Page 26 of An Unfinished Story
Sadie sat in the comfy chair next to the sofa and set her wine down on a coaster. “I only have a few more minutes before I need to get to the club to meet Joe and Nancy. Let me just say this. Don’t turn down your father yet. Keep mulling it over. Think about living a more normal existence.”
“Not everyone wants a country club life.”
She nodded slowly. “That’s true, but you should be a bit more open to testing it out.”
Whitaker smiled sarcastically. He never did like country clubs. Every time he joined his family for a meal there, he felt like an outsider.
They spoke a few more minutes, and Sadie kissed him on the cheek on the way out. He told her he loved her and closed the door. The tension in his shoulders was palpable.
His mother was right. Making a living with your art was not always a good idea. Had he not enjoyed a taste of making good cash with his book, he might already happily be running Grant Construction. He might be a great husband and father. He might be mowing his green lawn at his house on the water, honing his golf game at the country club. Dropping his kids off at private school. Listening to his wife tell him about her Acroyoga session. He might be hosting Tuesday poker nights for the fellas.
But all that seemed so much less interesting than writing for a living. There was nothing like those moments when he’d sit down with his story and quickly lose himself in his own imagination. That feeling of tapping in, drawing creative fuel from some outside force, was better than any drug on the planet. The high was so lovely that he could still feel what it was like, even though he hadn’t enjoyed more than a taste of it in years. The high was so addictive that he could easily spend the rest of his life chasing it.
Whitaker glanced out the window by the front door to make sure she’d left. A man he’d seen before, wearing Converse All Stars, was walking a chestnut-colored pit bull across the park. Whitaker had a strong suspicion that this might be his guy—or at least one of them.
He slipped out the front door and sneaked to the edge of his driveway. Once he was sure he’d gone unseen, he dashed across the street into the park, finding refuge behind a giant oak tree. The park was lush green and well manicured all year round, courtesy of Florida’s tropical climate and the fine City of Gulfport landscapers willing to brave the conditions.
The dog walker was talking to the pit bull, perhaps coaxing him to poop. Where were the poop bags? Had he gotten lazy today? Whitaker hoped so. The man and his dog reached the opposite end of the park, falling out of Whitaker’s view. Blending in, the typist walked briskly as if he were getting some exercise. As if!
During the excitement, the muse finally came for a visit. He suddenly had a great idea for a poop sign. Seeing a bench, he recalled the scene inForrest Gumpwhen the girl on the bus said, “Can’t sit here.” Whitaker considered putting a picture of the girl on the sign with the captionCan’t shit here.He grinned and said self-mockingly, in his mother’s voice this time, “Witty Whitaker strikes again.” Couldn’t write a book, but maybe he could start a stupid-sign business.
Seeing the dog spread his legs, Whitaker sped up, preparing to run. When the man turned back, Whitaker spun the other way and feigned analyzing a nearby bird-of-paradise.
Only one thing could feel as great as writing another book or drawing a smile from his father, and that was catching this man red-handed. How long had Whitaker been spying on dog walkers? Weeks. He’d put true effort into it, as if the mayor had tapped him on the shoulder with this important task. An agent for MI6, a mission to save the world.This message will self-destruct in five seconds.
To finally have come to a conclusion, to have solved the mystery, was so gratifying that Whitaker considered taking himself out to dinner. A bone-in rib eye and a bottle of Washington State Syrah. Didn’t James Bond always dine after catching the bad guy?
Ready to finally nab the perp and celebrate his victory, Whitaker turned away from the bird-of-paradise just in time to see the man pulling a bag from his dog’s collar. How could Whitaker have missed the poop-bag dispenser attached to the dog collar? Oldest trick in the book!
Returning to his house in failure, Whitaker decided he certainly didn’t deserve a steak. He finished off a bag of boiled peanuts and fell into a deep sleep on the sofa.
A midnight chirp stole him from his dreams. Whitaker sat up so fast that he hit his knee on the coffee table. He looked left and right, wondering where he was. As his vision settled, he realized he was in his living room, and it was still dark outside.
Another chirp sent his heart to pounding in anger. Had the battery already run completely out of juice? Enraged, he jumped onto the sofa. Seeing a reflection in the window, he realized the absurdity of the scene: a middle-aged male in his underwear standing on the sofa in the middle of the night waging war with a fire alarm. He removed the battery, hoping that might stop the chirp.
Nope, it didn’t.
Whitaker cursed and went to find another battery, but he came up empty. The fire alarm screamed while he desperately searched the other boxes. He marched back down the hallway screaming in Spanish,“Cállate!”
As if the fire alarm had a mind of its own, it chirped over and over, one shrill shriek every five seconds, taunting him like the cursor on the blank screen.
Whitaker jumped back onto the sofa and ripped it from the ceiling. Or at least he tried. The hardwired line was still attached. Red, green, and black wires. He was no handyman, so the colors were irrelevant. He was half-asleep anyway, and the piercing scream made rational thought impossible. As he tugged at the wires, the dangling alarm began to break free. Only one intact wire remained. Out of pure stupidity and in the haze of the madness, he reached for the wire.
A trembling shock ran through him as he fell backward and hit the coffee table, his shoulders slamming into the wood. He rolled onto the floor, still shivering from the electricity.
Looking up toward the free wires, Whitaker began to laugh. What an absurd, miserable existence he was living, and this moment of being attacked by a fire alarm pretty much summed up his whole life.
Chapter 12
CRABCLAWS ANDSHARKJAWS
On Thursday, Claire woke to yet another day of feeling good. Ever since saying yes to dancing salsa, she’d felt like the universe had started to open up to her. She stopped by the café to help open, but once the tables were full, she left her shoes in the office and strolled the two blocks to the beach. Smiling at the beauty of the morning, she took her first steps onto the sand and felt as light as a feather as the sun’s rays bathed her in warmth. Was there softer sand in the world?One small step for woman, one giant leap for womankind.
For a while, Claire watched a cruise ship she guessed had left the port of Tampa as it floated along the horizon, destined for Mexico. Then she walked north, at a snail’s pace, looking down at the shells, returning to the girl strolling this same tide line with her grandmother. What had changed since then? Betty had now passed. Claire had loved and lost. The Don CeSar still stood tall and illustrious. The houses of Pass-a-Grille were fancier, more modern. But this little stretch of beach was still undiscovered, a slice of the 1950s. Hopefully, no writer would ever put her little treasure on the map.
A thought had hit her when she’d woken to this beautiful day. What if she had accepted Whitaker’s rejection too easily? She wasn’t the type who gave up. Especially when it came to her love for David.
No way on earth she was going to let Whitaker Grant say no. Life often served up surprises. And challenges. Just because people said no didn’t mean you couldn’t change their minds. David wouldn’t have let Whitaker say no. Look at the way he went after getting in shape, the way he dived into writing. Once he’d committed to something, nothing could stop him.
