Page 14 of An Unfinished Story
Claire didn’t find him funny. “I’m not a random fan begging you to write my story.” More tears came, and she struggled to get her words out. “I’m asking you to preserve my husband’s legacy. And to get paid doing it.”
He sat back and crossed his arms. “You’re asking me to write another man’s story, to climb into someone else’s head. I’m sorry, Claire. If I’m able to finally tap into some creative energy, I’m going to put it into my own work. Not to finish what your husband started.”
Claire leaned toward him, sitting at the edge of her seat. Her ice water sat untouched on the brick wall next to her. “Will you please just read it? I’ll pay you.”
Though he was tempted—for the money and to get a bit closer to her—he knew agreeing to read it wouldn’t be right. He’d be leading this poor woman on. “If I agreed to read it, I’d still tell you no. And it would hurt you much worse. So no, I will not read it.” He sliced his hand through the air. “Not even for money. Writing is a very personal thing ... at least for me. I can’t pick up where some random guy left off—no offense to your husband.”
Claire wiped her eyes and looked up with new resolve. “What if you haven’t been able to write because this story has been working its way to you? What if you telling me no right now is the same as spitting on your destiny?”
How could he possibly answer those questions? He wasn’t a ghostwriter, dammit. Who had enough creative juice to share it in the name of charity? Besides, what if he let her down? If this project were truly meant to be, he’d feel it more. It would be calling him. Right now, he just wanted Claire to take those composition books and leave.
With finality, he said, “I’m sorry, Claire. I think it’s a noble idea, and I hope you find someone. But it’s not me.” He stood. “Can I walk you to your car?”
Claire’s face had changed from hope and determination to anger. He could see that she wanted to say more, to perhaps even cut him down with harsh words. Something about being selfish. After she stood, she didn’t make eye contact with him again.
As the widow descended the steps of the porch, she said with her back to him, “Thanks for listening.”
He started to say something else and opened his mouth. The words—all lame and pointless—died on his tongue.
Chapter 6
FATHER ANDSON
Though Claire hadn’t left his mind, and he felt terribly conflicted and even ripped apart by letting the young widow down, Whitaker’s impending meeting with his family dominated his inner dialogue. No more words were written that Sunday. All the typist had done was slay zombies and pass out on the sofa. An alarm woke him, and a headache set in as he realized it was time to get ready. He showered and shaved but kept the mustache. There was something rather artistic and rebellious about it that appealed to him, and he fit in wonderfully with the vibrant array of outcasts living in Gulfport.
Whitaker’s body was tensed to the point of pain as he drove his geriatric Land Rover toward his parents’ expensive waterfront property north of downtown. What could go wrong this time? The possibilities were endless. As a loose belt slapped the engine, he couldn’t help but marvel at the absurdity of life.
If it wasn’t he and his father bickering, one of his siblings would bring some drama to the table. Somehow the Grants had missed the memo that, during family get-togethers, it was best to avoid topics of a sensitive persuasion, such as politics, religion, or dietary preferences. Whitaker had witnessed a disaster several months ago when his sister, with her heavy-left-leaning beliefs, had preached to Jack until the arteries in his neck had nearly burst.
There was always one dedicated member of a family—one brave soul—who tried to hold everyone together. In the Grant family, that dubious charge was taken up by Whitaker’s mother, Sadie, the loyal and fearless Floridian matriarch, mother of three and wife to a pain in the ass. It was she who had intervened only seconds before Jack dropped to the floor from a heart attack.
Unlike a family tree sprouting branches, Whitaker’s take on the Grant genealogy was that the Grants worked their way through the generations like cracked glass spidering outward ... until it one day would shatter.
Using the logic that the worst part about getting a shot from the doctor was the agonizing anticipation leading up to it, Whitaker cranked up a Miles Davis album and let the loud music take him away from the impending birthday party.
His thoughts forced him to miss his right turn, so he took Central Avenue instead. Always promising a spectacle, Central would be a more distracting drive anyway. As he’d described inNapalm Trees, the upper crust of St. Pete had been infiltrated by young blood that pushed hard against the conservative values that had built this city years ago, and the result was a beautiful mix—or mess, depending on who was talking—of Republican and Democrat, native and snowbird, young and old, straight, gay, brown, black, white, or whatever, all working together to make this city one with which to be reckoned. It was a city as receptive to impressive graffiti as it was to the next high-rise.
Due to the disproportionate number of retirees that had once filled the Sunshine City, people had called St. Pete “God’s Waiting Room.” With the surge of youth the city was experiencing, God would have to wait a lot longer than usual to collect his souls.
Whitaker drove by an army of construction workers assembling yet another expensive, LEED-certified building under one of the many cranes that hovered over the city. A giant white sign read: GRANTCONSTRUCTION. BUILDINGST. PETE FORGENERATIONS. His father was indeed the third generation of Grant Construction, and unless his sister—a feminist attorney—decided to don a hard hat, their father would be the last. His brother had already gone down his own path.
With the family’s latest project in the rearview, Whitaker passed a glass-blowing studio where he’d once taken a date, a New Age center where he’d had his palms read, and a CBD store that he surely would have visited in his teens if it had been there. He then drove by a tattoo parlor where a seventeen-year-old, Emory-bound Whitaker had gotten his first and only tattoo—a quill pen in all black ink up high on his right arm—for no other reason than his father had forbidden him from doing so.
Below the tall, skinny palm trees that reached higher than many of the taller buildings—though not as high as the cranes—the happy citizens of St. Pete (some of them certainly as high as the cranes) moved along the sidewalks with great pride. Proud they lived down here and not in the Midwest or Northeast, both of which were currently suffering from winter blizzards. And proud because something special was happening here in St. Pete: the artists, the refugees of all kinds, the aura readers, the coffee shops, the breweries, the museums, the festivals, the cultural diversity. Whitaker knew exactly how they felt, because he shared the same feelings.
He wound his way through the intricate streets that led to the fingers of land sticking out into Tampa Bay, eventually reaching his parents’ house. The mansion was theexactmonstrosity one might picture when wondering what type of home an extremely successful construction company owner might own. A six-thousand-square-foot beast on deep water with more bedrooms and bathrooms than some small colonies could put to use. Whitaker wasn’t opposed to money by any means, but sometimes seeing this house made him wince.
Since there wasn’t room at his brother’s house for a bouncy castle, Sadie had offered to host the birthday party here. Sure enough, a giant bouncy castle bubbling over with happy kids, like a popcorn machine popping corn, stood in the middle of the immaculate front lawn. Apparently, his mother had neglected to mention that the party was dinosaur themed. A banner hanging from the house read: LET’SHAVE ADINO-MITEPARTY! Several of the kids and even a few parents wore dinosaur tails. Someone had carved a watermelon into an impressive T. rex opening its mouth. Clusters of adults stood nearby, munching on catered finger foods and pounding rosé and cold beer and probably talking about the best private schools, or the stock market, or the next coach for the Bucs. Whitaker was already wondering where they’d hidden the liquor.
He parked close by and grabbed his nephew’s present, which—for purposes of environmental concern and a lack of supplies—was wrapped in a Trader Joe’s paper bag turned inside out. Present under arm, Whitaker forced a smile and moved toward his family.
“Uncle Whitaker!” his five-year-old nephew screamed from the top of the bouncy castle.
Whitaker gave a big wave. “Happy birthday, old man!”
“What’s the present?”
“I’ll stick it on the pile. You’ll see soon enough.”
