Page 45 of An Unfinished Story
“That’s right. Now I have a story.” He took a long, slow breath and pinched his mustache. “And I’m scared to death ...”
After a pregnant pause, Whitaker said, “You should pick up your camera again. It would be good for you. Do you have any work I can see? Judging by your amazing sense of style, I bet you’re more of an artist than you let on.”
She couldn’t help but get excited while thinking about taking photos again. “I still have a couple pieces here and there. Sold most of them at the café.”
Whitaker topped off both of their glasses. “I don’t know if you noticed, but I have a few open spots on my walls. Will you take a picture for me? I’ll buy it with the money I’m getting for this book I’m writing.”
She cocked an eyebrow, a smile playing on her lips. “Yeah, I’ll do that.”
“Can I ask one more serious question before we call it a night? And you don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”
Claire felt more ready for his questions now, like he’d earned her trust. “Shoot.”
Whitaker asked his question as if he were touching a doorknob that might be hot. “How did David die?”
Claire nodded approval of the question. She’d spent enough time reliving that day that it wasn’t always a torture to explore. “A drunk driver. He was coming off 375 into downtown St. Pete. About four in the afternoon. A man driving a Honda Accord with a missing back bumper changed lanes without seeing David. Ran him off the road into a telephone pole.”
“Oh God, that’s awful. I hope the guy’s in prison.”
“For about five more years. God, if you only knew how much time I’ve spent hating that man. It’s probably a good thing he’s behind bars.”
Whitaker nodded understanding. “How did you find out?”
“David was supposed to bring someone by for dinner. Three years later, and I still don’t know who it was. I assume he was on his way to pick up the person ... I don’t know. They never showed up. But I’d prepared all the fixings for fajitas and was waiting for them to walk in the door to fire the shrimp. They were supposed to be there at five, and I kept dialing him over and over while I waited at the dining room table.”
Claire could still remember that moment so vividly, her fingers jabbing the buttons on the phone, her eyes on the empty chairs. “Something didn’t feel right. I must have called him thirty times. Then there was a knock on the door. When I saw the chaplain’s white collar and the police officer standing behind him, no words were needed.”
Whitaker reached across the table and put his hand on hers. “I can’t imagine.” After a pause, he asked, “You never figured out who he was bringing to dinner?”
Claire shook her head. “No idea. I guess it doesn’t really matter, but it’s certainly always niggled at me.”
“Yeah, it would anyone.”
“And they found a Yankees hat with the tag still on it, which, if you knew David, was even weirder. He hated the Yankees—despised them. So why would he have a brand-new hat in his car? I guess it was for a client, but even so, I can’t see him supporting the Yankees in any way.”
Whitaker let go of her hand. “Doesn’t seem fair you’ve had to deal with these questions for so long.”
“Well, it’s not like answers will bring him back. I’m just trying to get by now.”
“I think you’re doing better than getting by. I’d be in a lot worse shape than you. So would most of the population. I think you’re a fighter and an inspiration.”
Claire thanked him. “I’m nobody special, that’s for sure.”
“I completely disagree.”
Miguel appeared, lightening the mood. Whitaker asked for the bill, and once Miguel had left, Whitaker asked, “Can we do this again tomorrow morning? I promise we will only talk about what you’re comfortable with.”
“It’s fine, really. It’s been a long time.” Claire was committed to doing whatever it took to help him finish the novel.
Chapter 18
GREENLIGHT, GO
Strolling alongside Claire on the beach the next morning, Whitaker found himself in awe. It was truly sad how he’d let the Gulf of Mexico’s coast disappear from his purview in the past years. No, he might as well live in some no-name town a thousand miles inland. How dare he lose sight of the tropical beauty surrounding him.
He loved the feel of the sand on his feet, the way the sharp shells lightly stabbed his pads like an aggressive pressure point treatment. He loved the salt water as it rolled over his ankles, the birds diving into the water, the herbal scent of seaweed drifting by, the light chop on a breezy day like today.
The woman beside him grew increasingly fascinating with each story and anecdote she shared, and he’d begun to understand her. Though she could be so quiet and in her head sometimes, he could feel the electricity that ran through her. The beach was indeed her domain.
