My Year of Casual Acquaintances (South Bay #1)

16.

Charlie is perched across from me at a high-top table on the lower deck of Seaside Fitness. He has pulled a fresh sock from his gym bag, drawn a face on it with a ballpoint pen, and is now wielding it as a hand puppet. “Hey there, Mar,” says the puppeteer, in that falsetto voice people like to use when manipulating hand puppets, “wanna see a movie with me tomorrow night?” The puppet bops me lightly on the tip of the nose as if to add an exclamation point to the invitation.

“What movie, Socko?” I ask.

“Socko? That’s your name for me? As in Sacco and Vanzetti?”

“Not exactly,” I say with a snicker.

He tells me the name of the film. A comedy about a quirky friendship between two middle-aged couples, it’s a Hollywood remake of a popular British movie. Charlie tells me he’s seen the original version, though I have not.

“I’ll go if you promise not to spill the ending.”

“Oh, but I’m not good with secrets,” the puppet says. “At the end, Alexa tells Mickey that—”

“No, you don’t, buddy,” says Charlie in his own voice. Now he’s pushing the puppet down onto the table with his free hand in a mock-serious arm-wrestling match.

“You are a madman,” I say to him, laughing.

“Are you speaking to me or the puppet?” Charlie grins.

“Both.”

Every day Charlie finds creative new ways to amuse me. He is often cheerful and lighthearted. He revels in watching sitcoms, stand-up comics, even chick flicks. “I have a lot of women readers,” he explains.

“So you follow these shows to connect better with your audience?”

“That’s my official position. But the truth is, it’s what I like to watch.”

I didn’t expect to find such a temperament in an award-winning author of serious works, and a widowed one at that.

We’d gotten off to an uncertain start the last week of May at that wine tasting, which proved to be more or less a non-event. Charlie and I met at the Hermosa store, where he showed up in shorts and a t-shirt, causing me to feel overdressed in slacks and a tailored blouse I might’ve worn to a business lunch. Charlie introduced me to the store owner and his wife, and we sampled pinots from Oregon’s Willamette Valley and a few of California’s Sonoma wineries. As Charlie ushered me around the aisles, we compared wine preferences. Though I didn’t buy any of the sampled wines, I purchased a couple of rosés, feeling sorry for the owners because the event was so sparsely attended.

“Now is the perfect time to stock up on rosé. We’re heading into the summer solstice . . . long, sunny days, and we’ve had no sign of May Gray all month,” the store owner said to me while ringing up my order. She was referring to the coastal weather phenomenon that could bring depressing overcast conditions to the region for days or weeks on end. Depending on the timing, it was poetically referred to as May Gray or June Gloom.

Charlie walked me to my Prius, kissed me on the cheek in farewell, and held the car door for me. And that was our so-called date – about forty minutes in a wine store together. Maybe I read too much into his invitation.

. . .

But here we are a week later, going to a movie on a real date, and our second evening together takes on a more intimate quality.

For starters, he insists on picking me up at the apartment. I dress down this time, in white capris and a turquoise hoodie. Charlie shows up in black jeans and a soft gray sweater that matches his eyes. His hair also looks different – he’s used a light gel to keep it off his face, highlighting those eyes with even greater prominence. So dazzling is that gray gaze, I almost have to blink and look away, as if I’ve been blinded from staring into the sun. I should’ve brought a handkerchief to mop up the drool. I’m sorry to report that the snappy greeting I come up with is, “You clean up nicely.”

“So do you,” he says, with a light peck on the cheek as he delivers the obligatory returned compliment.

After thirty years with Henry, I find it strange to sit in a darkened theater next to this tall, attractive man. Feeling like I’ve been hurtled back in time, I wonder whether my date will slip his arm around me halfway through the movie, and I speculate on where the evening might take us.

Charlie does not make any moves during the film, but the evening does take us next door to a little bistro where we share a bottle of wine and three small plates. “The film was funny, hilarious at times. But I couldn’t buy the relationship between Alexa and Mickey,” Charlie says. “I don’t remember having that reaction when I saw the British version. It’s a weakness in the script.”

I shake my head. “I think it’s more of a casting problem. The actor who played Alexa wasn’t right for the role. I pictured somebody younger and a little less stodgy.”

He considers my comment. “You know, you’re right. If a film is flawed, I always blame the writing. If it’s brilliant, I credit the writing. I need to consider other elements like casting, or music, or visual effects. That’s why I would never make it as a screenwriter.”

“But one of your books was made into a movie, right?”

“Two of my books. And two others were optioned, but the movies never got made. Bicoastal was the only film that enjoyed any real success.”

“Were you involved in writing the screenplay?”

