they’d notice the fire in his eyes. The Whitaker sitting there before them was a new man, one who worked out and cared about what he put into his body.
Abandoning his grunts and nods, Jack finally cut through the niceties. “We heard you left your job.”
Whitaker thought it was absolutely amazing how Jack’s minimalist delivery could rumble an entire block like thunder. It took Whitaker paragraphs to say something as powerful as Jack could in one short, terse sentence. He could be a character in a Hemingway novel.
After recovering from his father’s thunderous assertion, which felt oddly like an accusation, Whitaker fingered the napkin on his lap. “Nothing gets by you in this town.”
“The Grants have been here a long time, Whitaker. I know everybody. I probably built that bank and don’t even remember it.”
“You probably did, Dad.” Whitaker shifted in his seat and decided to give his parents the answers they were looking for. “I quit, but it’s different this time. I’m actually writing again, like really writing. With purpose. I’ve started a new project that’s incredible.” Whitaker turned up the corner of his mouth in excitement. “I can’t talk about it yet—I don’t want to jinx it—but, trust me. This is a big deal. I can’t wait to share more with you.”
Whitaker looked at his mom, who was smiling and nodding eagerly, as if she’d jumped back into her college cheerleading outfit just for the occasion. He looked at his dad, who still hadn’t broken his stare. Whitaker grinned at the absurdity of his father. What could you do but just smile at the man? He was the Jack Grant, the builder of St. Pete, the somewhat great father who truly wanted the best for his children. But he was also Jack Grant, the overly confident man who not only wanted the best for his children but was damned sure he knew better than his children what was best for them.
Placing his arms on the rests, Whitaker broke into an audible chuckle.
“What?” Jack said, refusing to let his lids slide into a blink. The father-son staredown.
“Nothing, Pop. You’re one of a kind. And I can feel myself wanting to please you. Seriously, you’re going to be proud of me and this project, and I’m already nearing the end. It’s maybe the best thing I’ve ever worked on. Not just in writing, but maybe the best accomplishment of my life. And the thing is . . . it’s not only about me. I’m helping someone else out.” He couldn’t keep the news from them another moment.
Bouncing his eyes back and forth between his parents, he said, “A woman—a young woman—came to me with a novel that her late husband had been working on. She asked me to finish it for him. To my great surprise, I was absolutely floored by it.”
“That’s wonderful,” Sadie said.
“Yeah, I’m really lucky to have been included.” He wondered if he should share any names. Of course they knew of Leo’s South on Pass-a-Grille. He decided he’d best leave the details for later.
The server appeared, setting a basket of breads and butter on the table. After listening to her recite the specials, Sadie ordered a glass of chardonnay, and the men ordered cocktails. Whitaker was tempted to find something on their impressive wine list, but fermented grape juice wasn’t going to cut it tonight.
Jack placed a hand on the table. “Hold on. So you’re ghostwriting?”
Whitaker breathed through the defensive feeling wedging its way in the door. “I guess you could call it that . . . but in the most significant sense of the word.”
Jack nodded and his wheels turned.
Sadie reached for one of the dark pieces of bread. “I can’t get over how great you look. You’ve trimmed up.”
Whitaker tried to ignore the venom in his father’s comment and appreciate his mother’s compliment. “I have indeed. I’m telling you, this book is bringing me back to life. Everything’s finally making sense again, and this woman is paying me a lot of money. I think this project will put my career back on track.”
He looked at his father. “Dad, I know you want me to come work for you, and I really did think about it, but I need to see where this goes. You’re the one who tells me I’m always so stuck on myself. It’s different now. I’m helping this widow get over her husband, and she’s a really nice girl, and we’ve become friends. You’d love her.”