An Unfinished Story: A Novel

by Boo Walker

  As the middle of May came around, Whitaker was reaching the end of David’s manuscript but was stalling some. That was okay, though. His stalling had led to many more hours of polish with the rest of the manuscript, and each scene leaped off the page. But he knew that he was only hours of work away from facing the flashing cursor and the blank space. He kept telling himself to have faith. The only way he could create an ending worthy of David’s story was to take himself out of it and let the great mystic take over.

  He’d been writing so much lately that he was starting to feel some pain in his wrists and arms, carpal tunnel of sorts. But he knew he couldn’t stop. On this Saturday morning, he’d soaked his arm in ice and popped a couple of Advil, and now he was writing standing up at his counter in the kitchen.

  Whitaker pondered a question. What was it that had made David suddenly empathize with the boy in the beginning? Was it simply the realization that Orlando was eleven years old, a long way from being a man? No, it had to be deeper.

  As a dramatic rendition of a Henryk Górecki symphony rose from his Amazon device, the idea came to him. An ensemble of violins and cellos sawed on their strings, and Whitaker said, “Alexa, turn it all the way up.” A solo soprano sang in Polish of the Second World War, a melody that pulled at Whitaker’s heart. He plugged in and let his fingers and imagination fly.

  Growing up in Sarasota, Kevin was going through a rough patch when he met a teacher who taught him to sail and asked him to join his crew in a weekly amateur race. Through sailing, the world had opened up to him, and he had found the father he never had. When fate brought Orlando to Kevin’s door, it was time to pay it forward.

  Whitaker finished typing the flashback, amid a crescendo in the Górecki symphony—the soprano belting out several impossibly high notes—and he lifted his arms in the air. “There it is!” David’s presence filled his body as tears filled his eyes. He didn’t even know where some of these sentences had come from.

  What a feeling it was, a story rising from the source. He’d searched for the truth about Kevin, but it turned out all Whitaker had to do was stop searching and let his muse give him the words. He smiled brightly, wiping his eyes. What a wild adventure, this writing life. Nothing could be more frustrating and discouraging, but times like these made him feel like he was on top of the world. Someone had once told him that when you experienced such moments in the creative process, you were cocreating with God. No matter what religion or what one believed, how right that was. This was where he belonged, connecting to the muse, putting her words on the page, a vessel for the story.

  Only as he came down from his high did he remember about dinner tonight. He had to tell his parents he’d quit his bank job and that he was not accepting a position with Grant Construction. That would go really well. His right wrist began to throb in pain. The writer wondered how much Sadie and Jack knew already. St. Pete could be the smallest town in the world sometimes, and the matriarch and patriarch of the Grants often knew things before they happened.

  Instead of dwelling too much in the thought, Whitaker left the kitchen and went to find his running shoes, the only way to exorcise these demons.

  Chapter 23

  THE SUPPORT GROUP

  Claire was back in the circle of widows in the support group, eager to speak this time. She’d just caught them up with her progress in getting David’s book finished.

  “I’m . . . finally feeling hope,” she said, reaching for her lemonade and taking a sip. “I’ve been taking life far too seriously, taking myself too seriously. And I guess what Didi has been teaching me is that it’s not about me. It’s about living for those who don’t have the option to anymore. It’s about dancing for those who don’t have legs. It’s our duty to whomever we call the creator and to our husbands whom we’ve lost.” Claire shrugged. “I guess that’s what I’m finally seeing. All of you have talked about it before, but it took me a little while to grasp.”

  Feeling much more comfortable under the microscope, Claire looked up through the ceiling to the sky. “I want David to be happy for me, and I want him to be proud. I want him to see that I can get through my struggles. If there’s one thing he would have left me with, I know he would’ve told me to find happiness again. Whatever that looked like. I will get this book out there, and hopefully that can be a way of honoring his life. I won’t stop there, though. I can’t sit around wasting time anymore. I love him so much, and, dammit, I’m going to live my life to the fullest. For both of us.”