“Oh no. The producers didn’t want me anywhere near it, though my contract gave me a modicum of control over the script. I wasn’t allowed to mess around with dialogue or make any granular changes, but I had veto power if they tried to introduce drastic revisions, like turning the protagonist into an axe murderer.”

“Were they allowed to change the ending? I’m ashamed to admit, I haven’t read the book or seen the movie.”

“No shame in that.” Charlie seems to like the fact that I’m not a card-carrying member of the Charles Kittredge fan club. But I’m still embarrassed I haven’t read a single word of Charlie’s novels, though I’ve done my due diligence by reading book reviews and author profile pieces on him. I’ve learned that his works are, unlike their author, serious in tone – especially his two most recent books, which are described as dark and brooding by the critics.

“There was never any discussion of changing the ending,” he says in reply to my question. “Not to sound immodest, but the conclusion of Bicoastal is the strongest part of the book. I think the producers recognized that.”

“I must read it and see for myself.”

“No pressure.”

This leads to a discussion of writing, and next thing I know, we both have so much to say, we keep talking over each other. Charlie likes to make up little stories about people he observes in the course of his day-to-day life. “I jot down my ideas at the first opportunity. Every so often, one of these stories will expand and deepen, finding its way into a novel or short story. But most of the time, the stories remain untold. I must have hundreds of them by now.”

“How about an example?”

“Here’s a funny one. I pulled up to a traffic light and looked over to the car stopped next to mine in the left-hand lane,” Charlie says. “A red-headed woman had her head turned away from me to face the driver. Her head kept bobbing up and down, and I was pretty certain the woman was speaking to the man in an agitated way. In my imagination, she was chastising him. I concocted a story in my head that she was upset because the boyfriend had taken her for granted, he wasn’t responsive to her needs, and she was breaking up with him, right there at the stoplight.”

“How did you come up with that scenario?”

“Well, the driver really wasn’t responding to her. He sat there, not saying a word, while she continued to bob her head. But then, right before the light changed, he opened the passenger side window halfway and his companion turned her head toward the open window . . . and stuck out her snout.”

“Her snout?”

“Yes. She wasn’t a redheaded woman at all – she was an Irish setter.”

I’m drinking from my water glass when Charlie delivers the punchline, and I respond with an embarrassing spit-take, during which I choke a little as water dribbles out of my mouth. Smooth move, Mar. I daub my mouth and chin with a napkin. To my relief, Charlie glosses over this. “How about you? Where do you get your ideas for the magazine content?”

Regaining my composure, I say, “To tell you the truth, I don’t have to come up with all that many ideas. Most of the article topics are determined by our editorial calendar, which doesn’t change much from year to year.”

He wants to hear everything about my work. Do I edit other pieces, or do I write bylined articles as well? Do I enjoy working from home, or does the isolation bother me? Do I work on a strict schedule? What training did I have for the job? “I assume you have an engineering background?” he says.

“No, not at all.”

“So you picked up the technical expertise along the way.”

“Not exactly. I don’t even understand many of the pieces I edit. I mean, I can address the grammar and sentence structure, and the general organization of the piece, and whether the article is successful in communicating what the reader needs to know—but I often do that without really ‘getting it’ myself.”

Charlie finds this fascinating. “I can’t imagine editing copy I don’t understand. It must take a special talent to do what you do.”

“Thanks, but you’re giving me way too much credit.” My modesty is sincere. I’m unaccustomed to having anyone put my work on a pedestal – except maybe Robert, who has been uncommonly solicitous since my return to the job. But I bask in Charlie’s compliment. In all our years together, Henry never exhibited much desire to discuss my professional duties and skills. When he couldn’t lure me over to Schuyler Enterprises, his interest ended there.

When we finish the last of the wine and Charlie asks the server for the check, I experience a moment of uncertainty. Unsure of modern dating protocol, should I offer to pay half the bill? Then again, I can’t be certain this even qualifies as a date. And friends usually split the check. “Can I participate in this?” I ask to be on the safe side.

“Thanks, but I’ve got it. You can treat another time.”

Charlie drives me home and pulls into a parking spot near the main entrance of my apartment building. He shuts off the engine, turns to me, and takes my face in both hands.

The first kiss is gentle, soft, even tentative – as if he’s making a preliminary exploration of my lips to see what will happen. I kiss him back, and next thing I know, we are kissing more deeply, mouths gradually opening to one another, our arms around each other.

We make out like a couple of high school kids for five minutes or so, and while we’re kissing, I indeed feel like a teenager again. The sensation is foreign and yet familiar at the same time. Once again, I’m uncertain about the protocol. Should I invite him up to my place? And if so, how do I phrase the invitation? “Would you like to come up for a nightcap?” Are nightcaps even a thing anymore? And if he says yes and we are engaged in pleasant nightcapping, will I then be expected to ask, “Shall I go slip into something more comfortable?”

