Page 20 of An Unfinished Story
The limelight had become an anchor. It wasn’t simply “one word after another” anymore. Each word had to be great. The people demanded it. So did his agent, his publisher. It was quite obvious, even to Whitaker, that he was putting unfair expectations on himself. But it was in this world of fear that the writer (“a vermouth spritz if you have a decent vermouth, an Americano if not”) had died, and the typist (“double rum and Coke, no preference on the rum”) had been born.
With nothing left but two large cubes, he shook the glass. The ice clinked like dice. The syrupy Coke had melted down the sides like the legs of a viscous Sauternes.Writing used to be fun, didn’t it?Wondering what might happen next. Getting to know a character that only exists in your mind. Toying with word choice and sentence construction until everything was just right. It wasn’t a bad way to spend your mornings.
The bartender slid the next drink across the bar, and Whitaker snatched it like a five-year-old reclaiming his toy from another child.
“Bottoms up,” he mumbled, thinking this one would surely kill the pain.
Whitaker felt eyes on him and suddenly became terribly self-conscious about his overindulgence. He was used to eyes on him. He liked Gulfport because they’d let him be anonymous, but there were always a few people from outside of Gulfport catching sight of him for the first time. “Isn’t that the guy who wrote ...?” Weren’t writers supposed to be able to get away with their fame? Everyone in the country knew his book, but not many knew his face. Except in the Tampa area. He’d enjoyed too much press, especially with the movie.
He looked about. Each table was full of modern-day hippies bobbing their heads to the music, telling stories, and laughing. The Grateful Dead played louder and louder, drawing everything they could out of each tune. Whitaker was appreciating the view to the water when he saw her.
Claire Kite.
Quickly averting his eyes, he turned back to the bar. Staring at his drink, he wondered if she’d seen him. Was she there for him? That would be quite a stalker move and not something he’d put past her.
Unable to resist, he turned his head again. Claire was sitting with several other women at a plastic table on the sidewalk. Her arms were crossed, and he could tell she wasn’t in the best of moods. It reminded him how much pity he felt for her. To lose your partner to premature death was not something any human should be forced to endure.
Whitaker had an urge to go say hi, but it would only muddle his message to her. She’d been so sure he was the right person to finish her husband’s novel. If they ran into each other, she’d use that as justification that she was right. It was meant to be.
He turned back to the bartender and ordered the grouper and chips. The second double began to take its toll, and he fought off further considerations of accepting his dad’s offer. He fell into a worthless conversation with the man next to him at the bar. When the food came, Whitaker scarfed it down. As he was wiping his mouth with a paper napkin, he turned back toward Claire’s table. He craned his neck to see past a circle of people raising shots.
Claire and her group were leaving. This was his chance to say something. To be a kind citizen.
He didn’t take it.
Whitaker watched them cross the street to the Gulfport Casino. He didn’t know what was going on over there, but his curiosity was piqued.
Settling his bill, he moved rather recklessly in their direction. The rum had given him the courage to follow them, though he had no idea what he might say if he ran into Claire. He circled to the right of the old building, working his way to the water, which the sun had painted the colors of flames. The temperature was slowly creeping back down toward the seventies. He could still smell the fried seafood and hear the commotion from the bars across the street.
As he eyed the group of maybe thirty people forming in the center of the large windowed ballroom, he considered how deceptive the wordcasinowas in the name. Perhaps it had been a casino back in the old days, but from what he’d heard (though he’d never been inside), the Gulfport Casino now served as a gathering place for dances, weddings, and bingo.
Whitaker hid by the corner of the window and watched her. He’d never seen such a sad woman in such a captivating shell. The writer back in the old days might have come up with some poignant analogy in nature, but the typist standing there gave up after attempting to translate what he thought about her into words.
Though she didn’t look miserable, Claire looked awkward and out of place. He imagined how beautiful she might beifand when she smiled.
“Whitaker Grant,” a voice said. Whitaker spun around, feeling like he’d been caught spying, which, in fact, he was.
One of the women from Claire’s group was approaching him on the sidewalk.
“Oh shit.” Whitaker ducked his head and attempted to camouflage himself behind a palm tree. He placed one hand on the trunk to steady himself. He resisted an urge to run.
“Are you hiding from me?”
Knowing he was busted, he stepped out from behind the tree. “Actually,” he said, stroking his mustache, “I was seeing what was going on in there.” They were alone on this side of the building, the only sounds coming from the bars on the other side of the street.
With her heels, she was as tall as he was. “Is that right? I was starting to think you were following us.”
Whitaker bit his lip. “I guess you saw me across the street. And who might you be?”
“I’m Didi, Claire’s friend.”
Whitaker fixed his collar with fidgety hands. “Well, this is awkward.”
Didi took another step forward, crossing her arms. “Claire told me about the book. She said she asked you to finish writing it.”
Whitaker nodded, glad to be bypassing the discussion of why he was spying.
Didi pulled a strand of black hair away from her eyes. “Why don’t you accept her offer?”
