An Unfinished Story: A Novel

by Boo Walker

  Claire wrapped an arm around Whitaker’s neck. “Me too.”

  “I think I’m bringing up the rear,” Whitaker said, cracking a peanut shell. “But I guess someone has to. It’s a shame I inherited my father’s looks and not yours, Mom.”

  A vendor in the aisle yelled, “Ice-cold beer!”

  “I think you and your father are the most handsome men in this stadium.”

  “I agree,” Claire said, smiling with Sadie.

  A few minutes later, while Sadie poked around on her phone, Claire said to Whitaker, “What a great day, huh? I’m not sure anything makes me happier than seeing him smile.”

  Whitaker leaned over and kissed her with peanut breath. “I’m right there with you.”

  The three of them stood to let a couple in blue wigs and Rays uniforms pass by with nachos and sodas. The smell of the pickled jalapeños rose up into the air, and Claire was tempted to snag a chip. When was the last time she’d had ballpark nachos? Maybe years. The two die-hard fans squeezed in next to Whitaker, and he made small talk with them.

  Just as Claire opened her mouth to ask where Jack and Oliver were, she saw them on the field near the dugout. She hit Whitaker on the leg and pointed. “What are they doing down there?”

  Whitaker was shaking his head in wide-eyed surprise.

  The vendor was coming back up the steps yelling, “Ice-cold beer!”

  Claire looked closer and saw a glove on Oliver’s hand.

  The announcer cut through the noise of the crowd, saying, “Welcome to Tropicana Field!” His voice echoed throughout the stadium. “We’d like to start off today’s game with the ceremonial first pitch!” More echoes.

  Putting it all together, Claire looked at Sadie. “Did you know about this?”

  Sadie shook her head.

  Claire grabbed Whitaker’s shorts.

  The announcer continued, “Today’s ceremonial first pitch will be thrown by a young man representing the David Kite Foundation, a nonprofit working to change the lives of foster children in Pinellas and Pasco Counties.”

  Claire couldn’t believe her ears.

  “Please welcome Oliver Hastings to the mound.”

  Claire stood so quickly she knocked the popcorn out of Whitaker’s hands, and it spilled all over their feet. Whitaker and Sadie stood, too, and they cheered like this was the last game on earth.

  As Oliver walked toward the mound, Claire took a peek at Jack, standing on the sidelines with crossed arms. He wore the kind of proud grin you might see on a grandfather.

  Claire turned her eyes back to Oliver. His smile stretched to his ears as the catcher handed him a ball and gave him a pep talk. Then Oliver strutted up to the mound as if he’d made that walk a million times.

  Before winding up, Oliver looked up and right, searching for where they were sitting. Claire, Whitaker, and Sadie screamed his name until Oliver found them. With the ball tightly clutched in his right hand, he pumped his fist.

  Claire melted, and so did everyone around her.

  As Oliver wound up, she so hoped he wouldn’t embarrass himself. He didn’t need the shame of a bad throw holding him back. In fact, for a second, she felt angry at Jack for putting such a huge responsibility on him.

  Please make it to the catcher, she prayed.

  Her fears were unwarranted.

  Oliver’s windup was gorgeous, and he slung the ball with grace. It hit the leather of the catcher’s glove with a smack that could be heard all the way up in the seats. Claire cheered even louder, only to be outdone by Whitaker, who was screaming shamelessly.

  Claire turned to Sadie and hugged her. “What an amazing idea.”

  Sadie nodded in agreement, wiping tears from her eyes. “Jack knows a lot of people in this town, doesn’t he?”

  That was the day that Claire fell in love with baseball. And the first day she truly understood what it might mean to be a Grant.

  Chapter 40

  I DON’T HEAR THUNDER

  I have a story. Wrapping up the ending now. I’ll have something for you in a few hours. And by the way, you will love it.

  This was the message Whitaker texted his agent early in the morning after the game. He’d been sitting at David’s desk since 3:00 a.m. writing with grand inspiration. One-Eyed Willy had sneaked into his office at about five and was perched on the bookshelf watching Whitaker type.

