An Unfinished Story: A Novel

by Boo Walker

  Along with their food high, Whitaker was high on Claire, and he thought it wild how far off in the distance Lisa felt. He hoped Claire felt the same about David.

  It was as if Whitaker and Claire hadn’t even known each other until then. They’d been so focused on the project that they hadn’t let themselves explore the lighter topics, the ones so enjoyable to new lovers. No, their love wasn’t love at first sight. It was more of a slow burn that had started little fires everywhere in his heart.

  As they stood to leave and she put her hand on his arm, he could feel the fires uniting now, one collective wildfire burning in his soul. He didn’t know much for sure in this world. He didn’t even know how he would pull off the ending of David’s book. But he knew that he loved Claire.

  When they returned to her bungalow, Whitaker escorted her to the porch door. He found himself nervous again, two opposing voices playing tug-of-war in his head.

  Amid a symphony of night sounds, Whitaker pulled her toward him. “I’ll keep trying the social media angle, but I have much more faith in Laura. Let’s give her a chance before we do anything else too drastic. I’m not against making our search more public, but I’m not sure we need to.”

  Claire drew a line with her finger from his chest to his navel and whispered, “Fingers crossed.”

  They kissed, and as they pulled away, she said, “I’m getting there, Whitaker. Trust me.”

  “I know you are.” He put his cheek to hers. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  As he returned to the Rover, a smile rushed over him. He couldn’t put a finger on it, but tons of good was coming. Out of this whole mess he’d made, something wonderful was well on its way.

  With a cup of coffee and two fried eggs in front of him, Whitaker pondered Claire’s request from the night before. She wanted to meet his parents. What a loaded idea. But he wasn’t as opposed to the notion as he’d thought he might be. The typist might have pushed a meeting off for days, weeks, or even months. But that skin had been shed.

  In its place, the writer felt nearly eager to share his current life with his parents. The last time he’d seen them, he’d scurried out of the yacht club with the sad news of Lisa’s engagement. And he’d certainly felt their eyes on him during his absurd and most certainly childish retreat.

  “What did we do wrong in raising him?” Jack had probably asked Sadie once Whitaker had left, begging the server for another drink.

  “Oh, Jack, he’s still growing up; that’s all.”

  “He has gray hairs. I was fighting for my country at half his age.” His grip would have tightened around his empty glass. “I swear to God, kids these days.”

  Whitaker had spent too long wondering how that conversation had gone. But now he just wanted them to be involved. To meet Claire, to hear the story of Whitaker and Claire’s journey. And to share their incredible discovery that Oliver was alive.

  For a second, as he cut into a deliciously runny yolk, Whitaker wondered why he wasn’t more hesitant. Sure, there was a possibility that Jack could say the wrong thing. He most certainly would embarrass Whitaker to no end. But it didn’t really matter.

  Whitaker liked Claire, and he wanted to share her with the ones he loved. And he did love his parents. So damn much. Perhaps all the grief he had with his giant family had been of his own making. Perhaps he was the problem. Either way, that was all in the past. With this new lens on life, Whitaker reached for his phone.

  “Mom, good morning.”

  “Hey, sugar. Aren’t you up nice and early.”

  Whitaker found himself surprised that he didn’t feel suddenly defensive. The typist might have said, “I get up early every morning to write.” But, no, the writer said, “I know. Actually, I woke up feeling so alive today. I don’t know what’s gotten into me.”

  His ex-wife might have told him she was his biggest fan, but in truth that role had always been filled by his mother. With her pom-poms shaking, Sadie cheered, “I love to hear that! I know you’ve been going through some stuff. And I’ve tried to call.”

  “I know you have. Thank you for worrying about me. I had a little setback but feeling much more together now. Actually, I wanted to see if you and Dad wanted to come over this weekend for dinner. I’d like you to meet Claire.”

  A pause, the lull between waves. Whitaker imagined Sadie raising her hands as if he’d made a touchdown. Then setting her pom-poms down and doing a toe touch. “Let’s go, Whitaker. Let’s go!”

