by Boo Walker
“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 in Forrest Gump when the girl on the bus said, “Can’t sit here.” Whitaker considered putting a picture of the girl on the sign with the caption Can’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
CRAB CLAWS AND SHARK JAWS
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.
Claire noticed a crab leg sticking out of the sand. She picked it up and opened and closed the pincers. “I’m coming to get you, Whitaker Grant,” she whispered in a creepy, Wicked Witch of the West voice. “You can’t say no to me forever.”
Dropping the claw to the ground, she jogged back to the café barefooted, ran in to grab her sandals and keys, and left with nothing more than a wave to Alicia. Returning to Gulfport, Claire was disappointed to find Whitaker’s driveway empty. She pulled in and put the convertible in park. It was nine thirty. M
aybe he had a day job. He’d surely made a good amount of money with his novel, but she didn’t know if it was enough to retire. Of course, his family was wealthy from their construction business, so maybe they were supporting him.
A voice from the neighbor’s yard startled her. She whipped her head around.
An old man with a long face and hollow cheeks was smiling at her. He carried a rake in his hand, and Claire thought he looked like the man holding a pitchfork in Grant Wood’s famous painting American Gothic. “Ya lookin’ for Whitaker?” he asked in a deeply southern tongue.
“I sure am,” Claire answered, glancing at the rake again, making sure it wasn’t a pitchfork. “Do you know where he is?”
“Prolly at work.”
“Oh, I guess the morning is over, isn’t it? Where is he working now? We’re old friends.”
“Still over there at the Bank of South Florida, far as I know. That’s what he told me, least. He used to write, you know. Wrote that big movie.”
“I do know.” And he will write again, Claire thought. She thanked him and backed out of the driveway. She pulled over along the park and searched for the closest bank branch. With a glance at the composition books in the passenger seat, she reaffirmed her decision not to take no for an answer.
Parking at the far end of the lot, she entered the white, four-story building under a sun-bleached yellow awning and found herself standing in the bank lobby under bright fluorescent lights. Her photochromic lenses lightened quickly. Two lines of people waited for the next available teller. Sitting behind a desk, a woman with gorgeous curly black hair welcomed her.
“Aren’t you lucky?” Claire asked, her eyes on a fresh bouquet of sunflowers resting on the filing cabinet. A small card dangled from a straw bow.
The woman lit up. “Aren’t I? They’re from my son. He’s stationed in Germany, about to go to Afghanistan. But he’s thinking of me on my birthday.”
Claire smiled in sympathy. “Aww, what a sweetheart. Happy birthday.”
“Thank you. Now, how may I help you?”
Back to the mission. “Does Whitaker Grant work here, by chance?”
“He sure does. Let me check and see if he’s available.” After a quick call, she said, “He’ll be here in a moment. You can take a seat right over there.”
Claire sat in one of the chairs in the waiting area, watching people tend to their banking needs. But on her mind was the woman’s son stationed in Germany. Claire touched her stomach, wondering what it would have been like to be a mother. Would she have been a good one? Definitely better than her own mother, who had all but abandoned her and her dad.
A few minutes later, as Claire reached for one of the magazines on the table in front of her, Whitaker appeared. He looked surprisingly put together in a suit, reminding her more of the man she’d met years ago.
Claire felt her nerves fire as he drew closer. “Can we talk?”
Whitaker clasped his hands at his waist. “You don’t want to give up, do you? I can see it all over your face.” He looked down at the composition books in her hand. “Are those what I think they are?”
Claire stood. “Give me five minutes. If you still have no interest, I won’t bug you again.”
After a long pause, he conceded. “Come on back.”
She followed him down a hallway with beach photographs hanging on the walls and turned left into an office. He gestured for her to sit, and she sat across from him. Other than his nameplate, there was nothing marking this as his office. No pictures. Nothing to reveal his personality. Only a laptop, a phone, and a few stacks of paper.
“How long have you been doing this?”
“Almost a year now.” He loosened his tie and leaned in, resting his elbows on the desk. “Did you close on your house? You mentioned that was coming.”
Claire fidgeted with her hands. “Yeah, on Tuesday.”
“I imagine it was pretty tough.”
Claire nodded and whispered a yes.
“Hey, do you guys still serve that oyster omelet?”
Claire welcomed some small talk. “We do.”
“I used to love it. And I haven’t seen it on a menu anywhere else in the States. Right after college, I backpacked from Bangkok to Singapore, and the oyster omelet became my street food of choice.”
“When were you in Thailand? I did the whole backpacking thing too. Didn’t cross into Malaysia, though. My girlfriend and I got waylaid in Phuket.”
“Sounds like a song, doesn’t it?” Whitaker said. “Waylaid in Phuket.” Catching Claire totally off guard, Whitaker broke into a quiet country song reminiscent of George Jones. “We were waylaid in Phuket. Nothing to eat but an omelet.”
