An Unfinished Story(82)
Once he’d filled his trash can with useless dried-up cans of paint, old plastic pots, and unknown chemicals due to their labels fading or having peeled off, he filled his push mower with gas and got started. A John Deere might have been a better choice, as the little mower had to work extra hard to cut down the jungle he’d let go wild. But she eventually got the job done. He moved on to the Weed eater and trimmer, working all the way around the house, bringing his humble abode back to life.
Proud of how things were turning out, he made two trips to Home Depot to pick up outdoor furniture, mulch, a few plants and flowers, and even some touch-up paint for the columns on the front porch. By the time the sun was setting, Whitaker collapsed into his bed with a sense of pride tucking him in.
The following day, a pot of coffee led him into his second project. The inside. Yes, he’d gotten rid of the filth that the typist had been dwelling in, but it was still nowhere near where it needed to be. He carried out several awful pieces of furniture that belonged in a frat house. He moved the other furniture and rolled-up rugs to vacuum and polish the floors. He cleaned out the refrigerator and scrubbed down the kitchen and bathroom. It was another all-day affair, but he felt invigorated doing it, like this was the last missing piece in rediscovering his true self. Instead of finding himself repulsed at what he’d been, he held on to the excitement of where he was going.
On Friday, he ran all over town, shopping for new furniture, bedsheets, new dishes, and silverware. It was time to start living up to the man he wanted to be. After a string of more errands after lunch, he stopped by two local art galleries and fell in love with three pieces he ended up taking home. As the sun came down Friday night, he toured his house with a great smile on his face. In three days, he’d turned what had been a post-divorce prison into a house he was happy to live in and to welcome people into.
On Saturday morning, he went for a long run and then rode over to the farmers market, which had just moved from the waterfront location over to Williams Park for the summer. He picked up what he needed for the night’s meal and also some more flowers for inside. Ending his exhausting four-day makeover, he swung by his wine cellar on the way home.
By the time Claire knocked on the door a few minutes before five Saturday night, the house was in the best shape it had ever been, and Whitaker was in the kitchen in his apron stirring the beurre manié into his favorite preparation of coq au vin, a dish he’d obsessed over while living in Paris in his twenties.
He walked casually to the front door, pulled it open, and breathed her in. Claire wore an off-shoulder knee-length white dress, and her hair was pulled back into a ponytail. It took a moment for him to grasp that they were now a thing.
“You look lovely.” Whitaker took her hand and kissed her and smelled the jasmine of her perfume.
Claire walked inside. “Oh my gosh, is this why you’ve been hiding all week? Your place looks . . . like not your place.” She stopped in the living room and turned back to him. “Bravo, Whitaker.”
“I’m glad you like it.” He pointed to the wall on his left, by the entrance to the hall. “What do you think?”
She followed his finger to the photograph of the manatee she’d given him framed in reclaimed wood. “Oh, it looks great.”
“Now I can pass by it every time I go into my office to write. A reminder of my muse.”
Claire smiled and spun around. “And new furniture? I actually like your house now. It’s adorable. And you have great taste. Have you been watching too much HGTV?”
“I’ve seen a few episodes lately. Wait until you see the backyard.”
The doorbell rang, and they both turned. Whitaker took a long, slow breath. “Here we go.”
He pulled back the door. “Hi, guys. Welcome.”
“You shaved!” Sadie exclaimed.
They shuffled through the door in their country club attire, and Whitaker introduced them to Claire. In what Whitaker considered a bold move, Claire hugged Sadie and then Jack. “It’s a pleasure, Mr. and Mrs. Grant.”
Jack’s sunburned and stern face melted into a smile as he briefly removed his veteran’s hat. “It’s so nice to meet you, Claire. Please call me Jack.”
“Yes, sir. And thank you for your service.”
Claire might as well have picked him up and placed him in the palm of her hand, a tiny replica of the army man, a G.I. Joe. “You’re welcome,” he said, with the pride he duly deserved.
“I don’t want to embarrass Whitaker,” Sadie told Claire, “but you must be the one he’s cleaned his act up for.” She made a show of looking around the living room as they moved farther inside the house. “I am just so impressed.”
“I am too,” Claire confessed. “He’s really turned it around.”
Sadie shook her head. “The last time I was here—”
Whitaker stepped forward, smoothing his hands together. “All right, everyone. Let’s not make this entire evening about picking on Whitaker. We haven’t even had a sip of wine yet, and I’m already blushing.”
In the kitchen, Whitaker uncorked a rather blousy Meursault that he knew his mother would enjoy. They gathered around the island as he poured the glasses.
“I’m so happy to see you wearing an apron again,” Sadie said. “What’s on the menu tonight?”