then took his hand. “Thanks for doing this with me. Thanks for caring.”
Whitaker blushed. “Thanks for resuscitating me.” With that he unbuckled his seat belt and nearly stood as he raised his head above the windshield. With his curly hair blowing in the wind, he yelled a call of freedom and happiness.
When he looked back to her, Claire was smiling so hard she could have kissed him again. She looked back to the steering wheel and to her rings. She’d promised herself she wouldn’t kiss him again until she’d taken the rings off for good.
The time had come.
Out of nowhere, several pink flamingos crossed over the highway. “Look!”
Whitaker turned toward the sky. “If that’s not a sign we’re onto something, I don’t know what is.” He plopped back down and buckled his seat belt. “In terms of symbolism, an encounter with pink flamingos is a sign of good fortune, especially on a journey.”
“Really?” Claire lit up.
“No,” Whitaker admitted. “But it sounds possible.”
Claire shook her head. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Do you know what a flock of flamingos is called, though? It’s not a flock.”
She took her eyes off the road for a second and glanced at him. “What is it?”
“A flamboyance of flamingos.”
“Oh, c’mon.”
“And a group of manatees is actually an aggregation of manatees.”
“Really?” Claire studied his poker face. “No, I’m not falling for your distorted lies.”
Whitaker’s voice raised an octave. “Distorted lies? I am bathing you in the glory of the English language. Oh, and by the way, I wonder if they have a Clarion Inn in Sarasota. Only seems right for Claire to stay at the Clarion.”
Smirking, Claire shook her head. “Does your mind ever stop?”
“All I know is that if we stay at the Clarion, they better serve éclairs. Because you know what I want? To eat éclairs with Claire at the Clarion.”
Claire couldn’t suppress a laugh for a moment longer, and though she didn’t tell him (and maybe should have), she marveled at how much richer her life was with this man in it—absurdity and all.
Chapter 29
SAVING SARASOTA
Whitaker and Claire stopped for grouper bites and peel-and-eat shrimp at Woody’s River Roo in Ellenton before continuing down to Sarasota. A guitarist worked his way through a set list of acoustic classics as they discussed possibilities and strategy. Still coming to grips with the discovery of the photo, their conversation ping-ponged without focus like they were two severe sufferers of ADD. “I can’t believe this is happening.”
“Me either. I wonder what . . .”
“But how could he have . . . ?”
Shrugging shoulders. “What are the chances he’s still . . . ?”
Whitaker was having a ball, chasing down a lead that could be life changing. It was almost impossible to believe that Orlando was a living and breathing boy, but at the same time he was willing to bet his entire writing career that it was true.
Back on the highway, he looked at Claire in her gold-rimmed prescription sunglasses, driving her convertible with the top down, singing with the reggae that seemed to ooze from deep within her, and he wondered where he’d be without her. Probably halfway through a miserable first draft of I Hear Thunder, figuring out how the character was faring in his attempt to break free from the Mafia. I’m serious, Matteo. I’m done.
Every time Claire’s phone dinged, Whitaker would check to see if she’d gotten lucky fishing around the photo to friends and family. And one by one, they responded that they had never seen the boy in their lives.
The burning question that kept returning to their conversations was, How do you find a boy in foster care with a first name and a picture? They’d jumped the gun by hopping in the car to drive down to Sarasota, but what else were they going to do? Whitaker certainly wasn’t going to sit around his house and wait for answers.
He had reached out via text to a couple of his contacts, including a case manager in St. Pete and a woman named Carissa at the local child-placing agency, but he hadn’t heard back yet. He and Claire had agreed to drive straight to the placing agency’s office.