Page 56 of An Unfinished Story
Whitaker thought it was absolutely amazing how Jack’s minimalist delivery could rumble an entire block like thunder. It took Whitaker paragraphs to say something as powerful as Jack could in one short, terse sentence. He could be a character in a Hemingway novel.
After recovering from his father’s thunderous assertion, which felt oddly like an accusation, Whitaker fingered the napkin on his lap. “Nothing gets by you in this town.”
“The Grants have been here a long time, Whitaker. I know everybody. I probably built that bank and don’t even remember it.”
“You probably did, Dad.” Whitaker shifted in his seat and decided to give his parents the answers they were looking for. “I quit, but it’s different this time. I’m actually writing again, like really writing. With purpose. I’ve started a new project that’s incredible.” Whitaker turned up the corner of his mouth in excitement. “I can’t talk about it yet—I don’t want to jinx it—but, trust me. This is a big deal. I can’t wait to share more with you.”
Whitaker looked at his mom, who was smiling and nodding eagerly, as if she’d jumped back into her college cheerleading outfit just for the occasion. He looked at his dad, who still hadn’t broken his stare. Whitaker grinned at the absurdity of his father. What could you do but just smile at the man? He wastheJack Grant, the builder of St. Pete, the somewhat great father who truly wanted the best for his children. But he was also Jack Grant, the overly confident man who not only wanted the best for his children but was damned sure he knew better than his children whatwasbest for them.
Placing his arms on the rests, Whitaker broke into an audible chuckle.
“What?” Jack said, refusing to let his lids slide into a blink. The father-son staredown.
“Nothing, Pop. You’re one of a kind. And I can feel myself wanting to please you. Seriously, you’re going to be proud of me and this project, and I’m already nearing the end. It’s maybe the best thing I’ve ever worked on. Not just in writing, but maybe the best accomplishment of my life. And the thing is ... it’s not only about me. I’m helping someone else out.” He couldn’t keep the news from them another moment.
Bouncing his eyes back and forth between his parents, he said, “A woman—a young woman—came to me with a novel that her late husband had been working on. She asked me to finish it for him. To my great surprise, I was absolutely floored by it.”
“That’s wonderful,” Sadie said.
“Yeah, I’m really lucky to have been included.” He wondered if he should share any names. Of course they knew of Leo’s South on Pass-a-Grille. He decided he’d best leave the details for later.
The server appeared, setting a basket of breads and butter on the table. After listening to her recite the specials, Sadie ordered a glass of chardonnay, and the men ordered cocktails. Whitaker was tempted to find something on their impressive wine list, but fermented grape juice wasn’t going to cut it tonight.
Jack placed a hand on the table. “Hold on. So you’re ghostwriting?”
Whitaker breathed through the defensive feeling wedging its way in the door. “I guess you could call it that ... but in the most significant sense of the word.”
Jack nodded and his wheels turned.
Sadie reached for one of the dark pieces of bread. “I can’t get over how great you look. You’ve trimmed up.”
Whitaker tried to ignore the venom in his father’s comment and appreciate his mother’s compliment. “I have indeed. I’m telling you, this book is bringing me back to life. Everything’s finally making sense again, and this woman is paying me a lot of money. I think this project will put my career back on track.”
He looked at his father. “Dad, I know you want me to come work for you, and I really did think about it, but I need to see where this goes. You’re the one who tells me I’m always so stuck on myself. It’s different now. I’m helping this widow get over her husband, and she’s a really nice girl, and we’ve become friends. You’d love her.”
“Who is she?” Sadie asked. “Do we know her? You’re talking about her like you’re interested in her. She your age?”
“She’s a long way from entertaining another relationship, so I’m trying not to even go there in my head. She still wears her wedding rings. I’m not trying to get in the way of that.”
“Be careful, honey,” Sadie warned. “I see the same look in your eye that I did when you met Lisa.”
Whitaker figured Jack was about to chime in with his own warnings about Claire, but Jack surprised the writer with a curveball. “What’s the story about?”
Whitaker was absolutely dumbfounded by his father’s query. Not because of the specific question, but because his father was showing interest. His mother had always asked about his novels, but to hear his father show curiosity was such a soothing feeling. Even if Jack was forcing it, who cared? His question was one of those instances over the course of Whitaker’s life where Jack had shown how great a father he could be.
Whitaker looked at his dad. “It’s about a guy my age going through the typical impediments we midlifers go through. All the stuff that drives you crazy. But this guy looks outside of himself and helps a young boy who needs a lift up in the world. He’s an orphan living in a group home. No father to speak of. His mom pushed him out of a moving car when he was three. It’s not a sob story, very uplifting. So far, at least. But I’ve been doing a ton of research, trying to understand the foster care system. It’s heartbreaking to learn how many kids come from broken homes. We’re all just skating by ignoring them, thinking we have enough to deal with.”
Whitaker pushed himself up straighter with the armrests. “Did you know more than ahundredkids a month are taken from their parents in Pasco and Pinellas Counties? Some months more. We don’t have the support system to give them homes. Parents are afraid to adopt or even foster. Children are living inhospitalsright now, because it’s the only place with empty beds.” Whitaker took a breath. “I think this novel will help bring awareness and maybe help a few kids. If I could even help convince one family to take in a child in need, then I’d be happy.” Whitaker shook his head and repeated a notion he’d read online. “Who are we as a community if we can’t take care of our children?”
Jack crossed his arms high on his chest and breathed in deeply. His belly visibly expanded against his button-down shirt and then contracted again.
Whitaker braced himself as a sharp pain ran through his forearm to his wrist. “What is it?”
“That’s all fine, son. Sounds like a fun little project. Or hobby, or whatever it is you call it now. And it’s nothing you couldn’t do while working for me. Something to do on Saturday mornings. Like fishing is for me.”
The pain reached Whitaker’s fingers, and he stretched his hand. Did Jack really want to go to war right now? Could Whitaker bite his tongue? “Look, Pop. I am so appreciative of the job offer. Seriously, I am honored that you’d go out of your way for me. And I know it’s a great job, and a million men would be lucky as hell to be offered such a position. But I’m not them, and I’m not you. I look at you, Dad. The things you’ve accomplished as a soldier, an entrepreneur, a father, a husband, a community leader. It’s all so commendable, and I’m inspired.” Holding eye contact, Whitaker gently set his throbbing fist down on the table. “But I’m not you. I have to give back my own way.”
Whitaker pointed at himself. “I’m an entertainer. I change people’s lives with words. Or at the very least, show them a different perspective, or, hell, put a brief smile on their face. Writing is the thing I can give most to the world, and that’s why I have to do it. Doing anything other than writing is just pretending, or faking it. I don’t want to die a pretender.”