I can’t imagine doing any of this . . . and I’m not ready for it. I thank Charlie and bid him goodnight, bestowing a light kiss on his lips one last time.

. . .

We continue to go out every few nights. I’m discovering that Charlie’s humor is at times sophisticated and droll, and at other times, he devolves into corny jokes and puns a ten-year-old would find hilarious. He tickles me, literally as well as figuratively. He contorts his handsome features into goofy expressions, sending me into fits of laughter when I’m trying to concentrate on some sober task. He speaks in a variety of accents and can do dead-on imitations of Bill Clinton, James Corden, and Michael Caine. And like Shakespeare’s Falstaff, he is not only witty himself, he inspires wit in others. My own words sound sharp and clever in his presence. The curbside end-of-evening make-out sessions are growing more intense, and every time they conclude with a hoarse exchange of whispered goodnights, I’m disappointed . . . and relieved.

This evening, following a fresh and simple dinner at a cozy seafood restaurant, we are back to the kissing marathon. There’s a different atmosphere inside the car tonight as if the air itself is thrumming with anticipation, and I am responding to it.

This time, I invite him up to my place.

We don’t waste time getting down to business. I pour us each a generous glass of chardonnay that we barely touch, Charlie acknowledges the stunning post-sunset view in the fading light of the June evening, and the kissing resumes – but this time, we take it to the bedroom. We both shed our clothes at the same time and crawl into the cool bed sheets, where he stretches out to his full six-foot length and presses his body against mine.

As for what follows, I wish I could report colorful bursts of exploding fireworks or similar orgasmic imagery. But as much as I enjoy the idea of Charlie making thrilling love to me, the reality is more unsettling. As hard as I try to relax and enjoy the marvelous sensations of his lips tracing a path down my neck to my breasts, as much as I try to lose myself while his fingertips stroke my skin with great tenderness, I can’t help but notice how darned peculiar it is to be in bed with this new man and his unfamiliar body. Make no mistake – Charlie’s toned and slender physique and his silky dark chest hair are infinitely more appealing than the fleshy body Henry had on offer. But Henry’s was the body I knew for all those years. And though I try to respond to Charlie’s touch and to please him in return, I’m unable to let myself go.

Afterward, he slips his jeans back on and I wrap myself in a kimono. We grab our wine glasses and sit on the loveseat on my balcony, gazing out wordlessly as the last sliver of pink light fades over the horizon. He puts his arm around me and pulls me to him, kissing my head softly right above the ear.

“Your hair smells nice,” he says.

“Thanks.” I stroke his face with one hand. “Charlie, I—I’m afraid I was a little nervous tonight.”

He smiles. “I could sense that. Don’t worry about it. You and I are going to be fine, I can tell. We’ll find our stride.”

I give him a grateful hug. “This was . . . the first time I’ve been with anyone since my husband. It’ll take some getting used to.”

“I understand. What happened with your marriage?”

“I—I’d rather not get into that right now. It’s kind of a sore subject.” I realize at once that’s the phrase Michael utters whenever he wants to shut down a conversation. I don’t like it when Michael uses that gambit with me, and by the way Charlie furrows his brow, I suspect he doesn’t care for it either.

But he says, “Okay. You know, the first time I slept with another woman after Bet—my wife—I remember it was kind of surreal.”

“Yes, that’s a good word for it.” Then I’m not the first woman he’s had since being widowed. I wondered about that, after the physical encounters between us that never progressed beyond the kissing stage. “How long has she been gone?”

“Almost three and a half years.”

“Any children?”

“No. When we got married, Bet and I were both in our late thirties. Neither of us was keen to start a family at that point in our lives.”

So, they were married a relatively short time – ten, maybe twelve years, I calculate. I pictured them being together for much longer, though I had no basis for assuming their marriage resembled mine and Henry’s. “Was it—sudden? When she died, I mean.” I remember Sunny saying something to that effect months ago when we discussed Charlie for the first time.

“Yes . . . no . . . yes. There were events that led up to it over a period of months. It started with a bad case of recurring vertigo.”

This triggers dim memories of the Alfred Hitchcock film of the same name. I have a vague recollection of Kim Novak up in a bell tower, everything spinning before she plummets to her death. “Did your wife die from a fall?”

“Oh no, nothing like that. It was—complicated.”

“I’m sorry. I’ll stop with the cross-examination. I didn’t mean to make you relive painful memories.”

“It’s okay, Mar. I want you to understand what happened if you don’t mind my telling you the story. Otherwise, you’ll always be speculating.”

He’s right. “Of course I don’t mind.”

Charlie sips his wine as he talks, but he keeps his other arm around me, absently massaging my shoulder as he tells the story. “Bet went to the doctor because of these terrible vertigo episodes, and he diagnosed her with Meniere’s disease.”

