An Unfinished Story(80)
“What the . . . ? Where in the world did you find a manatee in the surf?”
“Right out here.” Claire pointed toward the Gulf. “I don’t know if he lost his way, but as you can see, the water was pure glass, so I guess he was exploring.”
Whitaker returned his wide eyes to the photograph. To get a better view, he leaned it on the sofa and stood back. The manatee was looking right at him, his puffy eyes lingering above the water. Whitaker pinched his chin and bathed in her art, noticing the way she’d framed the shot: low and tight.
He turned and took her hand. “It’s the greatest present anyone has ever given me. Really. I’m so touched.” He pulled her in, and they embraced. “And I thought I was the artist. You have such a talent.”
Claire thanked him modestly. “Now take me to dinner. I’m starving.”
Whitaker didn’t eat out like he used to, but there was a time when he’d gallivanted all over town chasing the newest restaurant, the latest exciting bottles of wine. At the height of his foodie obsession, before the grand collapse, Brick & Mortar on Central Avenue had been one of his absolute favorites. It turned out Claire and David had dined there several times as well.
The outside tables were occupied, the diners enjoying a breeze from the fans above. Passing by a wine barrel featuring the evening’s menu, Claire and Whitaker walked into the boisterous and crowded space. A woman with hair the color of obsidian and a welcoming smile led them to their table. A hanging steer skull looked down on the patrons sitting on stools along the bar.
Whitaker helped Claire into her seat and sat opposite her. The foursome next to them was working on a bottle of Chateau Blaignan, and their laughter was loud. But not annoying. Who could get mad at people for being too happy? The old Whitaker could, but hopefully the typist was six feet under for eternity.
The writer reached for the wine list straightaway and recognized a few names he’d been reading about lately. The owners had always procured a fine list of producers that leaned toward conscious farming and minimalist intervention. By the time their server arrived, he was ready. He pointed to the chosen one. “I think we’ll do this Morgon. And if you don’t mind dropping it in ice, that would be lovely.”
With that out of the way, he turned his attention to his date. Claire was working her way down the food menu. Her light-brown eyes and those glasses made him smile. That they’d gone so long just as friends amazed him. To think there was so much more between them to explore.
She looked up. “What?”
“You make me happy; that’s all.”
“Right back at you.”
Once they’d both scanned the menu, Claire asked, “Have you given any more thought to the ending of Saving Orlando? Have these new developments with Oliver registered?”
Through the window, Whitaker watched a heavily tattooed man toss his little girl into the air. They were both giggling. “I’m trying not to go there yet. I want to meet him, Claire. I want to shake his hand. I want to see that he’s a real boy.”
“Yeah, me too.”
Chills fired on his arms as he thought about it. “What will you say to him? What’s your first question?”
“Oh gosh.” She looked off toward the noisy bar. “I have so many. Ultimately, though, I want to know why David hid him from me. And if there was anything else he was hiding. How about you?”
Whitaker blew out a long breath. “I guess I want to know how much of the book is true.”
They paused when the server appeared with the wine. Whitaker gave the cru Beaujolais a good sniff and sip and relished in the vibrancy, the way the red fruit danced on his tongue. He signified his approval with a thumbs-up, and then they fell back into conversation.
Though she’d told him a lot about her life growing up in Chicago, he pushed further, learning more about her with each anecdote. The moment he told her he wanted to meet her mother, he realized he’d opened up a door he might regret. No, nothing to do with meeting her family. He would love that.
But after she admitted it might be a while before her mother visited St. Pete, she said, “The bigger question is: When am I going to meet Jack and Sadie Grant?”
Whitaker dabbed his mouth with the napkin. “Oh, you don’t want to do that.”
“Of course I do.”
And of course he wanted to introduce her. A few months ago, he might have dodged the question. Or lied and said he would set something up, only to put it off as long as possible. Though he felt a prick of anxiety, he liked the idea of sharing her with them.
Whitaker spread the napkin back over his lap. “I’ll set something up. Jack and Sadie would love to meet you.”
They stayed at the restaurant for three hours, talking nonstop and enjoying superbly plated, creative, and colorful dishes that paired brilliantly with their gamay. They shared a shrimp-and-white-bean appetizer, and then she opted for the bouillabaisse. Whitaker abandoned all discipline and chose the homemade noodles with slow-braised short ribs. They didn’t stop there. The bread pudding, smothered in fresh whipped cream, was the best they’d ever had, and they fought over it with their forks.
Along with their food high, Whitaker was high on Claire, and he thought it wild how far off in the distance Lisa felt. He hoped Claire felt the same about David.
It was as if Whitaker and Claire hadn’t even known each other until then. They’d been so focused on the project that they hadn’t let themselves explore the lighter topics, the ones so enjoyable to new lovers. No, their love wasn’t love at first sight. It was more of a slow burn that had started little fires everywhere in his heart.