sky. “If that’s not a sign we’re onto something, I don’t know what is.” He plopped back down and buckled his seat belt. “In terms of symbolism, an encounter with pink flamingos is a sign of good fortune, especially on a journey.”
“Really?” Claire lit up.
“No,” Whitaker admitted. “But it sounds possible.”
Claire shook her head. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Do you know what a flock of flamingos is called, though? It’s not a flock.”
She took her eyes off the road for a second and glanced at him. “What is it?”
“A flamboyance of flamingos.”
“Oh, c’mon.”
“And a group of manatees is actually an aggregation of manatees.”
“Really?” Claire studied his poker face. “No, I’m not falling for your distorted lies.”
Whitaker’s voice raised an octave. “Distorted lies? I am bathing you in the glory of the English language. Oh, and by the way, I wonder if they have a Clarion Inn in Sarasota. Only seems right for Claire to stay at the Clarion.”
Smirking, Claire shook her head. “Does your mind ever stop?”
“All I know is that if we stay at the Clarion, they better serve éclairs. Because you know what I want? To eat éclairs with Claire at the Clarion.”
Claire couldn’t suppress a laugh for a moment longer, and though she didn’t tell him (and maybe should have), she marveled at how much richer her life was with this man in it—absurdity and all.
Chapter 29
SAVING SARASOTA
Whitaker and Claire stopped for grouper bites and peel-and-eat shrimp at Woody’s River Roo in Ellenton before continuing down to Sarasota. A guitarist worked his way through a set list of acoustic classics as they discussed possibilities and strategy. Still coming to grips with the discovery of the photo, their conversation ping-ponged without focus like they were two severe sufferers of ADD. “I can’t believe this is happening.”
“Me either. I wonder what . . .”
“But how could he have . . . ?”
Shrugging shoulders. “What are the chances he’s still . . . ?”
Whitaker was having a ball, chasing down a lead that could be life changing. It was almost impossible to believe that Orlando was a living and breathing boy, but at the same time he was willing to bet his entire writing career that it was true.
Back on the highway, he looked at Claire in her gold-rimmed prescription sunglasses, driving her convertible with the top down, singing with the reggae that seemed to ooze from deep within her, and he wondered where he’d be without her. Probably halfway through a miserable first draft of I Hear Thunder, figuring out how the character was faring in his attempt to break free from the Mafia. I’m serious, Matteo. I’m done.
Every time Claire’s phone dinged, Whitaker would check to see if she’d gotten lucky fishing around the photo to friends and family. And one by one, they responded that they had never seen the boy in their lives.
The burning question that kept returning to their conversations was, How do you find a boy in foster care with a first name and a picture? They’d jumped the gun by hopping in the car to drive down to Sarasota, but what else were they going to do? Whitaker certainly wasn’t going to sit around his house and wait for answers.
He had reached out via text to a couple of his contacts, including a case manager in St. Pete and a woman named Carissa at the local child-placing agency, but he hadn’t heard back yet. He and Claire had agreed to drive straight to the placing agency’s office.
Inside a one-story office building close to downtown, the young man—possibly an intern—at the front desk wasn’t nearly as impressed with Whitaker’s local celebrity as much as he was with Claire’s brief story. He did warm up once Whitaker mentioned Carissa, though. “She’s out of the office today, but let me ask Sophie if she has a minute to help you.” A few minutes later, Sophie came around the corner wearing a pink suit jacket. After introductions, she led them to an empty meeting room with a large chalkboard covering most of one wall. The words THINK WITH YOUR HEART, NOT WITH YOUR HEAD were written in large block letters in the center.
Once they were situated in the chairs around the long conference table, the woman in pink looked at Claire incredulously. “So you’re trying to find a young man who may have known your deceased husband?”
“Yes, exactly.” Claire handed her the photograph. “We think my husband, David, was possibly helping him, perhaps acting as a mentor. Honestly, I’m not