An Unfinished Story(9)
“I . . . I wish I knew.”
After a long hug, Claire said to Didi as she was leaving, “By the way, you’re one wild woman. He’s a catch and a half.”
Her friend perked up with a sinister lift of an eyebrow. “He’s delicious, isn’t he? Great on the eyes and even better under the sheets.”
Claire couldn’t hold back a smile. “I have no idea where you find these men.”
She raised her hands, palms up. “They’re falling from the sky! What can I say?”
After a shake of the head and one more smile, Claire said, “Thanks for being in my life.”
“See you tomorrow afternoon at the meeting?”
“Yeah, for sure.” Didi blew Claire a kiss and disappeared back into the madness of the café.
Claire sat and stared at the wall for a while. Sometimes that numbness of being all cried out was the only peace she could ever find. She loved her friend for her honesty and encouraging words, and though much of Claire didn’t believe she had the strength to overcome, a very small part of her believed that she would. That she had to. Her dead husband would demand it.
Claire touched her heart and whispered, “Are you out there somewhere, David?”
Chapter 3
SAVING ORLANDO
After locking up, Claire climbed into her convertible and drove north, back toward the Don CeSar hotel. David’s novel rode shotgun.
Claire couldn’t help but see the parallels between her adult life and that of the hotel. Opening in the late twenties, the Pink Palace was welcomed with a flurry of excitement, drawing the rich and famous from all over the world. Those booming times were like the first years of Claire’s marriage to David. After fighting off the early impact of the Great Depression, the untimely death of the hotel’s owner had led it on a downward path of disrepair, only to be bought for a song by the US Army, who converted it into a military hospital during World War II. Shortly after, the army even abandoned the building. The southern sunshine and salt air had eaten away at this glorious feat of architecture over the subsequent thirty years.
That was just about how Claire felt right now: exhausted and worn down. But there was a bright side. New owners in the seventies and renovations over the next few decades had restored the Don CeSar to its former glory, and the hotel was back in business. Claire hoped the Don’s story was just a few years ahead of her own.
Claire’s new house was on the beach side of the main drag, still a half mile from the Don but only two blocks from the sand. After David died, knowing she could never spend another night in their house, she’d rented a spacious two-bedroom condo downtown. But a few months ago, as part of her intended comeback, which felt like the eleventh round of a boxing match, Claire had committed to rediscovering her love of the beach and started to house hunt.
Hidden amid giant supermansions with fast cars in the driveway, her little two-bedroom was a dreamy place to live for a single woman in need of healing. She’d been fortunate enough to see the real estate agent hammering the FOR SALE sign into the grass and was signing papers that same afternoon. How about that for spontaneity? Her new home was simple and beachy with a brick chimney and a tin roof that sang in the rain. A quick bike ride away from the café; a two-minute walk to the sand; a perfect place to relaunch.
She parked her car on the street and, with the box of David’s possessions resting under one arm, circled to the front porch. Though not as chic as her café on the outside, her bungalow was certainly bohemian. Seashells, dream catchers, and driftwood. Claire had only been here two months but had read at least four books in the hammock and rocking chairs while breathing in the salt air.
She kicked aside an Amazon delivery and entered the living room. “Guess who’s home . . .”
Her one-eyed tabby cat named Willy jumped down from the back of the couch, stopping on the cushion before landing on the rug.
Claire put her things down on the coffee table and reached down to swoop him up. “I hope you’re having a better day than I am.” She held him to her chest and bathed in his purrs as she ran her hand along his back.
Following the last hurricane, Claire had raced back to Pass-a-Grille after the evacuation to make sure the café had survived. She’d found Willy hiding on the patio with a hurt eye, probably a result of flying debris. The vet who’d stitched him up guessed he was about two years old. Claire considered Willy to be one of the great blessings of her life.
“You wouldn’t believe what I found,” Claire said, setting Willy down. He followed her through the house as she related the events of the morning in brief.
Throwing on a kimono, Claire made a cup of chamomile in the seventies retro kitchen made most apparent by the vivid orange counters. The one picture she had of David and her from the summer they met caught her eye; it hung on the wall above the counter. Being fourteen, she had the bird legs of a skinny teenager and wore blue rolled-up shorts and a T-shirt with a palm tree on it. The photo had been taken when Claire had flown down from Chicago to St. Pete to spend a month with her grandmother Betty.
Betty seemed to always have one foot in the sand and had introduced Claire to the magical properties of the Gulf. Every morning, they’d scour the beach in search of sharks’ teeth and starfish and then settle into chairs under an umbrella to read until lunch. Claire could still taste the salty tears she’d shed on the return plane home at the end of the summer.