by Boo Walker
Claire fell back in her chair and crossed her arms. She bit her lip, her anger giving way to sadness. Attempting to escape further, she looked away and nearly lost her breath when she saw him.
Whitaker Grant.
“Are you okay?” Didi asked. “I’m sorry, Claire. I should have kept my big mouth shut.”
Claire twisted her head back to Didi. “You know why I feel like this is not a false calling?” Without waiting on a response, Claire motioned with her head. “Look over there. See the tall guy with the mustache? That’s him.”
Chapter 8
THE WOMAN IN THE BLACK DRESS
Whitaker needed a stiff drink. He pushed through the crowd on his way to the bar at Rita’s. Where else did people dance away their Sunday afternoons to the Grateful Dead? He did a double take when he saw a man with a parrot on his shoulder. More and more, Whitaker resembled the regulars there. And he was certainly becoming one.
The blonde bartender greeted him by name, and he ordered a double rum and Coke. The writer would scoff at such a pedestrian concoction. “Coke? What are you . . . sixteen?” But the typist loved it.
While waiting on his drink, Whitaker revisited his meeting on the boat with Jack. Though a job offer from his father wasn’t the biggest shock in the world, it was still a punch to the gut. Not an insult, more like reality knocking on his door. Would he sling mutual funds the rest of his life? Even the thought made Whitaker want to sneak one of the plastic cocktail picks in the shape of a sword from the bartender and jab himself in the eye. No way could he sit in his Bank of South Florida office and pretend a stock surge was what kept him up at night—or got him out of bed in the morning. Not that there was anything wrong with banking, but it simply wasn’t his personal dream.
He’d proved that he did have the creative juices to make a living writing. And even if he took money out of the equation, all the people who wrote him and stopped him on the street had validated his ability and, dare he say, talent. He’d affected people’s lives; what was better than that? Of course, writing for a living was different than typing or procrastinating for a living. No one paid for procrastination. Which was a damned shame, actually. He’d be a billionaire. He could teach college courses on the art of not getting things done.
Back in the old days, standing in the afterglow of his book’s release, one of the most common questions people had asked was, “How do you avoid writer’s block?” Whitaker could still see his confident younger self unable to even imagine writer’s block. “It’s a mind-set,” he had told them. “You have to put your butt in the chair and make something happen.” Whitaker would always finish with his most important thought on the matter. “One word after another. If you do that enough, the muse will write the story for you.”
When the rum drink came, he took down half the dark liquid in a large gulp. “Ahhhh.”
“Easy there, killer,” the bartender said. “We might run out.”
Setting the glass down, he said, “Run out of rum, I’ll switch to tequila.”
They shared a smile.
Whitaker put an elbow on the bar and fell back into his thoughts. Apparently, the muse was gone. One word after another. As if! Typing a word these days was like removing a tooth. Writing a sentence would be removing an entire rack of pearly whites. Sadly, it all came down to pressure.
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 word casino was 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 be if and when she smiled.
“Whitaker Grant,” a voice said. Whitaker spun around, feeling like he’d been caught spying, which, in fact, he was.
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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?”
Whitaker smiled falsely. “Did she send you out here?”
“No, Claire doesn’t know you were staring at her through the window. I snuck out.”
“It would be nice if you didn’t tell her.”
“Will you hear her out?”
Whitaker sighed and could feel himself swaying. How embarrassing this entire episode felt. He turned away from her, toward the orange water. Pivoting back, he said, “Here’s the thing, Didi. I can feel her pain. It’s almost like she and I are going through some similar things. If I were in Claire’s shoes and someone agreed to read the novel, I’d get my hopes up. I don’t want to get her hopes up.”
“Why wouldn’t you want to write it? She says you haven’t written anything in ten years and that she’s offered you money. Is there something else pressing in your life?”
“Aren’t you bold?”
Didi brushed a hand through the air. “I’m too old to filter.”
“I kind of like you,” Whitaker said.
“So . . . what is it? Are you too busy and rich to deal with the project?”
Whitaker put a finger on his chin. “As you can most likely detect, I’m not that together right now. The last thing I want to do is take on the responsibility of attempting to finish a piece of work that Claire holds so dear to her heart.”
Didi took a step toward him. “Then I just have one more question. What are you doing spying on her?”
Whitaker scratched his head and pulled at his long, curly hair. Before he could stop himself, he admitted, “I don’t know.”
“Maybe you should hear her out.”
Whitaker half smiled. “Please don’t mention to Claire that you saw me out here. I need to be anonymous right now.”
“You need to be anonymous? What a sad thing to say.” Didi turned and began to walk away. “I can tell you really care, so I’ll let you two work it out.”
Chapter 9
SALSA NIGHT
Claire had never been more uncomfortable in her whole life. Not even when Benji Solomon tried to make it to first base in ninth grade. Though she used to dance for fun in high school and college, attempting salsa petrified her. Why in the world had she let Didi talk her into this absurd idea?
It was not that the ballroom crowd there was intimidating. Not at all. In fact, they looked like the nicest group in the world. She didn’t know where Didi had run off to—perhaps the bathroom—but the other widows had melted into the crowd of dancers.
Claire was standing by herself in the corner of the large room, feeling like she was back in high school hoping a boy might come ask her to dance. She turned and looked out a window, chasing safety in the still water. A woman was working a small Sunfish, the sail taut with an easterly wind. Claire craved the protection of solitude and wanted to trade places with the sailor.
