An Unfinished Story(16)
“Yeah, I remember,” he said. To be clear, he remembered typing there, not writing. His well had already dried up by the time he’d started visiting Leo’s South.
“I told you I loved your book, but that my husband, David, hadn’t read it yet. You came back a week later with a copy for him. David didn’t touch it for a couple more years, but when he finally did, it hit him hard.” Claire shuffled her feet in her pink flip-flops and took a breath. “In fact, he started writing again. He was an English major in school and wrote a couple novels—mystery kind of stuff—but couldn’t get them published. Went on to be an architect and let go of the writing thing. Until he read your book. Then it was reading and writing all the time. Up until the day he died.”
Whitaker wasn’t sure what to say. Apparently, she felt a need to share this story so badly that she’d shown up at his door on a Sunday morning to do so.
“He died without finishing it.”
Whitaker nodded again. She wasn’t about to ask him to finish it, was she?
“I read it yesterday for the first time,” Claire continued. Before she could get out another word, her face melted with sadness, and she dropped her chin.
Whitaker wasn’t very good at taking care of anyone else. He had been at one time, but those days felt distant. His inability to get outside himself was most certainly the culprit; he knew that. Either way, he had an urge to rise and comfort her. To whip out a white handkerchief and pat her tears. Alas, he had no white handkerchief. In his current state, the only comfort he might have offered her was a turn at killing zombies inside—the best (healthier than drinking) release for pain he’d found to date. He decided to let her take her time until she could get it all out.
“What he’s written is special, and it needs . . .” She wiped her eyes.
“Can I get you some tissues?”
She shook her head and wiped her eyes again. “He wrote something great, and it needs to get out there. I want you to finish it. I’ll pay you, of course. I’ll do whatever it takes.”
“Why me? Because my book from ten years ago inspired him? That’s a far stretch.”
“I think it’s a pretty good reason. And I see a part of you in his writing. Not the setting, though I think you both come from the same school of description. And your prose is obviously more elevated. But it’s in the tapping deep that I see similarities.” Her gaze flitted all around, occasionally meeting his. “When I read Napalm Trees, I felt like you’d put it all out there, like you didn’t care what people thought about you. You just wanted to be true, all else be damned. That’s what his book reads like, like his story needed outing, all else be damned.”
She finally settled and looked at him with pleading, almost irresistible eyes. “You inspired him to write again in a new way, and I believe that you are meant to finish this book. Not just because you inspired my husband to write. It’s because you’re one of the best writers in Florida, and he and this story deserve you.”
Whitaker watched a lizard run up the wall. “Thank you for the compliment, but I haven’t released anything in ten years. Life’s kind of gotten in the way.”
She processed his words with a few slow breaths. Then, with great determination, she asked, “What if this story is meant for you?”
Whitaker’s eyes bulged, and his head floated backward at the notion. He could see that the idea of it being meant for him was her magic bullet, the words she’d been saving for the right moment. “Claire, I’m into the cosmos and meant-to-bes and aligning stars and all that. But I’m not abiding by the laws of the universe right now. You’ve caught me in a pretty low moment.” He saw no need to lie to her or pretend he was anything more than a has-been caught in a constipated rut.
Claire shook her head again. “You can’t say no.”
Something about her words struck a dissonant chord, and he suddenly felt as if a squire were racing to clad him with armor for protection. A cautious voice warned, Stay true to the course.
“I have to say no,” he said. He didn’t want to, that was for sure. To say no to a widow in need felt below even him at his worst.
“Whitaker Grant, I’m asking you from the bottom of my heart. Will you please finish my husband’s novel?”
He scratched his head and mumbled, “I want out, Matteo.”
“What did you say?”
“Nothing, sorry. Just talking to myself.” This moment was nothing to make light of, and he knew that. Smiling and awkward jokes in the midst of sadness were Grant family traits. “Look, I’m so sorry for your loss. I really can’t imagine what you’ve been through. You’re a brave woman to get out of bed every day.” He clasped his hands together. “But I can’t finish your husband’s novel. Frankly, I can’t even finish my own. I’m not your guy.”
Her shoulders sank. “You are. I know you are.”
“You can’t know that.”
Whitaker watched a flock of white ibises land in the front lawn and peck into the dirt. Though getting paid to write was tempting, this wasn’t exactly what he’d been gunning for. The last thing he ever wanted was to follow up his hit novel with something he’d ghostwritten. He hated himself for his selfishness, but he had to put himself first. He might only have one shot left.