Page 41 of An Unfinished Story
“I grew up in my father’s diner, so it’s all I’ve ever known.” She looked up for a moment, as if her father were among the stars waking in the darkening sky. Leo had been such a good father, even after her mother had left them to start her other family. Claire could still hear his roaring laugh that would pour out of the kitchen and make all the guests in the dining room smile. Who knew? If he were still alive, Claire still might have been in Chicago running the diner with him.
With her eyes back on the road, Claire imagined Leo aligning the stars in her favor, helping her preserve David’s legacy. Despite Whitaker’s many faults, he seemed like a genuine and kind man—very different from David, but hopefully the right choice to finish the book.
Whitaker ran a hand through his longish hair. “As many restaurants as I’ve seen open and close over the years, it must truly be in your blood. Seems like there are so many things you have to perfect: the menu, the staff, the setting. And only if you knock them all out of the park can you survive your first year.”
Claire could have added many more to his list but got his point. “Our first year wasn’t exactly easy, but let’s just say I knew what to look for. My dad opened Leo’s back in the seventies, and it became an institution in the Loop. I learned from a lot of his mistakes.”
It was nice remembering her father, but she was eager to get into the discussion about the book as they parked along the main street in Gulfport. They sat outside under a yellow awning lit up with Christmas lights. Music akin to that of Buena Vista Social Club tickled the night air, which was just cool enough to make one consider long sleeves or pants. Alcohol-infused laughter came from the only other occupied table, where two couples were enjoying a night out on the town.
A young man with a seashell necklace burst out of the front door spitting Spanish with a Cuban tilt. Claire knew a little Spanish from school but couldn’t keep up.
Whitaker stood and embraced the man, machine-gunning him back fluently.
After a minute of back and forth, their faces in close proximity, Whitaker turned and introduced his friend Miguel to Claire. “You might know Leo’s South on the beach,” Whitaker said. “That’s her place.”
“Oh, of course. My wife and I love your food. I’m so happy to have you.” Miguel turned to Whitaker. “For you, my friend, I’ve procured a Galician godello from a very small producer that will be right up your alley.”
“Ribeira Sacra?”
“Even higher. Valdeorras.”
“Ah, how adventurous of you. A river wine planted by the Romans.”
As Claire listened, she began to understand what a budding Renaissance man Whitaker was. He was still a cartoon character, but one of unexpected depth. And she had to admit he was a good-looking man, attractive even.
Miguel turned back to Claire. “You’ll love this white. A kiss of barrel, a little age to it. Still, nice and bright but not too tart. Kind of like my friend Whitaker here.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment. All but the age part.”
“Will this work for you?” Miguel asked her, beaming from the banter.
Claire smiled. “Who doesn’t like Roman river wine?”
Miguel clapped his hands together. “Excellent. May I suggest a bowl of olives and mytortilla Españolato start? You’re hungry, aren’t you?”
“Famished,” Claire said.
Once Miguel had retreated back under the yellow awning, Whitaker retrieved his computer and the composition books from his bag and set them on the table. He opened up his computer, revealing a green sticker that read: CROSS ME,ANDI’LL PUT YOU IN MY NEXT NOVEL.
Claire tried to be patient while she waited for him, but she wanted to say, “Okay, Whitaker, let it out!”
Once he was settled, Whitaker finally said, “I love this book. David was a wise man, wasn’t he?”
Claire thought of the times when she’d come home from a long day at the restaurant and snapped at him for no particular reason. Most of the time, he would hear her out without reacting—sitting with his legs crossed, allowing her to vent. Typically, the move would completely snuff out her anger. That, to her, was wisdom—and was one of the reasons she loved David so much.
Swallowing the memory, she said, “Very much so.”
“I’m a bit scared that I’m not worthy, to be honest, but I’d like to help.”
His humility, as opposed to the pity seeking she’d seen before, was endearing. “You’re worthy, Whitaker. I wouldn’t have asked you otherwise.”
“Thank you.” He talked as he clicked. “How much of the story is true?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, we writers all put ourselves into stories. Especially early on in our endeavors. How much David is in Kevin?”
Claire thought about it. “They share some similarities, I guess. Same age. The same humor, of course.”
