An Unfinished Story(90)
Claire didn’t like being spoken to this way. Her dried-up tear ducts ground like an engine without oil. Anger, fear, sadness, regret. Guilt.
She finally spun toward him. “Don’t you think I know all that? And don’t talk to me like you knew David. Just because you read his book doesn’t give you the right.”
“I’ve done more than read his book.” Venom filled his eyes. “And I think I’ve been closer to him than you have the past six months.”
How dare he.
“Get out!” she screamed.
Whitaker raised his hands, repeatedly pressing his palms down. “Calm down, Claire. I’m sorry. I know you need some time.”
She pointed to the door and, through clenched teeth, demanded, “I want you out of my house.”
Whitaker lowered his hands slowly, his eyes on her the entire time. He nodded three times and turned. He stopped with his hand on the knob.
“If you only knew how much I cared about you. And I’ve tried to show you—even while you’ve done your best to push me away. I am all about you and me. There’s nothing I want more. Not even another book deal, if that’s what you’re thinking. Now, I’m not saying I’m perfect. So far from it. But if you want us to happen, I need you to put in some effort.” His voice dropped off. “The person I know you really are.”
Then he left through the porch, the door once again snapping shut after him. Claire dropped to the rug in tears as she heard him telling Willy goodbye.
Chapter 36
THE PARENTS WITH WINGS
There was no way she could let him visit Oliver without her. Dodging geysers of guilt and sadness springing up all around her, she walked to the beach, hoping to find a calm patch in the madness. She sat cross-legged at the tide line and let the water wash around her, a search for healing in the waters that had once given her hope.
Though there were no miraculous miracles, Claire was reminded of that foreign feeling once again, the mother that she could have been, the mother she wished her own mother had been, a fearless woman who always pushed aside her own problems for the benefit of her son, be it Oliver or a child she carried in her own womb.
Tapping into this strength, Claire returned home with love swelling in her heart. She made it to Leo’s South in time for the breakfast rush and dug in deep all the way through lunch.
Jevaun had even noticed her change. As he ran a knife through a grapefruit, he said, “You doin’ all right today, yeah?”
Claire gave him a smile rich with confidence, and he nodded back—as if he knew exactly what she’d been through and where she was now.
Using the address Whitaker had texted her, Claire pulled into the driveway behind his Land Rover. The large Italian-style house was in an affluent neighborhood in the Southside called the Pink Streets, so named for the streets colored with pink dye—a way to distinguish the area, first done back in the twenties. The house had a fancy red-tile roof and was surrounded by a line of manicured hedges. An ADT Security sign poked out of the fresh mulch near the front steps.
Whitaker stood on the steps, watching her in surprise. She hadn’t given him a heads-up, perhaps the last of her hardheadedness asserting itself.
Claire opened up and stepped out, and he met her halfway.
“I’m really sorry,” she confessed.
He bit his lip.
“No, really. I had no right. And I didn’t mean any of it. I’m just a basket case right now. We’re about to walk in and see where he lives. I feel like I’m just stepping deeper and deeper into David’s secret life, and I’m just terrified. That’s all. It has nothing to do with you.”
He pulled her into a hug. “I forgive you. And I understand. It’s heavy stuff.”
She squeezed and whispered another sorry.
Letting go, Whitaker said, “I’m glad you came.”
“I guess I have no right to be mad at you for going without me.”
He touched her chin. “I think I’ve been beat up enough for the day.”
After knocking on the door, Claire heard some commotion before a brunette in a USF MOM apron revealed herself. Probably in her early fifties. She greeted them with a smile that could melt ice. So this was what a woman with a true heart of gold looked like, Claire thought.
“Jacky?”
“That’s me.” She had a soothing voice and a calming demeanor that illustrated a certain poise under pressure.
They followed her inside and heard boys laughing somewhere deep within. “You must forgive me,” she said to Whitaker. “I have had my hands full, so I haven’t had the time to read your book. But I did see the movie. It was a gorgeous story.”
“Thank you very much. Even from the little bit I’ve heard, what you do sounds so much more amazing.”
Claire looked at the shiny floor’s hardwoods, the neat row of children’s shoes lined against the wall. “How long have you been doing this?”
“Gosh, most of my life. Almost thirty years. We just passed the two hundred mark.”
“Two hundred kids?”
“Yep, two hundred boys have been through here.”
Claire smiled in awe. She couldn’t even imagine.
Jacky turned to lead them through the house. Lots of cheery decor: paintings of flowers, bright-colored rugs. “We all have our calling. I grew up in the system, and there were a few adults along the way who saved my life. How could I do anything else? But thank you for saying so.” She turned left down a hall packed with photographs—presumably from the boys who’d lived here. “Oliver’s in the shower. He’ll be down in a minute. Oh, and Kari’s in the kitchen.”