any way.”
Whitaker let go of her hand. “Doesn’t seem fair you’ve had to deal with these questions for so long.”
“Well, it’s not like answers will bring him back. I’m just trying to get by now.”
“I think you’re doing better than getting by. I’d be in a lot worse shape than you. So would most of the population. I think you’re a fighter and an inspiration.”
Claire thanked him. “I’m nobody special, that’s for sure.”
“I completely disagree.”
Miguel appeared, lightening the mood. Whitaker asked for the bill, and once Miguel had left, Whitaker asked, “Can we do this again tomorrow morning? I promise we will only talk about what you’re comfortable with.”
“It’s fine, really. It’s been a long time.” Claire was committed to doing whatever it took to help him finish the novel.
Chapter 18
GREEN LIGHT, GO
Strolling alongside Claire on the beach the next morning, Whitaker found himself in awe. It was truly sad how he’d let the Gulf of Mexico’s coast disappear from his purview in the past years. No, he might as well live in some no-name town a thousand miles inland. How dare he lose sight of the tropical beauty surrounding him.
He loved the feel of the sand on his feet, the way the sharp shells lightly stabbed his pads like an aggressive pressure point treatment. He loved the salt water as it rolled over his ankles, the birds diving into the water, the herbal scent of seaweed drifting by, the light chop on a breezy day like today.
The woman beside him grew increasingly fascinating with each story and anecdote she shared, and he’d begun to understand her. Though she could be so quiet and in her head sometimes, he could feel the electricity that ran through her. The beach was indeed her domain.
“This is where I fell in love with reggae. Fourteen years old, listening to Bob Marley on the beach. When I’d leave my grandmother and return to Chicago, bracing myself for another brutal winter, it was a way to bring me back here.”
“I wonder if we ever crossed paths,” he said. “I was here all the time.”
“Possibly.” Claire pulled her eyes from the water and looked at him through her dark lenses. “So what new conclusions did you come to? You’re not going to bail on me, are you?”
“No, not now. I’m committed to giving this my all.”
“I couldn’t sleep last night, worried you might change your mind.”
He shook his head. “I didn’t sleep last night either. I read the book again.”
“Again?”
“Well, most of it. It’s really good. Needs some work, but the bones are solid. I was wrapping my mind around some of the larger issues. And I think the biggest is getting your blessing. I know this is David’s novel, and I want to respect his memory. But if I’m to take it on, I need to feel free to roam.” He stopped walking, and she did the same. “I don’t want to sound like a jerk, but I don’t know how else to say this.”
Whitaker removed his Maui Jims, wondering how to best say what he was asking. “If I’m to write it, it has to be mine. In a sense, you need to give me the story. I can’t be second-guessing the muse, and I can’t have you second-guessing her either. I’m not saying I want to put my name on the book. But you have to let me take creative control. I can’t run every scene or change by you; I can’t work that way.”
Claire crossed her arms and looked back to the water, as if for approval. “I understand. The story will be yours. But I think both of your names should be on the cover.”
“I’d like that.” He looked at her. “I will put everything I have into it, Claire. That’s about as true as I could ever be to the story and to David.” Upon seeing her face light up, he said, “Here’s the other thing. I don’t want you telling anyone. Not yet. I don’t need the pressure. If for some reason I can’t pull this off, I need to be able to walk away.”
“It’ll be between you and me.”
Whitaker began walking along the tide line again, and she followed. “I woke up and almost shaved my mustache, some sort of step toward a new me.” As the words left his mouth, he heard David Crosby singing “Almost Cut My Hair.”
“Oh, you did? What prevented you? It might have been a wise move.”
“The fear that I might be morphing