  Unable to contain herself, Sadie jumped down from her cheerleading stunt and said, “We’d love to meet Claire. And Saturday night is great for us. Your dad is fishing earlier, but he’ll be back shortly after lunch.”

  “Excellent.” And Whitaker found himself scratching his head, wondering where his sarcasm had gone. He was actually excited.

  When he hung up, he cut into his egg again. “Walter, what’s gotten into me?”

  In his stately tone, Walter replied, “We’re all glad to have you back, young Whitaker.”

  Once the caffeine had fully kicked in, Whitaker realized what he’d just committed to. Sure, he’d been keeping a neater house as of late. But not neat enough for the rendezvous spot for Staff Sergeant Jack Grant and Sadie to meet Claire. He had four days and knew he’d better make the best of them. The writing could take a back seat for a while.

  First and foremost, the outside needed some serious attention. Had there been an HOA in his neighborhood, they would have thrown him out years ago. Pulling on some cutoff shorts and beat-up tennis shoes, Whitaker left the house and walked shirtless to the shed. Lizards dashed away as he pulled open the plastic door. The smell of mildew hit him hard. Though he hadn’t planned on it, he decided that cleaning out the shed needed to be his first order of business. He removed everything.

  Once he’d filled his trash can with useless dried-up cans of paint, old plastic pots, and unknown chemicals due to their labels fading or having peeled off, he filled his push mower with gas and got started. A John Deere might have been a better choice, as the little mower had to work extra hard to cut down the jungle he’d let go wild. But she eventually got the job done. He moved on to the Weed eater and trimmer, working all the way around the house, bringing his humble abode back to life.

  Proud of how things were turning out, he made two trips to Home Depot to pick up outdoor furniture, mulch, a few plants and flowers, and even some touch-up paint for the columns on the front porch. By the time the sun was setting, Whitaker collapsed into his bed with a sense of pride tucking him in.

  The following day, a pot of coffee led him into his second project. The inside. Yes, he’d gotten rid of the filth that the typist had been dwelling in, but it was still nowhere near where it needed to be. He carried out several awful pieces of furniture that belonged in a frat house. He moved the other furniture and rolled-up rugs to vacuum and polish the floors. He cleaned out the refrigerator and scrubbed down the kitchen and bathroom. It was another all-day affair, but he felt invigorated doing it, like this was the last missing piece in rediscovering his true self. Instead of finding himself repulsed at what he’d been, he held on to the excitement of where he was going.

  On Friday, he ran all over town, shopping for new furniture, bedsheets, new dishes, and silverware. It was time to start living up to the man he wanted to be. After a string of more errands after lunch, he stopped by two local art galleries and fell in love with three pieces he ended up taking home. As the sun came down Friday night, he toured his house with a great smile on his face. In three days, he’d turned what had been a post-divorce prison into a house he was happy to live in and to welcome people into.

  On Saturday morning, he went for a long run and then rode over to the farmers market, which had just moved from the waterfront location over to Williams Park for the summer. He picked up what he needed for the night’s meal and also some more flowers for inside. Ending his exhausting four-day makeover, he swung by his wine cellar on the way home.

  By the time Claire kno
cked on the door a few minutes before five Saturday night, the house was in the best shape it had ever been, and Whitaker was in the kitchen in his apron stirring the beurre manié into his favorite preparation of coq au vin, a dish he’d obsessed over while living in Paris in his twenties.

  He walked casually to the front door, pulled it open, and breathed her in. Claire wore an off-shoulder knee-length white dress, and her hair was pulled back into a ponytail. It took a moment for him to grasp that they were now a thing.

  “You look lovely.” Whitaker took her hand and kissed her and smelled the jasmine of her perfume.

  Claire walked inside. “Oh my gosh, is this why you’ve been hiding all week? Your place looks . . . like not your place.” She stopped in the living room and turned back to him. “Bravo, Whitaker.”

  “I’m glad you like it.” He pointed to the wall on his left, by the entrance to the hall. “What do you think?”

  She followed his finger to the photograph of the manatee she’d given him framed in reclaimed wood. “Oh, it looks great.”

