Page 28 of An Unfinished Story
“I used to love it. And I haven’t seen it on a menu anywhere else in the States. Right after college, I backpacked from Bangkok to Singapore, and the oyster omelet became my street food of choice.”
“When were you in Thailand? I did the whole backpacking thing too. Didn’t cross into Malaysia, though. My girlfriend and I got waylaid in Phuket.”
“Sounds like a song, doesn’t it?” Whitaker said. “Waylaid in Phuket.” Catching Claire totally off guard, Whitaker broke into a quiet country song reminiscent of George Jones. “We were waylaid in Phuket. Nothing to eat but an omelet.”
Claire couldn’t help but smile.
“The beers they poured were tall. And the woman I loved was ...” He ran out of words and searched for them on the white wall. “The woman I loved had ...” He shrugged, as if giving up on finding a workable rhyme. And then as an afterthought, he added, “claws.”
He was actually funny. But how did he know about the claw?
“Are you done?” she asked, stifling a grin.
Whitaker shrugged his shoulders. “Couldn’t help it. Anyway, this would have been almost twenty years ago.”
“Ah, long before me.”
“Yeah, I’m a dinosaur.” When he smiled again, she could tell she was breaking through to him. He was a nice guy, and nice guys do nice things.
She sat back. “Well, that’s where our oyster omelet came from.”
“I’ll have to revisit it soon.” Whitaker beat a nervous rhythm on his desk.
It was as if all the joy had been sucked out of the room.
He sat back in his leather chair. “See this office. This suit. That lobby out there. It’s my life for now, and I’m kind of good at it. My writing isn’t up to par. I mean ... I have a story coming along, but I’m not up to a new task. What I’m trying to say is ... you don’t want me to write your husband’s novel. I’m currently deleting everything I type. It’s almost like I was gifted one book, and that’s it. Time to move on.”
This was her moment. She had to be strong. Sitting up straight and finding her courage, Claire said, “You’re theonlyone I want to write his novel.” She took a slow breath. “I sold the house, and I have money. You can have everything I have left after I pay off my debts. I don’t care.”
Trying to cover all angles, she decided to push harder into the cosmic with her appeal. Pounding her fists with each syllable, she repeated what she’d told him at his house. “You’re. Meant. To. Write. This. Book.” Even as she said it, she wasn’t sure she believed her own words.
Whitaker smiled sadly and threw up his hands as if she’d just charged him with treason. “I hate to disappoint you. Truly. But I think you’re mistaken.”
Claire sat back in her chair with frustration. She set the books on his desk and fired a finger at the first composition book. “I’m not some girl thinking her dead husband’s novel is the best thing in the world when it’s not. But you sound like you’re out of stories.” She opened her hands. “I’m giving you one.” She realized she was raising her voice. Lowering it, she added, “And I’m willing to pay you to write it.”
Feeling like she was making progress, Claire made a show of looking around the room, the cheap furniture, the barren walls. His ego needed to be fed. “This isn’t you. Why aren’t you writing? The world deserves to read more of your words.”
Whitaker looked at his watch, a silver Rolex.
She was losing. “I’ll pay you one hundred thousand dollars to write the rest of it. He’s already done all the hard work.”
Whitaker’s eyebrows floated up, and she saw some temptation.
She didn’t care about the money. She could live off the café. All she cared about was getting this book done by a reputable author, preferably this guy. “You can even put your name on the book if you want. I don’t care. It’s not about making David famous. It’s about getting his story out there.”
Whitaker tapped his fingers on the desk. “It’s a tempting offer, but what you don’t understand is that a writer, atruewriter, can’t step into someone else’s style. It won’t be authentic.”
“You could figure out his style; don’t play dumb with me. I’ll pay you five thousand just to read it. If the story doesn’t strike you, then give it back.” She dusted off her hands. “I pay you, and you’re done.”
Whitaker flashed a smile, and again Claire saw the charm of the man who used to come into her café. Why couldn’t he just say yes? Lowering his voice, he said, “If I agreed to read even the first of those books, you would never let me off the hook.”
Claire could hear and see that he cared. Maybe there was some substance behind his ego. She put her hands together in prayer. It was now or never. “I swear to God I would.”
“Honestly, I’m tempted to take your money. But the project isn’t my cup of tea. When andifI finally tap back into the source, it’s going to be with a book that I start. Do you know how many people approach me with a story?”
Claire resisted the urge to roll her eyes.
“I’m the one who has to sit with these characters for hundreds of hours.” He jabbed his thumb to his chest. “They have to be my creations.”
