brothers and sisters . . . ugh. After David had died, her mom suggested she come back to Chicago to live with them for a while. Thanks but no thanks.
But sometimes it sure as hell was about David. Anger at him and the man who’d killed him. Anger at BMW for not making a safer car. Even anger at herself for being angry in the first place!
Today, though, no matter how hard she tried to deflect him, Whitaker kept inching his way into her mind. What kind of selfish bastard could ignore such a request, to finish the book of a man who’d died before his time?
When the teacher summoned them back to their bodies, Claire began to wiggle her toes and regretted wasting her last few minutes of her practice trapped in a whirlwind of thought. At least she’d shown up to class. One day at a time, Claire. Oh, how badly she needed to attend the support group this afternoon, and something was telling her she needed to finally tell her story.
With one more focused exhalation, Claire opened her eyes to the sky and the birds zigzagging above. She was the first to collect her beach towel and thanked the instructor as she made her way back down the beach. For a brief moment, seeing her feet cut across the sand transported her back to the summer she had met David. What had tripped her up and at the same time quickly endeared him to her was how polite he’d been when Claire had introduced him to her grandmother. “Hello, it’s very nice to meet you . . . Yes, ma’am, my family rents a house here every year . . . Yes, ma’am, I’ll bring her back by seven sharp . . .” He was only just on the edge of becoming a man, and Claire remembered thinking what a man he’d be.
Closer to her house, she walked into the brisk water, brushing the sand off her knees and elbows. Flashes of silver darted about, the beautiful madness of minnows circling her. Saving Orlando, saving the project, drifted through her mind as she waded deeper, the chill widening her eyes and stealing her breath. She’d been considering other writers all morning. Why did it have to be Whitaker? Sure, the signs had pointed in his direction, but he wasn’t exactly the man she thought he’d be, and that frustrated her.
If she took a moment to think about it, she might have imagined Whitaker more like the handsome intellectual she’d seen when he used to come into the café, only a few years older. When she had approached him at his table that first time, he’d had this glow about him, an exceptional confidence, like he’d found his purpose. He’d flirted with her mildly, tamely—until she’d flashed her ring. Had she not been with David, she might have flirted back.
The man she had met today had been worn down. Though part of her was furious with him, another part pitied him. He wore his troubles like a billboard plastered to his forehead. Claire would have loved to think that he had the answer to all her woes, but life wasn’t always such a nicely wrapped present. No doubt there were plenty of starving writers who would happily accept money to write, but Claire wanted to choose the absolute perfect one. That was what David would have done for her.
A couple of hours later, Claire sat in a circle with twelve other widows in a meeting room of a nondenominational church in the middle of St. Pete—this particular group had been created specifically for women. An unused portable podium occupied the corner. A fold-up table by the window offered coffee, lemonade, and a variety of pastries.
Claire was so nervous that she’d polished off her drink and still felt dehydrated, like she’d eaten a ball of cotton. She’d told Lashonda, the woman who ran the group, that she was finally ready to speak, but even as the words came out of her mouth, she was questioning her decision.
Though she’d been attending for more than two years and there were women newer to the group, Claire still didn’t feel like an insider. As she looked around the room, she saw many veteran widows who had already climbed out of their own loneliness, and Claire had listened to their stories each week with hope that perhaps she wasn’t too far behind in her own metamorphosis.