An Unfinished Story(73)
Whitaker flashed a smile. “Mi chiamo Whitaker e sono un uomo intrigante, sensibile e complicato.”
Claire loved to hear him speak. He helped her repeat it. “How about in Spanish?”
Sounding like a completely different person, Whitaker spat out his translation. “Me llamo Whitaker y soy un hombre intrigante, sensible y complicado.”
“And French?”
In more of a high-pitched song with guttural edges, Whitaker said, “Je m’appelle Whitaker et je suis un homme intriguant, sensible et compliqué.”
“Compliqué,” Claire repeated. “What a lovely language.”
“It really is, both beautiful and angry at the same time.”
“Okay, mister. How about Japanese?”
Without hesitation, Whitaker broke into Japanese.
Her mouth dropped. “I don’t believe it. What did you really say?”
“Your fish is old.” He shrugged. “It’s the only thing I know how to say.”
Claire inclined her head and said quietly, “Let’s hope my fish isn’t old.”
They shared a plate of spaghetti alle vongole and discussed the next day. They had not expected to hit so many roadblocks in the search, but it made sense that everyone was bound by law to protect the children. Using Google, Whitaker had found a short list of licensing agencies. They would start there and visit each one. And they’d both attempt to spread the word via social media.
After polishing off the bottle of wine, they finished the meal with two glasses of limoncello. Claire was feeling both light-headed and distracted. She was sure by now that she wanted to kiss him tonight but didn’t know how to initiate it. Was he waiting on her to make the first move? Didn’t he know she was completely out of practice?
Back at the hotel, she stood facing him in the lobby, wondering if he might ask her to the bar for a nightcap. “That was a good meal,” she said flatly, anxiously.
“A beautiful meal. A great recommendation. Want to meet for breakfast early? I’m diving into a little more research now.”
She couldn’t bring herself to suggest a nightcap, not that she needed one. Agreeing to meet at seven, they both entered the elevator and rode up in silence. Why couldn’t she just plant one on him? He was obviously still interested in her. The looks he gave her, the way he listened. He’d already tried once. What was she afraid of?
When the door slid open on her floor, she stepped out of the elevator and offered a quick smile. “Thanks for dinner.”
A handsome smile back. “My pleasure.”
And then the door closed, and she stood there cross armed for a while, wishing she could try again.
Chapter 30
WHAT’S BETTER THAN CEREAL FOR BREAKFAST?
Upstairs in his room, Whitaker sat on the couch again, flipped on cable news, and opened up his laptop. Apparently, his name was still recognizable, as he’d drummed up quite a few comments in the Facebook groups. As part of his post, he’d asked if he could post Orlando’s picture. Several people, one even in all caps, had typed: DO NOT POST HIS PICTURE. Others suggested that surely someone at the placement agency could help. Another said he should talk to the Sarasota Herald-Tribune. One woman told him to PM her, which he did. He almost posted that Orlando could be in trouble and that the search was time sensitive, but that didn’t feel entirely true. Three years had gone by.
After checking, Whitaker brushed his teeth and climbed into the comfy bed with David’s composition books. Now that they were onto the truth, maybe he could learn more. He began reading, taking in the story with an entirely different view. No wonder David had struck a chord; he’d based the story off his own life.
Whitaker yawned as he moved to the second composition book, but something was telling him to keep going. What if a clue lay within these sentences?
Three hours later, Whitaker was flying through the third book, utterly lost in the story. He felt like he’d drunk a cup of coffee. Amid David’s skilled handwriting, Whitaker ran across a scratched-out word that brought him back to reality. There were plenty of mistakes that David had corrected with his pen, but this one in particular stopped Whitaker in his tracks. David had originally written that Kevin was driving south on MLK Jr. Street toward Orlando’s group home. He’d scratched out “south” and written “west.” Not that big of a deal.
Unless you know that MLK in Sarasota doesn’t run south.
But that it does in St. Pete.
Whitaker sat up straighter and pondered the mistake. He tried to put himself in David’s shoes. How do you accidentally mess up directions? If David was writing a scene in Sarasota, he’d be picturing the scene as it was taking place. He’d be driving west in his head on MLK in Sarasota. To accidentally write the word “south” meant that David was picturing the scene in St. Pete.
The boy was real.
What else in the story was real?
And had they known each other for days, weeks, or months? Whitaker had a feeling it was more like months. Whatever the answer, it seemed more plausible that they’d met and bonded in St. Pete.
Ah, but what about the picture at the Orioles game in Sarasota? If David were taking Orlando to a game, why not go to a game in St. Pete? Why would they drive all the way to Sarasota?
But why would David have moved the story to Sarasota in the first place? Well, David had obviously fictionalized the majority of the story. David was Kevin. Sarasota was possibly St. Pete. Then Orlando was almost surely a fictional name. Perhaps David had moved the story to Sarasota to further separate truth from reality and to protect Orlando. To that end, he would never use Orlando’s real name.