  “Now I can pass by it every time I go into my office to write. A reminder of my muse.”

  Claire smiled and spun around. “And new furniture? I actually like your house now. It’s adorable. And you have great taste. Have you been watching too much HGTV?”

  “I’ve seen a few episodes lately. Wait until you see the backyard.”

  The doorbell rang, and they both turned. Whitaker took a long, slow breath. “Here we go.”

  He pulled back the door. “Hi, guys. Welcome.”

  “You shaved!” Sadie exclaimed.

  They shuffled through the door in their country club attire, and Whitaker introduced them to Claire. In what Whitaker considered a bold move, Claire hugged Sadie and then Jack. “It’s a pleasure, Mr. and Mrs. Grant.”

  Jack’s sunburned and stern face melted into a smile as he briefly removed his veteran’s hat. “It’s so nice to meet you, Claire. Please call me Jack.”

  “Yes, sir. And thank you for your service.”

  Claire might as well have picked him up and placed him in the palm of her hand, a tiny replica of the army man, a G.I. Joe. “You’re welcome,” he said, with the pride he duly deserved.

  “I don’t want to embarrass Whitaker,” Sadie told Claire, “but you must be the one he’s cleaned his act up for.” She made a show of looking around the living room as they moved farther inside the house. “I am just so impressed.”

  “I am too,” Claire confessed. “He’s really turned it around.”

  Sadie shook her head. “The last time I was here—”

  Whitaker stepped forward, smoothing his hands together. “All right, everyone. Let’s not make this entire evening about picking on Whitaker. We haven’t even had a sip of wine yet, and I’m already blushing.”

  In the kitchen, Whitaker uncorked a rather blousy Meursault that he knew his mother would enjoy. They gathered around the island as he poured the glasses.

  “I’m so happy to see you wearing an apron again,” Sadie said. “What’s on the menu tonight?”

  Whitaker pulled the top off the dutch oven, and a blast of steam and savory aromas rose into the air. “I thought we’d go French tonight. Coq au vin. Then cheese and a salad to finish off.”

  Sadie spun her glass. “I’m surprised you still knew how to turn on the stove.”

  “Well,” Whitaker said, “I did learn cooking is not like riding a bike. It took me a little while to get back into the swing of things. Nearly cut my finger off earlier.” He showed them a Band-Aid wrapped around his index finger.

  “Well, I’d say you’re off to a good start,” Jack said, glancing at the cheese and charcuterie board Whitaker had prepared.

  “Thanks. So before we eat, I thought we could sit out back and chat for a while. Claire and I have so much we can’t wait to share.”

  Leading them outside, Whitaker looked past the small patio with his new furniture to the short green grass and then the fresh mulch running up against the fence. Feeling a nice breeze, he eyed the clouds rolling in from the east. A perfect night to sit outside, as long as those clouds didn’t bring rain.

  Descending the back steps, Claire asked, “Where are all the wild things? Did a landscaper come over?”

  “It was all me, believe it or not.”

  “But where will the grasshoppers go?”

  “They’re welcome to stay if they’d like.”

  The breeze picked up.

  “I’m really impressed,” Claire admitted. “Actually, I’m surprised you even know how to start a lawn mower.” Whitaker could tell she was putting on a show, trying to light Jack up.

  It worked. If Jack hadn’t been convinced by her yet, she’d surely won him over now. He grunted with joy. “Believe it or not, Claire, this young man used to help me keep the finest yard in the neighborhood. We were like a platoon of the army’s finest out there every weekend.”

  Whitaker shook his head as they sat around the table and umbrella. Why resist? “I don’t know what happened to me. Books pulled me away from small engines and landscaping. But fear not. I have returned and am quite eager to spend my Saturdays like most humans in America. My forties will be the decade I fell in love with yard work.”

  Ready to move on, Whitaker turned to his left. “You might know Claire’s restaurant, Leo’s South, at the beach?”

  “Oh, sure,” Jack said. “Now I like you even more. I’ve eaten there a few times over the years.”

  After a few minutes of restaurant talk, Claire said, “And Jack, I hear you’re a fisherman.”