  His agent had finally responded back at six. Give me more.

  Whitaker pulled himself away from the ending to respond: Not yet.

  I Hear Thunder?

  No, Matt, not I Hear Thunder. I am the fucking thunder. Brace yourself. Story imminent. Over and out.

  Whitaker closed his messaging app, turned off his Wi-Fi, and went back to work. His fingers danced like they never had before. The end of the story came as if it had been there all along. Of course it had! Whitaker had been so caught up in his own ego that he’d feared his sentences might not be as crafty as they’d been in Napalm Trees, his wordplay not as lofty, his descriptions not as sexy. What he should have focused on was the story! You can string together the most beautiful sentences in the world, but without a story you have nothing.

  He’d figured out the missing piece, the glue that bound Kevin and Orlando. He’d originally considered the possibility of Kevin or Orlando dying. That might have been a tearjerker.

  But it wouldn’t have been true. It wouldn’t have been true to what David wanted and where David was headed.

  And the lesson Whitaker had learned over the past six months was that David was headed toward a love story. One big beautiful love story.

  The writer’s fingers continued to fly, and tears rolled down his cheeks as the story nearly told itself. A new character had entered Kevin’s life, turning his world upside down. Turning Orlando’s world upside down.

  The power Whitaker felt in his fingers was indescribable as he wrote the last words. It was as if each stab of the key came from not only his finger muscles and forearms but even his shoulders. Not only was his whole body involved, but his soul as well. And it was his soul doing the heavy lifting.

  The writer finished the last line, knowing it was right in every way.

  He pressed the return key and typed triumphantly: “The End.”

  Whitaker sat back in David’s chair, basking in victory like a warrior after battle. He looked at the gash in the wall, which he still hadn’t repaired. He enjoyed the reminder that came with it. What a journey this had been. To think this was a writer’s life. Each book a dive down into the abyss, the best stories coming from the deepest of depths, wringing every emotion out of you, leaving you deathly tired but utterly alive. And once you’d finished and felt like you’d given all you had, you had to wake up and do it all over again.

  In his Walter Cronkite voice—deep and exact—Whitaker asked himself, “Who in their right mind would put themselves through this every day, Whitaker? Why not take the road more traveled?”

  “Because, Walter. This is what I was born to do.” Whitaker caught himself from slamming his fist down on the desk. He didn’t want to wake Claire.

  He still had work to do. Turning toward Willy, he said, “I’m gonna make your mama proud, little guy.”

  Whitaker scrolled back to the beginning of his writing session and spent another two hours editing and polishing what he felt was a very fine ending. Once he’d read the last lines again out loud, he decided it was time for her to read it.

  As the printer dealt out page after page of Saving Orlando, Whitaker sat back with his arms crossed, pondering the night before, how very perfect it was. He felt her presence behind him and rotated in the chair.

  Claire was standing at the door, wearing her glasses and a Chicago T-shirt—the band, not the city. “What are you doing out of bed so early?”

  Whitaker made a dramatic effort to look her up and down. “I’m wondering the same thing myself.”

  Claire turned her head to the printer. “What’s that?”

  Whitaker didn’t have to s
ay it out loud. A smile rushed over him.

  “You finished, didn’t you?” She stepped farther into the room.

  “Every last word.” He rose to standing and leaned in for a kiss.

  “How does it feel?” she asked.

  “Like the battle has been won.”

  She drew a shape, a heart maybe, with her finger on his chest. “I want to read it.”

  “Soon enough.”

  “No,” she said, pushing him away. “I’m reading it today.”

  “That’s why I’m printing it out. But we have a little time until it finishes. You can’t walk in here like this and not let me hold you for a little while.”

  “Is that all you’re looking for?” Claire asked, looking at him like he’d stolen a cookie out of the cookie jar. “A little snuggle?”

  “For starters.” Whitaker pulled her close and spoke into her ear. “No more words this morning. I’ve said all I can say.” He kissed her cheek.

  “You have until the printer has printed the last page.”