  Claire looked at the other widows, whose bottom lips were turned out—women who’d also had their lives flipped upside down. She smacked a determined fist against her thigh. “For all of us.”

  Claire swallowed a rising tide of emotions and paused to collect herself. She felt her shoulders drop and let out a sigh that could have blown up an oversize pool float in one breath.

  One woman clapped, and then the rest followed. Claire met each of their eyes and saw their nodding heads and wet faces. In all the meetings she’d attended, the group had only broken into applause a few times, and their reaction meant everything to her. Claire knew that she was finally breaking out of the cocoon of grief. This was her moment. She’d done it. She’d found the other side of life after David.

  Still clapping, a woman stood up and then another. Within moments, the entire circle of women were standing and clapping and cheering her on. Didi offered Claire a hand and lifted her to her feet. Her friend hugged her and then others followed, and for several minutes all of them stood in a circling embrace, the power and hope of thirteen widows—from all walks of life—overcoming the nightmares of losing their soul mates.

  It was unquestionably the most touching moment in Claire’s life.

  Once they’d all returned to their seats, Lashonda, who was sitting across from Claire, reclaimed the floor. “Thank you for sharing.” She looked at everyone. “As Claire said so eloquently, we must find a way to live a life full enough to count for the ones we’ve lost. We owe that to our husbands.”

  Claire was on a roll now and didn’t want to stop until it was all out. “Do you mind if I add one thing?”

  “Please,” Lashonda said.

  Here I go. “It’s a big deal, at least to me.” She put her hand to her mouth for a moment. “I kissed another man a few days ago. It was the first time I’ve kissed someone other than my husband since before I married him. More than a decade ago.” She let the words settle. “I feel so torn up over it. Like I’m cheating, but I know I’m not.”

  The admission came loaded with a closet full of feelings. Sure, there was guilt, so much guilt. The rings around her finger tightened as she confessed. But at the same time, there was an unabashed freedom in saying it out loud. What she’d mulled over for several days now, ever since she had left Whitaker’s house, was that she was not a cheater. She had not cheated on David, and no one would argue otherwise. As obvious as that fact was, she had to keep reminding herself.

  Between bouts of guilt, she had also realized how much she’d enjoyed kissing Whitaker. She’d loved the feel of being in his arms and couldn’t deny the attraction she felt toward him. And she was reminded of what it was like to share intimacy with a partner, to not be alone.

  After Claire thanked everyone for listening, Lashonda said, “My first husband’s been dead for nine years, and I’m still sad about it. But you know what I’ve realized? I believe we can have more than one soul mate.” She shook her head. “We’re all raised to want to find ‘the one.’ We’re all raised to think that there’s one man out there waiting for us, a magical person we’re meant to spend our lives with. And it’s only a matter of time until we find him.” She raised her hands. “The love of our life. How about the loves of our life?”

  A round of nods.

  Lashonda waved her hand in the air, shaking her shoulders with it. “It’s a hard concept to grapple with, but it’s true. I’ve been blessed with two soul mates. When I met my first husband, he was it. I never needed anyone else
the rest of my life. We had a great marriage.” She frowned. “But then he was gone. When I fell in love for a second time, I felt guilty, but I concluded that loving another man doesn’t mean that you have to stop loving the first one. I love both of my men equally. In different ways, but equally.” She patted her chest. “I have room inside here for both of them.”

  Claire wiped her eyes along with the rest of the women in the circle.

  After visiting with several of the widows after the meeting, Claire left with Whitaker on her mind. What she hadn’t shared was that she was worried that she was attracted to Whitaker for the wrong reasons. Yes, she saw the charm of Whitaker Grant. He was just about the wittiest person she’d ever met, and he was brilliant and handsome. If he continued to clean himself up, he’d be one of the most sought-after bachelors in Florida. She certainly couldn’t deny that she enjoyed spending time with him.

