get your hopes up, but I’ll read the story. I clearly have nothing better going on.”
Black to white in a blink. He’d never seen such a transformation in a person. Her sad face lit up in a wonderful way, like a volcano erupting, a caterpillar metamorphosing into a butterfly, a distraught child finding the golden Easter egg.
Realizing what he’d done, Whitaker held up a finger. “But I’m not promising anything. This is what I was afraid of. If the story doesn’t jibe with me, I can’t write it. And I refuse to write it unless it speaks to me. I need you to understand that should I decline, you need to respect my decision.”
Claire was nodding like a Tampa Bay Rays bobblehead. Did she even hear him? She reached over to the passenger side. “Can I write you a check?”
“I’m not going to take your money. Yes, if for some reason, I decide to write the book, I will. But I’m not going to let you pay me to read it.”
She handed him the three composition books. “Please take care of them. They’re the only copies.”
That notion scared Whitaker as he took them with both hands. He wasn’t the most responsible man of late. “I will. I’ll take them straight home after work.”
“When do you think you’ll take a look?”
“The next few days.”
In a move that nearly took his breath away, Claire placed a hand on his. “Thank you. Seriously.”
As he smiled at her, he wondered what she was thinking behind those dark lenses and panda bear eyes. “You’re very welcome.”
He was the one who broke eye contact, and a dangerous thought passed through him. Was he agreeing to help her because he liked her? Did he think he was some knight swooping down to help a damsel in distress? Regardless of the reason, Whitaker needed to at least read the story. Then he could tell her no officially—a conversation he dreaded like no other.
Claire felt alive. So damned alive. The world was finally making sense. Though she’d promised him she wouldn’t get her hopes up, she knew he would agree to write it now. It was meant to be.
Riding back toward the beach on Central, with Buju Banton singing “Wanna Be Loved,” she lifted her arms high in the air and screamed at the top of her lungs. Some random person sitting at a table outside of a taco joint yelled back. Claire waved. She didn’t care who could see or hear her. Today was a victory in so many ways. Most importantly, she was doing right by David. He deserved this more than anyone.
After her fit of exaltation, she turned down the reggae and called Didi. “He’s going to read the book!”
“What?”
“Yeah. Whitaker Grant. I went by to see him at his work, and he’s agreed to read it. I didn’t even have to pay him.”
“That’s amazing,” Didi said. “I’m so happy for you.”
“The last two days have been . . . it’s like I’ve finally turned the final corner. That’s how it happens, isn’t it? The pain doesn’t really go away, but you move it around a little bit, almost like giving it less light and water. I still have a hole in my heart, but it’s not as all-consuming. I was sleeping through life and didn’t even realize it.”
“Good for you,” Didi said.
And there it was. It had taken three years, but Claire had broken through to the light.
Chapter 13
WHERE ARE THE ZOMBIES?
As the hues of dusk colored Clymer Park, Whitaker settled down on the front patio with the three composition books in his hand. Watching the park for a while, he noticed a proud osprey perched on a high branch on the dead limb of an oak.
Back down on the ground, a lone woman speed-walking a goldendoodle piqued his interest. She was working her arms back and forth like a cross-country skier. Never one to shy away from distraction, he spent a few moments thinking of more sign ideas. Coming up with clever poop memes could be so enjoyable.
We have video. We know where you live. If you don’t pick up after your dog, we’ll send our grandson to poop on your lawn.
So angry. He didn’t need to be the fascist of the neighborhood. What about a kinder approach?
If you forget a poop bag, raise your hand and wait for assistance.
Oh, he’s adorable! And yet . . . his poop in my yard is not.
How about hashtags?
#PoopHappens . . . ToNeedToBePickedUp
Weary of all the feculence,