  “Yep, as a matter of fact, I took some clients out today.”

  “How’d you do?”

  “We slayed ’em. A big grouper and five red snappers. The season just started, thank goodness. It would have hurt to throw them back.”

  “You should have brought some over, Dad.”

  Jack turned to Whitaker. “Last time I brought you fish, you let them rot in your fridge.”

  Whitaker raised his hands up in peace. “Fair point.”

  Jack turned back to Claire. “If you eat fish, I’d love to share some with you. Red snapper is about my favorite.”

  As Claire assured him she would love some, Whitaker looked at his mother and grinned. What else could you do when you were dealing with Jack Grant?

  They focused on Claire for a while and eventually reached the topic of the book. Whitaker grabbed another bottle of chardonnay and they told the entire story, starting from Claire’s knock on his door.

  What struck Whitaker most about that night was the question Jack asked once the story had been told. Each word did what many of Jack’s did, Thor’s hammer dropping down. But this time they were words of encouragement.

  As Jack and Sadie were still trying to wrap their heads around the story and the fact that Oliver was a real boy, Jack leaned in, bouncing his eyes back and forth between Whitaker and Claire. “What can we do to help you find him?”

  Whitaker had never loved his father more.

  Chapter 33

  THE SKYLINE OF HAVANA

  Claire had been sure that she was the worst to dance salsa in the history of the Gulfport Casino, but as she watched Whitaker attempt to follow the instructor, she knew otherwise. Whitaker had no rhythm and so little control of his feet, she wondered how he even managed to walk.

  But you know what? It didn’t matter. She’d never laughed so much in her life, and she liked that he could handle the ridicule. Even Didi was having a hard time concentrating and had one eye on Whitaker’s penguin feet fumbling about.

  Now into the second week of June, it had been two weeks since Claire and Whitaker’s first date, and they’d spent nearly every day together. Claire couldn’t believe it, but she was falling in love. Not falling . . . she was right into the depths of it, at the bottom of the canyon of love after a long descent, as Whitaker might say. He was an explosion of color that she welcomed and couldn’t do without. As she watched him dance like a fool and la
ugh like a child, she knew that he had come into her life for a much bigger reason than finishing David’s novel. And she’d learned that behind all his fun and games stood a man of substance. Whitaker would never replace David, but Claire was intent on loving Whitaker in a new and different way.

  Three days before, per Laura’s suggestion, they had agreed to fingerprinting and background checks. Considering they’d had no luck working the social media angle, the woman’s request felt like a great break in the search. When Whitaker had asked Laura if she was making progress, she said, “I can’t make any promises right now.”

  After the instructor moved to the next couple, Claire asked, “How can someone who speaks fluent Spanish, among several other languages, possess no dancing skills whatsoever?”

  Whitaker took no offense and said with a smile, “That’s like saying just because you can speak Russian you can dance The Nutcracker.”

  “I would pay a lot of money to see you dance The Nutcracker. Even more money to see you in a leotard.” The image drew a smile.

  “Baby steps, Claire. Baby steps.”

  As the next track came on and the Latin beat set the pace, she asked, “Well, shall we make an attempt?”

  Whitaker moved into ready position, his hands in the air, waiting for her. “Let’s do this.”

  After attending for several months now, she was starting to get the hang of the dance. She counted for him, encouraging him along. “Forward, two, three. Back, two, three. There you go, not as bad as I thought.”

  “Oh, c’mon. Cubans everywhere are cringing.”

  “That’s not true,” Claire assured him. “I can almost see the skyline of Havana in your eyes.”

  He smiled and kissed her. “Look who should be the writer.”

  After the class, Claire, Whitaker, and Didi rode together to one of Claire’s favorite restaurants, Chief’s Creole Café, in an area known as the “Deuces” on Twenty-Second Street. During segregation, this part of town was the bustling Main Street for the black community, and just up the road the Manhattan Casino had hosted some of the most important names in show business, including Duke Ellington, Louis Armstrong, Nat King Cole, and James Brown. Now this neighborhood was making a comeback.