  But who had she really kissed that day? Was it Whitaker? Or had she put a mask of David on his face? What a sick thought, but she had to come to grips with the possibility. It wasn’t fair to lead Whitaker on if he were nothing more than the closest she’d ever get to David again, a mere replacement.

  One last doubt remained . . . How could she ever truly love someone as much as she loved David?

  Chapter 24

  BAD NEWS BEARS

  Downtown, Whitaker eased into a spot next to Straub Park under the shade of one of the many giant banyan trees, their long, straggly vines conjuring up Tarzanian memories from the playground of his youth. A light rain had fallen long enough to dampen the ground, and the acres of grass shined green in thanks. Across the street, diners broke bread under the umbrellaed tables that stretched for blocks along Beach Drive.

  Whitaker strolled past the Museum of Fine Arts, remembering the day he’d given a writing lecture from between walls that hosted some of the finest art in Florida. It had been a long time since he’d strolled through a museum, since before Lisa had left. God, when was the last time he’d attended any of his city’s offerings? Had he lost touch with the city he’d professed his love to?

  Established more than a century earlier, the Baywater Yacht Club stood between the lines of restaurants along Beach Drive and the legions of boats bobbing in the marina. Whitaker circled to the front of the building and passed under the flagpole that had been designed to look like a ship’s mast. Though he always felt like a fish out of water, Whitaker had been visiting this club since he was a child, and familiar faces welcomed him as he worked his way to the dining room. Lines of the black-tied commodores who’d run the club looked back at him from their black-and-white photographs on the walls.

  Whitaker hated dressing up and felt awkward in his khaki pants and pink polo shirt, but he’d tucked in his shirt to avoid his father’s scrutiny, which could sometimes draw blood. The floors of the grill were covered in a carpet the colors of autumn, and Whitaker thought the pattern might have served well as window curtains for his deceased grandmother’s house . . . back in the 1970s.

  Upon seeing their son, Staff Sergeant Jack Grant and his wife, Doña Quixote, stood from their table, which was draped in blue. Sadie came around the table, hugged Whitaker, and kissed him on the cheek. He complimented her blouse and then turned to his father, taking his hand. Having left his veteran’s hat at home, his bald spot was shiny on the top of his head. He wore pressed khaki shorts and a Tommy Bahama shirt. No one offered a stronger grip than Jack Grant. He made sure of that. Whitaker had often wondered if Jack sat in his office tugging on a cigar and squeezing a stress ball, working his hand muscles, making sure he was always the dominant one. Jack could turn a chunk of coal into a diamond in one squeeze.

  “Son, it’s good to see you. You’re looking fit.”

  “Thanks.” Whitaker squeezed hard, determined to crush his father’s grip. But there wasn’t a chance in hell.

  As the three of them sat, Whitaker looked around the room. Half the tables were occupied, many by the remaining snowbirds spending their last few weeks before sailing north for the summer. Looking toward the small bar with two wine fridges behind it, Whitaker nodded at one of the managers he’d known for a long time. Returning his eyes to the table, Whitaker marveled at the sixty-four forks aligned perfectly on the left side of the stack of twenty-seven china pieces decorated with ocean scenes. He looked at the twenty-five knives, wondering which one he should use first. And then the six water glasses lined up next to the four different wineglasses. Sometimes he had a hard time deciphering reality from his exaggerations. The club wasn’t that fancy. Nevertheless, all he needed was one lowball glass filled to the rim.

  As the three of them tested the waters of conversation, Whitaker noticed Jack was particularly silent, which was scary. This evening was obviously a dinner invitation that came with an agenda. For some reason, Whitaker had hoped that maybe, just maybe, Jack and Sadie had wanted to spend some time with their oldest son. Truth be told, Whitaker was very excited—slightly hesitant but eager, as well—to share his new project with them. He hoped they’d notice the fire in his eyes. The Whitaker sitting there before them was a new man, one who worked out and cared about what he put into his body.

  Abandoning his grunts and nods, Jack finally cut through the niceties. “We heard you left your job.”

  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 was the Jack 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 what was best 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 list
ening 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?”