Soon the instructor, an older man in fancy shoes and a crisp guayabera, clapped his hands and asked everyone to gather around. Claire hesitantly joined the group in the center of the large wooden floor and noticed Didi returning just in time. Claire pushed away the thought of escaping and told herself that she needed to have some fun for once. All the other widows had giant smiles. Why was she so hesitant?
After thanking everyone for coming, the instructor sent them all to find partners. The ladies Claire had come with turned to the men or women next to them.
Claire turned to Didi, the safe choice, but her friend had already linked up and was giggling with another man. Claire suddenly felt light-headed, and she crossed her arms and looked down at the light-wood floor. Oh, how she wanted to leave, to be a sailor on a tiny boat surrounded by water.
Then a man with a genuine smile appeared. “Can I be your partner?”
Claire met his eyes and smiled back. He was twenty years older and wore a Hawaiian shirt tucked into blue shorts pulled up well above his belly button. A woven belt held him together.
“I’m Billy,” he said with an easy South Texas accent, sticking out his hand.
“Claire,” she said in a tremulous voice, wondering how she could so easily manage a large staff at a restaurant but feel vulnerable now.
“I have to warn you,” he said. “I’m terrible at this. Please forgive me, dear.”
Claire raised her hands in surrender. “I’ve never danced salsa in my life, so you’re already doing better than I am.”
The instructor clapped his hands again. “Now everyone spread out; make some room.” Claire and Billy moved away from the crowd and found their own space on the floor. “Face your partner.”
Billy smiled at her, as if assuring her that he wouldn’t bite.
“Ladies, we’ll go over your steps first. Men, you’ll do the opposite.” The instructor performed as he spoke. “Back with the right, two, three, up with the left, two, three. Now try it.”
Claire almost tripped over herself. “Oh God, I’m really bad at this. These don’t even feel like my feet.”
“It’s okay,” Billy said patiently, his laid-back Texan intonation easing her.
Determined now, Claire said, “Okay, here we go.” She counted again and focused on one foot at a time, switching her weight with each step. She felt like she was trying to pat her head and rub her stomach simultaneously. “I’m never going to get this.”
“So long as we’re done by my tee time Saturday morning, I’ve got plenty of time.”
They were soon attempting their moves to the music. “Oh, wow,” Claire said, “this adds to the challenge. Can you tell there’s no Cuban leaf on my family tree?”
“The only Cuban leaf I’m connected to is the cigar I enjoyed last week. It took me a year to learn what you just figured out in ten minutes.”
During another attempt, the instructor approached and put his hand on her hips. “You’re getting it, but loosen those hips. Have a little fun with it.”
Fun, she mused. She didn’t even know what fun was anymore.
But she and Billy eventually fell into their rhythm, and like an impostor, a smile planted itself on Claire’s face. But she couldn’t deny, impostor or not, it was a smile that had deep roots, one that she couldn’t have hidden had her life depended on it.
Claire covered her mouth. Though this was fun, she felt guilty. A dark voice inside her was stomping her foot, demanding, “Fun isn’t allowed.” And yet something felt right about what she was doing. She wanted to snap at the ugly voice and tell the little monster that she had every right.
Round and round they went, switching partners, adding new spins and various footwork. Toward the end of the hour, Lashonda and Claire paired.
As they attempted their moves, Lashonda asked, “Have you seen Claire, by chance? She was here earlier. The one with the sad heart on her sleeve.”
Claire caught her drift quickly
. “I can’t believe you all talked me into this. But I’m so glad you did.”
The most genuine smile in the world. “Good for you for stepping out. I couldn’t ask for a better birthday present.”
Though she wasn’t necessarily accomplishing anything, Claire had a strong feeling that she was doing something so much more important than getting the monotonous checked off, like something to do with selling the house or running the café. The warrior inside her was breaking through, and she was getting down to the marrow of her life again. It wasn’t about trying to get by. That was all she’d done for so long.
It was about honoring David’s memory by living life to the fullest.
Why had this been such a difficult vision to see? Why such a difficult concept to wrap her head around? Hadn’t everyone been telling her this for years? Was it really this simple? A few little smiles as she stumbled around attempting to dance salsa?
Perhaps.
Claire spent the next two days packing and working with the movers to empty the house. She visited her old home one last time after the cleaners had wiped away the last of her and David’s life together. It was Tuesday morning, a few hours before the closing.
She climbed the steps and entered his empty office. She looked where his desk had been and, for one last time, imagined him sitting there.
“My friend Didi says she talks to her husband, so here goes. David, give me the strength I need. I know you don’t want me to be sad. It’s taken me three years to figure that out. But how do I find happiness? I enjoyed a glimpse of it on the dance floor two days ago, but how do I add to it?” She took in a giant breath and tried to feel his presence. She listened, as if there might be a whisper coming from above.
“I know you can’t talk to me,” she finally said. “Even if you’re listening, I know you can’t respond. Just know that I want to make you proud. Please do what you can to give me a boost every once in a while. I’m going to need it.” She shrugged. “So here I go. I’m off to the closing. I guess the one thing that makes me happy is that saying goodbye to this house isn’t saying goodbye to you.” She choked up and touched her heart. “You’re inside me forever. You’re not allowed to leave, okay?”