An Unfinished Story(94)
Claire set her right hand on the table, palm down. “I didn’t mean to pry, Oliver. I’m so sorry. Let’s not go there, okay?”
“I don’t care what anyone says,” Oliver admitted, squinting. “If he hadn’t been trying to help me, he wouldn’t have gotten in the accident.” He sniffled and wiped a tear before it rolled down his cheek.
Claire felt a sudden hollowness behind her rib cage and glanced at Whitaker. They were both stumped. She didn’t know Oliver well enough to get up and hug him. It wasn’t appropriate. Instead, she leaned in. “If he had never met you, he might have died with something missing. But instead he died with a full heart, happy that you were in his life. Trust me. I didn’t know about you, but I knew something was going on. He’d never been so happy in his life. I thought he was just in a good place, but it was because of you.” Claire choked up. “Trust me, it was you. I’m so grateful that he met you.”
Oliver covered his face with his hands and cried into them.
Claire looked at Whitaker again and then stood and knelt next to Oliver, putting a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Don’t blame yourself at all, please. I know all about feeling guilty, and it’s a waste of time.” She felt sick inside and could barely handle seeing him so sad.
Oliver cried harder, his adult shell cracking, revealing his inner child.
Choosing to respect the boundaries, Claire resisted the urge to wrap her arms around him.
When Jacky came out later and invited them to stay for lasagna, they happily accepted. And it was the most filling—and fulfilling—dinner of her life.
Chapter 37
THE HAT
Three days later, Claire was sifting through boxes in her guest bedroom while Willy watched her from the bed. She’d planned dinner with Whitaker and Oliver later and wanted desperately to give Oliver the Yankees hat but wasn’t exactly sure where she’d hidden it.
After David’s accident, a policeman had given her everything that had been inside David’s totaled car. Something had told her to keep the hat, and it wasn’t just the mystery of it. Though she had wondered why it had been in the car, she’d chalked it up to being a gift for a client, a gesture he was no stranger to. Still, she’d elected to hold on to it, tossing it into a box with a few other items of David’s that she hadn’t been able to part with: his letter jacket from high school, his suit from the day they married in Chicago.
Taking the pinstripe hat out of the box, she sat with it in her hands, her back up against the wall. Willy jumped down to join her, and she welcomed his company.
Claire was finally feeling better. She’d spent three days thinking about David, wondering how he might have reacted had the tables been turned, wondering if she was getting this all wrong—if she had any right at all to be mad at him. No matter where the blame lay, it was time to move on, time to forgive him.
How could she condemn him for fighting through his own struggles without drowning her in them too?
Running a hand through Willy’s fur, she said, “Enough wasting life, Willy. I don’t know how you’ve lived with me so long.”
Along with much of St. Pete and even Whitaker’s new novel, the story of the Chattaway began in the 1920s. Painted hot pink and parakeet green, the cash-only restaurant was quintessential Florida, a dive joint with mostly outdoor seating that always promised live music and a good time. Whitaker remembered feeding the koi here when he was a boy. And though he had not yet taken the plunge, the owners had been hosting a proper afternoon tea with their vast collection of china for longer than he’d been alive.
It was a mostly clear night, warm, and humid. Several green parrots were perched on a telephone wire looking down at the commotion. A man with a guitar sang Jimmy Buffett songs on the stage. Claire and Oliver were sitting across from Whitaker at the picnic table. They each held menus.
“All right, then, Oliver,” Whitaker said, “who would win in a cage match? Batman or Spider-Man?”
“No, no, no. You can’t compare Batman and Spider-Man. They’re totally different. If someone is going to fight Batman, it would have to be Iron Man. That’s a fairer fight. Think about it. Batman and Iron Man are both rich. They both have all this technology—”
“Yeah,” Whitaker interrupted, “but it depends on what they have with them in the cage. Spider-Man still has his webs and ability even when he’s Peter Parker, right? How about Batman? He needs all his gadgets. Same with Iron Man. Actually, I might argue that Peter Parker could take both. He’d wrap a web around them, then spin a hammock in the corner and watch them starve to death. Batman’s got nothing.”
Oliver held up a finger. “Well, for one thing, Batman is much smarter. Same with Iron Man. Like, two of the most brilliant guys on the planet. Neither one of them would get stuck in a cage without their gadgets. And even if they were forced to, they’re both in incredible shape. Batman is a martial arts master. He wouldn’t let Spider-Man get a web around him.”
“My God, you’re good,” Whitaker said, looking at Oliver and then Claire, who was smiling as she perused the menu. “He should be a lawyer.”
Whitaker had hit oil when he’d brought up comic books, a passion they clearly shared. It was through comic books that Whitaker had fallen in love with reading as a child and what had led to his love of gaming as an adult.