“I’ve heard of Meniere’s, but I don’t know much about it.”

“It’s a disorder of the inner ear that causes excess fluid to build up. That’s what triggers the vertigo. It’s not a curable condition, but it’s treatable. Bet started taking heavy doses of diuretics to drain the fluid and stop the spinning sensation.”

“Did that work?”

“Yes, but it caused other problems. People on diuretics can be prone to potassium deficiency. Again, that’s treatable, but Bet didn’t follow the doctor’s advice on diet and supplements.”

“Why not?”

“She disliked taking anything unless she saw an instant payoff. Pop an Ambien and fall asleep. Take a diuretic and the vertigo will stop. Vitamins, supplements, other treatments that didn’t make you feel any different – those, she couldn’t be bothered with.”

“What happens when your potassium gets too low?”

“It’s called hypokalemia. I could write a book on the symptoms,” he says with a humorless laugh. “The ones Bet complained about most often were fatigue, bloating, and muscle cramps. She attributed these to perimenopause. But over time, she started experiencing a more serious side effect – arrhythmia. Irregular heartbeat.”

“That one, I know something about,” I say. “My father had a-fib and had to take blood thinners and heart medications for it.”

“Right. The doctor prescribed similar meds for Bet, but she didn’t like the side effects. The arrhythmia drug made her clumsy, the blood thinner made her bruise . . . that kind of thing. So even though she took her diuretic faithfully to rein in the vertigo, she let the other problems go more or less unchecked.”

“Couldn’t you convince her how important it was for her to treat the other problems?”

“Perhaps, if I’d realized she was doing this. But it was a well-hidden secret.” Though his voice is steady, I detect a flash of pain in his eyes. I nod in sympathy.

“Anyway, I had to go out of town for a couple of weeks on a book tour. I worried about leaving her, but she insisted she was fine. I got one of those pill organizers and filled it up with everything she was supposed to take. When I got home at the end of the tour, I walked into the house and found her lying on the kitchen floor.”

“Oh God, how awful. Was she alive?”

“Alive, but unconscious. When they got her to the hospital, they determined she’d had a massive stroke. They think it happened just hours before I returned home. Her best friend had seen her the previous day and said she was all right then – though apparently Bet complained of dizziness. But it wasn’t bad enough to seek treatment, or so she thought.”

“Was she ever able to speak to you?”

“No. Bet lived three more days, but she never regained consciousness. I spent most of that time in the hospital with her, but when I came home to shower and catch a couple of hours’ sleep, I found the pill organizer largely untouched. She’d taken the diuretics, but the other pills were still in their little compartments.” He sighs and bites his lower lip. “I think she’d been doing that for a long time and concealing the behavior from me.”

“This is a lot to take in,” I say. “Then the stroke was the cause of death?”

“The direct cause. But the whole thing happened like a domino effect. All those other medical problems eventually triggered the stroke.”

“Charlie, what a terrible story. Do you think you’ll ever write about it?”

“I don’t think so. There are little pieces of me in everything I write, but telling Bet’s story would take too big a chunk out of me. It’s too personal. Too raw.”

“Of course it is. And you—you must have been so angry with her.” As soon as the words slip out, I want to take them back. I’m reminded of all my verbal missteps with Michael. Here I go, delivering my usual insensitive commentary and then wishing I could revise the script. I rush to make amends. “I am so sorry, I should never have said that.”

But Charlie pops up from the seat with a strange expression in his eyes that takes me a little time to decipher. It’s a look of validation. “In over three years, you are the first one who’s been candid enough to say that to me.”

“I am?”

“Yes—yes. I always felt it would be in poor taste to suggest that Bet was even a tiny bit responsible for her own death. When your forty-nine-year-old wife dies in tragic circumstances, you don’t go around telling people you’re mad at her. That isn’t done in the polite society we navigate these days. For the same reason, I guess, our close friends never dared to suggest it either.”

“I, on the other hand, am the least tactful woman on the planet, as my son will testify. But Charlie—your wife clearly held some responsibility for what happened. If she’d taken everything the doctor prescribed, maybe she wouldn’t have had the stroke.”

“And if I hadn’t gone on the book tour, maybe she would’ve taken the medications.”

“But you said you believed this had been going on for a long time, and she was hiding it from you.”

“That’s true.”

“She was an adult. You weren’t her keeper. No matter how much you loved your wife, you’re allowed to feel angry about what she did or didn’t do.”

He stares intently into my eyes, then pulls me to him in a fierce hug. When he releases me, I see that look of validation in his eyes again as he says, “Thank you.”

For once, loose lips have not sunk my boat. It seems my candor has brought me closer to this man’s heart. We stand on the moonlit balcony, facing each other, and the moment is so warm, so tender, that I don’t stop to recognize our relationship has taken a turn into more serious territory.