An Unfinished Story - Boo Walker Page 0,27

was currently sitting three people down. Didi looked impeccable in gold hoop earrings; a short, white linen dress; and blue high heels. On the other side of Didi sat Lashonda, who had been attending even longer than Didi. She’d gotten her PhD at Purdue and had a psychology practice in St. Pete, so she’d naturally fallen into the role of running most meetings.

Lashonda turned to Claire after running through a list of announcements. She had short silky hair and a bright smile. “There’s one of us who has had some major breakthroughs recently. Claire, are you still interested in speaking this afternoon?”

Claire forced herself to nod, set the cup down on the floor under her chair, and sat up straight. She had never been afraid of public speaking; it wasn’t that. It was just that there was so much to tell, and she was suddenly wondering if she was ready to be analyzed under the microscope.

Claire controlled her breathing and looked at the other widows, who came in all colors, shapes, sizes, and ages. More than half of them had already shared, and Claire knew all their stories. It was time that she got it over with. Maybe it would feel good.

There was no going back now. “I hit the three-year mark yesterday.” It was so quiet in the room, but she pushed on. “A lot of you speak about two to three years as being the time when life gets a little easier. I guess I’m not as far as I’d like to be. I’m still sad and sometimes so angry I can’t see straight.”

A few nods, “me toos,” and “yeps.”

Claire fingered one of her necklaces. “I’m selling our house. Finally. It was empty for three years. Mostly empty. I’d cleaned out every room except his office. I couldn’t bring myself to go in there and box up his things. It was all I had left of him. How could I throw it all into storage or give it away?”

Claire glanced at Didi. “It was only as I realized that I couldn’t keep paying the mortgage forever that I put the house on the market. Yesterday, I finally marshaled up the courage to go into his office. And I found a pretty big surprise.” Claire elaborated on the discovery of Saving Orlando, finishing, “His story stopped midsentence, which broke my heart. He’d died without finishing it.”

Looking up, she found the women listening intently.

She thought for a quick second how beautiful it was she’d found this wonderful book of David’s, and a smile erupted from inside her. This bright smile was so out of place for this room and for Claire. But it was as real as the warmth of the sun. “Something deep within is telling me that if I can get someone to finish it, then I can maybe turn the page of my own book.”

Claire’s smile faded as she moved on. “I thought I’d found the perfect author—the guy who wrote Napalm Trees and Turquoise Waters—but I went to see him today, and he told me he wasn’t interested. That was really hard to hear. I thought he was the right guy for the job.” She lifted her shoulders. “But I know I can find someone. Healing is different for everyone, but I feel like I’m doing the right thing by trying to give my husband this gift. It’s like one last hug to say goodbye.”

Claire clasped her hands together. She looked down at the floor and wondered what to say next. Was that enough? Maybe for now.

Lashonda thanked her, and then another woman took the floor. Once those who wanted to speak had gotten their chance, Lashonda wrapped up the meeting by inviting everyone to dinner and a salsa class in Gulfport.

Going out dancing was the worst idea Claire’d ever heard, but afterward, as the women began to leave the room, Didi homed in on her. “It’s Lashonda’s birthday. There is no way you’re not going.”

Claire sighed and looked off to her left.

“I’ll tell you something that I believe with full conviction,” Didi said. “David wants you to have dinner with the ladies, then put on your dancing shoes and go salsa.” She offered a quick shimmy of the hips.

Claire shook her head with a half smile. How could she argue? It was Lashonda’s birthday. Almost all the other women were going. Besides, she was tired of being the downer anyway.

Eight of them occupied two tables on the sidewalk outside of Rita’s, one of the quintessential

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