  “That doesn’t give me much time. I should have written a second epilogue. Maybe an afterword too.”

  “Unless you’ve been holding back, I think you’ll be fine.”

  “How dare you.”

  With a cup of Earl Grey tea steaming beside her and Willy nestled up to her leg, Claire was sitting on one end of the houndstooth sofa holding the stack of white paper making up the last section of Saving Orlando. Whitaker was pretending to read A Gentleman in Moscow in the chair next to the sofa.

  “I can’t read it with you watching me,” Claire said, flipping to the next page.

  “I’m not watching you. I’m reading.”

  “I suppose a man of many languages such as yourself can read upside down if it suits him?”

  He turned the book around to see the cover. “Oh, how about that?”

  Claire rolled her eyes. “I know you were waiting on me to notice.”

  A sly grin. “Nothing gets by you, does it?” He added, “Seriously, I can’t not watch you.”

  “It’s good,” she said. “Trust me. It’s the best book I’ve ever read. Stop worrying.”

  Whitaker turned the right side of his mouth up into a smile. “Easy for you to say.”

  The story moved so quickly and beautifully that she was swept away again and didn’t think at all about the authors. What Whitaker had done for the story was bring Kevin to life. He’d given Kevin the tools he needed to break free, the arc he needed.

  Of course, Whitaker had brought a woman into the story, and Claire didn’t have to make too many assumptions to read between the lines.

  In his writing, David had never mentioned a woman in Kevin’s life. Only that he was lonely. Making a large creative decision, Whitaker had introduced Orlando’s new case manager, Amy. His last one had left her position, leaving Orlando alone again. Amy quickly stepped in with a full heart, ready to support his growth.

  Only as Claire reached the last few paragraphs did she pause to take in the significance of the work David and Whitaker had written—a story of survival, second chances, redemption, and love. A tale with such power that she knew it would be enjoyed long after they were gone.

  Claire read out loud the final page of the epilogue of Saving Orlando, savoring each thought and image.

  “I spent my thirties wondering if I was worth loving. Until Amy came into my life. She lifted me up and resuscitated my senses, reminding me of what matters—the cosmic sense of what matters. It’s love, of course, and after knowing her only a few minutes, I loved her. She was the one with the courage to walk blindly into the darkness to find Orlando and, like she’d done for me, she brought him back. She was our lighthouse casting hope out into the dreary fog of our lives.

  “I suppose I have Orlando to thank for all of it. Only in attempting to save him did I find love, and I will be forever grateful. Before I fell in love with Amy, I fell in love with him. A different kind of love, but just as powerful.

  “It was, by the way, never me who was saving Orlando. You probably knew that. How I’d ever been so confused is still a mystery to me. No, I was never saving Orlando. But to name the book Saving Kevin would have given away the ending.

  “If you drive south on MLK and work your way toward the Gulf, you’ll find the tiny chapel where I married Amy three months later. Though she could have done much better, something drew her to me. In appreciation to a world that would allow a wreck like me to marry such a fine woman, I will spend the rest of my life trying to be a better man and husband and . . . father.

  “A week after marrying Amy, we took Orlando to New York to see a game at Yankee Stadium. During the seventh-inning stretch, we asked Orlando to be our son.”

  Claire sniffled and removed her glasses. She read the final two words. “The end.”

  She set the last page down on the coffee table and turned to Whitaker, wiping her eyes. “Wait a minute. You can’t go south on MLK in Sarasota. Haven’t we already been through this?”

  Whitaker threw up his hands. “Oops. I’ll have to fix that.”

  She side-eyed him. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you’re trying to tell me something.”

  “Isn’t it crystal Claire?”

  Claire shook her head at the man who’d finished her late husband’s novel. She thought about her journey and the pain of losing a love and how empty she’d once felt inside. And then she saw her possible future, one rich with Oliver and Whitaker, and she knew that no matter how broken the road, there was joy waiting for her at the end.

