him as famous as Whitaker? Is it just that you want to preserve his legacy? Or do you think this is somehow going to bring him back?”
“Of course it’s not going to bring him back.” Claire tapped her foot. Getting his book finished was the least she could do for David after smothering his dream of fatherhood. “I know it’s not going to bring him back,” she repeated. “It’s a way for me to honor him.”
A loud cackle rose from the other table.
“I just fear that this could be a false direction, a false calling. You might think you hear David talking to you, but it could actually be your sorrow begging for some light.”
“Well, yes, if it is my sorrow begging for some light. What’s wrong with that?”
Jerry Garcia sang the first line of “Scarlet Begonias.”
“I guess what I’m really trying to tell you is that convincing Whitaker Grant or some other writer to finish your husband’s story isn’t necessarily the solution you’re looking for.”
“No, I know. But it could be one of the steps. He had something to say, and I think if I can get the book finished, I’ll know exactly what.”
“Ah, there it is. What’s getting it finished by someone else going to tell you?”
Claire stirred her drink and took a big sip to quench her growing frustration. “It’s hard to explain. I feel like I’m supposed to do this for him. Like he’s out there, watching and waiting. There’s a story that needs closure. He wants Whitaker to write it.”
“You are the one who needs closure. David didn’t know he would die prematurely. I mean, I get it. I’m the one who told you I talk to my dead husband. But this is different. I think it’s a beautiful idea, but I don’t want you to be let down with the results. Even if this book is as good as you say it is, and you convince someone to write it, and it gets published. Even if all that, you need to know David will still be gone no matter what.”
“If you were anyone else, I’d leave the table.” Claire resisted the urge to hammer her fist down. “Please don’t treat me like I’m crazy.”
“I just don’t want you to tie your emotional health to the outcome of this book. It sounds like Whitaker is not even the right guy.”
Claire fell back in her chair and crossed her arms. She bit her lip, her anger giving way to sadness. Attempting to escape further, she looked away and nearly lost her breath when she saw him.
Whitaker Grant.
“Are you okay?” Didi asked. “I’m sorry, Claire. I should have kept my big mouth shut.”
Claire twisted her head back to Didi. “You know why I feel like this is not a false calling?” Without waiting on a response, Claire motioned with her head. “Look over there. See the tall guy with the mustache? That’s him.”
Chapter 8
THE WOMAN IN THE BLACK DRESS
Whitaker needed a stiff drink. He pushed through the crowd on his way to the bar at Rita’s. Where else did people dance away their Sunday afternoons to the Grateful Dead? He did a double take when he saw a man with a parrot on his shoulder. More and more, Whitaker resembled the regulars there. And he was certainly becoming one.
The blonde bartender greeted him by name, and he ordered a double rum and Coke. The writer would scoff at such a pedestrian concoction. “Coke? What are you . . . sixteen?” But the typist loved it.
While waiting on his drink, Whitaker revisited his meeting on the boat with Jack. Though a job offer from his father wasn’t the biggest shock in the world, it was still a punch to the gut. Not an insult, more like reality knocking on his door. Would he sling mutual funds the rest of his life? Even the thought made Whitaker want to sneak one of the plastic cocktail picks in the shape of a sword from the bartender and jab himself in the eye. No way could he sit in his Bank of South Florida office and pretend a stock surge was what kept him up at night—or got him out of bed in the morning. Not that there was anything wrong with banking, but it simply wasn’t his personal dream.
He’d proved that he did have the creative juices to make a living writing. And even if he took money out of the equation, all the people who wrote him and stopped