Whitaker glanced back at his little house, which was about all he had left after the settlement. Lisa had stayed in their mansion near the water, which was paid off courtesy of his novel. He’d asked for enough cash to buy a little house and to buy some time. Oh, and his wine. Considering he was the one who’d curated their robust collection, she hadn’t argued. She was always content with a glass of sauvignon blanc anyway. He’d moved the collection to a wine-storage facility on Fourth Street and visited every once in a while. Though sadly, since he’d lost his wife and his muse, there weren’t that many days worthy of popping corks on good bottles.
Still hungry, he pulled the bag of Cheerios out of the box and shook the crumbs into his mouth. He washed it down with the last of the lukewarm coffee in his travel mug. He always bought his beans from the same roaster in St. Pete, an establishment where the owners happened to be big fans of his writing. With the hazelnut hitting his taste buds, he tried not to think of what the owners would say about his recent habit of taking his coffee with an overly generous amount of creamer. Since the writer inside him had died, Whitaker’s love of subtlety in coffee and wine had perished as well.
A suspicious-looking man walking a mini-poodle—or at least a mini-something—strutted by Whitaker’s house. Was this the guy? The poop Whitaker had stepped in was more medium size, but Whitaker would be the first to admit he hadn’t mastered the proportions of dog size to poop size yet. Hopefully, his limited PI skills (PI standing for poop investigation) would be enough to bring the perpetrator—or poopetrator—to justice.
Just when Whitaker thought he’d succeeded, the man extracted a bag from his back pocket, snapped it open with a shake, and reached down obediently to collect his dog’s droppings.
Whitaker cursed in disappointment.
A few minutes later, his phone rang. Without looking at the display, he knew exactly who it was and the purpose of the call. And he always picked up for his mom. She was one of his favorite people on earth.
“Hi, sweetie,” Sadie Grant said to her son. “I hope I’m not waking you.”
“Oh, c’mon. I’ve been writing all morning.”
In her typically jolly voice, she said, “Good for you. Well, I don’t want to disturb you—just making sure you’re coming over later.”
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” he said, knowing there was no way out of this one.
“Honey, I know your sarcasm better than anyone. Don’t toy with me.”
Adjusting his position, he asked, “Why do you insist on everyone getting together when we don’t get along?”
“Oh, honey, who cares about a few hiccups along the way? We’re family. The Grants must stick together.”
Whitaker could see her pumping her fist in the air. The Grants must stick together! He imagined his entire family, every Grant in Florida, marching down Beach Boulevard chanting, “The Grants must stick together! The Grants must stick together!” As if they owned St. Pete before the Native Americans did.
“I think you’re confusing hiccups and hurricanes,” he said. “Besides, I really need to write, Mom.”
Whitaker scanned the park for more dogs.
“Don’t do that, Whitaker. It’s never the same without you.”
Whitaker sighed. “What time does it start again?”
Still happy as can be, his mother almost sang, “The bouncy castle should be operational by three. But come over anytime. Did you get a present for your nephew?”
“Of course I did,” Whitaker lied, wondering what he might find in the house worth wrapping. And where to find wrapping paper, tape, and ribbon.
“By the way, I just told your brother. We’re hiding the liquor. There’s plenty of beer and wine, but I don’t like having everyone hammered on liquor. It shows our bad side.”
“Bad side? We have a bad side?”
Her “Whitaker Grant” sounded like a reprimand. “I’ll see you at the party.”
“When is it again? Next week?”
“Whitaker, stop your shenanigans. See you in a few hours.”
After ending the call, she flooded his phone with happy animal emojis, and Whitaker decided that the day baby boomers discovered emojis had to be the beginning of the end. How could someone be so happy all the time? Though she was brilliant and sharp, Whitaker had to wonder if part of her was insane. Why all these determined attempts to keep getting the family together? The Grant family took all the “fun” out of dysfunctional.