  Epilogue

  THE BIG APPLE

  Sixteen months later

  “Why do they call it the Big Apple, anyway?” Oliver asked, strolling up Fifth Avenue in Manhattan, the hat Claire had given him slightly tilted on his head, his eyes and ears tuned to the sights and sounds erupting around him.

  A chilly fall wind funneled between the tall buildings, and Claire zipped up her down jacket. “That’s a good question. I have no idea.”

  “Oh, I do,” Whitaker exclaimed, circling around a man slinging bottled waters. Once he’d caught up with them, he said, “Back in the thirties, this little boy in Queens was bobbing for apples. You know, you have all these apples floating in a giant bucket of water, and somebody has to go in with their teeth and try to grab one.”

  “I know what bobbing for apples is,” Oliver said.

  A taxi driver slammed his horn.

  “Just making sure. You kids and your Fortnite and hovercrafts and virtual reality. Back when I was a . . .”

  “Oh God, please don’t go there,” Claire said, walking between them.

  They stopped at the end of the block, waiting for the red hand to turn green. “So anyway, the kid from Queens lifts his head from the bucket, water dripping down his face and this huge red apple in his mouth, and his friend yells, ‘Holy smokes, that thing’s the size of Manhattan!’”

  Oliver laughed. “You’re so full of it! I know you’re making that up.”

  “Hold on,” Claire said. “You made that up?”

  A smile rose on Whitaker’s face.

  Claire punched him on the arm. “I can’t believe you.”

  “It was pretty good, though, right? A kid in Queens.”

  “I don’t believe anything you say anymore,” Oliver admitted, putting one foot into the street.

  Claire noticed and pulled him back to the sidewalk without a word. He got her message. She put her hands on Oliver’s shoulders. “From now on, Oliver and I will assume everything you say is fiction.”

  Whitaker looked back and forth between them. “That takes all the fun out of it!”

  “That’s what you get when you cry wolf.” And then, as if testing the waters—almost as if it were a question—he added, “Dad.”

  It was the first time Oliver had called Whitaker “Dad.”

  Claire wanted to say, “Yes, you can call him ‘Dad’!” But she bit her tongue, not wanting to coddle her son. He’d called her “Mom
” a few times, so this was the next step. A very exciting one.

  Whitaker obviously heard the tone, too, and jumped in to squash it. Acting like hearing “Dad” was no big deal, he put his arm around Oliver. “Are you really preaching to me about crying wolf, Aesop?”

  Claire breathed easier as Oliver smiled at him. There was a time when she could never have imagined marrying again, never imagined being a mother. All that had changed, and seeing her two men love on each other filled her with gratitude.

  The hand turned green, and they crossed the street and moved up the sidewalk. They stopped and stared when they came upon the Barnes & Noble on their right. Posters with the cover of Saving Orlando flanked the entrance. Though she’d seen the cover a million times, it never got old. It depicted a man holding a boy in a headlock in the grass, both of them beaming with joy. Saving Orlando typed in a noble font. Two names below, separated by an ampersand. David Kite first, in a large black font. Whitaker Grant, much smaller, as he’d insisted.

  Claire looked back at David’s name. She so wished he could be here to see this, but it felt wonderful to know she had been able to give him this last gift, this last goodbye.

  Below one of the posters, a sign read: BOOK SIGNING WITH WHITAKER GRANT, COAUTHOR OF THE NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER SAVING ORLANDO. TODAY! 3 P.M. Through the window, Claire saw the giant display of hardbacks waiting for Whitaker’s signature. He’d talked a lot about wanting to do a second signing here (the first was almost ten years before), and she didn’t need to look at his face to know how he felt right now.

  Without looking down, she touched the rings Whitaker had given her, a platinum band and a vintage emerald-cut diamond. She smiled, remembering his proposal last winter, when he had secretly gathered everyone special to them at Leo’s South and taken a knee in the sand in the middle of the main dining room. He’d even flown Claire’s mother down for the surprise. Oh, how Whitaker it was and how quickly Claire had said yes. And then the roar of their friends and family and the other guests.

  How could Claire do anything but keep on swinging, as her former neighbor Hal had taught her?