Claire couldn’t help but smile.
“The beers they poured were tall. And the woman I loved was . . .” He ran out of words and searched for them on the white wall. “The woman I loved had . . .” He shrugged, as if giving up on finding a workable rhyme. And then as an afterthought, he added, “claws.”
He was actually funny. But how did he know about the claw?
“Are you done?” she asked, stifling a grin.
Whitaker shrugged his shoulders. “Couldn’t help it. Anyway, this would have been almost twenty years ago.”
“Ah, long before me.”
“Yeah, I’m a dinosaur.” When he smiled again, she could tell she was breaking through to him. He was a nice guy, and nice guys do nice things.
She sat back. “Well, that’s where our oyster omelet came from.”
“I’ll have to revisit it soon.” Whitaker beat a nervous rhythm on his desk.
It was as if all the joy had been sucked out of the room.
He sat back in his leather chair. “See this office. This suit. That lobby out there. It’s my life for now, and I’m kind of good at it. My writing isn’t up to par. I mean . . . I have a story coming along, but I’m not up to a new task. What I’m trying to say is . . . you don’t want me to write your husband’s novel. I’m currently deleting everything I type. It’s almost like I was gifted one book, and that’s it. Time to move on.”
This was her moment. She had to be strong. Sitting up straight and finding her courage, Claire said, “You’re the only one I want to write his novel.” She took a slow breath. “I sold the house, and I have money. You can have everything I have left after I pay off my debts. I don’t care.”
Trying to cover all angles, she decided to push harder into the cosmic with her appeal. Pounding her fists with each syllable, she repeated what she’d told him at his house. “You’re. Meant. To. Write. This. Book.” Even as she said it, she wasn’t sure she believed her own words.
Whitaker smiled sadly and threw up his hands as if she’d just charged him with treason. “I hate to disappoint you. Truly. But I think you’re mistaken.”
Claire sat back in her chair with frustration. She set the books on his desk and fired a finger at the first composition book. “I’m not some girl thinking her dead husband’s novel is the best thing in the world when it’s not. But you sound like you’re out of stories.” She opened her hands. “I’m giving you one.” She realized she was raising her voice. Lowering it, she added, “And I’m willing to pay you to write it.”
Feeling like she was making progress, Claire made a show of looking around the room, the cheap furniture, the barren walls. His ego needed to be fed. “This isn’t you. Why aren’t you writing? The world deserves to read more of your words.”
Whitaker looked at his watch, a silver Rolex.
She was losing. “I’ll pay you one hundred thousand dollars to write the rest of it. He’s already done all the hard work.”
Whitaker’s eyebrows floated up, and she saw some temptation.
She didn’t care about the money. She could live off the café. All she cared about was getting this book done by a reputable author, preferably this guy. “You can even put your name on the book if you want. I don’t care. It’s not about making David famous. It’s about getting his story out t
here.”
Whitaker tapped his fingers on the desk. “It’s a tempting offer, but what you don’t understand is that a writer, a true writer, can’t step into someone else’s style. It won’t be authentic.”
“You could figure out his style; don’t play dumb with me. I’ll pay you five thousand just to read it. If the story doesn’t strike you, then give it back.” She dusted off her hands. “I pay you, and you’re done.”
Whitaker flashed a smile, and again Claire saw the charm of the man who used to come into her café. Why couldn’t he just say yes? Lowering his voice, he said, “If I agreed to read even the first of those books, you would never let me off the hook.”
Claire could hear and see that he cared. Maybe there was some substance behind his ego. She put her hands together in prayer. It was now or never. “I swear to God I would.”
“Honestly, I’m tempted to take your money. But the project isn’t my cup of tea. When and if I finally tap back into the source, it’s going to be with a book that I start. Do you know how many people approach me with a story?”
Claire resisted the urge to roll her eyes.
“I’m the one who has to sit with these characters for hundreds of hours.” He jabbed his thumb to his chest. “They have to be my creations.”
“You can change as much of his book as you want. How could you possibly not accept one hundred thousand dollars?”
“Because, Claire, I can’t take someone else’s story and run with it. That’s cheating.” He paused to think, starting to speak a couple of times before retreating again. Finally, he touched his chest and lowered his voice. “The part of me that wants to agree is not the part of me that you want as your writer. I would let you down; trust me.”
Biting her tongue, Claire pointed to the composition books again. “You’d be lucky to put your name on this project.”
“I don’t doubt it. And I’m really not trying to be a jerk. I want to help you, and if you were asking something else, I’d happily oblige.” She sensed the defeat in his voice. “It’s just that you’re asking the one thing I can’t do. I feel like I’m carrying the bones of my writing back from war. I need to go put those bones back together and then figure out how to make the dead come alive again. I really have to get back to work. I’m so sorry.”