My Year of Casual Acquaintances (South Bay #1)

27.

Petey the Wheatie has finished a long drink from the communal doggie bowl at the little beachside park. He nuzzles his long, wet beard against my legs, dripping cool water down my shins. I find the sweet spot behind his ears and give him an enthusiastic scratch. “How have you been?” I ask Audrey. “Lately when we cross paths, you seem a little distracted.”

“Is it that obvious?” she says. “Sorry—I hope I wasn’t rude.”

“No, it’s okay.”

“You’re right, I have been distracted. Too much going on in my life these days.”

“I can relate.”

“Do you want to walk with Petey and me to the pier and back?” she says. “Maybe we can yak a little.”

“That sounds good.” The two of us start at a brisk pace with the Wheaten between us.

“I think I told you I work for a pharmaceutical company? Well, they’re getting ready to reorganize the sales team, and I don’t know how it’s gonna impact me.”

“Are you worried you might be laid off?”

“Oh no. If anything, I expect to be promoted.”

“But that’s great, isn’t it?”

“It depends,” she says. “They might just give me more responsibility, but there’s a chance they’ll relocate me. If it’s relocation, I’m not sure where they’ll want me to move.”

“I had a bumpy few months with my own job,” I say. “But it all worked out.”

“Oh good – but the job isn’t the only issue,” says Audrey. Her cheeks are flushed, wet strands of hair cling to her neck and forehead, and her breathing is labored. A hefty woman, she appears to be overheated from the exertion of our fast walk. “My boyfriend, Nathan, is pressuring me to live with him.”

“How can you do that when you might have to move for work?”

“That’s what I keep telling him. But then he says he’ll move wherever I go. He wants a commitment.”

“And you’re not ready?”

She shrugs. “I waver. Hell, I don’t know why I unloaded all this on you. Actually . . . I do know why.”

“Oh?” Now I am curious.

“You see, my friends and family adore Nathan. He’s kind, he’s considerate, he’s good-looking. They think I’m crazy not to jump at the chance to settle down with him. If I try to discuss this with them, they’ll take Nathan’s side.”

“But you figure I’ll take your side?”

“I figure you’ll at least be neutral. You won’t try to push me in one direction or another like everyone else is doing.”

“True. Audrey, have you noticed some of the words you’re using?”

“Which words?”

“Pressure, push, like Nathan and your friends are forcing you to do something against your will.”

“Wow. I didn’t realize I was doing that. Now that you bring it up, I think they are pressuring me. I can’t decide when there’s so much uncertainty with the job.”

We walk in silence for a few minutes. Then I say, “Uncertainty is the worst.” And suddenly, out of nowhere, I’m telling Audrey the whole sad story of the breakup with Henry – the abandonment, the fear, the isolation. I surprise myself with this disclosure. Until now, I hadn’t shared the story with any of my new acquaintances inside or outside the gym – not even Sunny, with whom I’d had many deep conversations.

Not even Charlie.

“The hardest period was when I accepted that our marriage was over, but I didn’t know what would happen to me,” I tell Audrey. “Where would I live? How would I cope with being single after so many years? Everything felt scary. I can’t say I’m happy now, but at least I’m less panicked. More settled.”

“Jeez,” says Audrey, “I’m such a jerk, crying on your shoulder when you’re the one who’s been through the real crisis. My troubles seem small by comparison.”

I shake my head. “Not at all. Your worries about your boyfriend and your career – that’s your future. I wouldn’t call that small.”

She smiles. “I suppose not. What about you, Petey? What d’ya think?” She says this in an excited voice that causes the dog to bark and jump up, pounding his front paws against her chest. She gives him an affectionate hug. “Thanks for listening,” she says to me.

“Any time.” Before we go our separate ways, Audrey asks if I like jazz. Though I could take it or leave it, I don’t want to sound disparaging. “Sometimes. Why do you ask?”

“There’s a bar down near the Manhattan Beach pier where they have a live jazz combo every Wednesday night at happy hour. They play outdoors, so I can take Petey there. It’s really nice hanging out on the heated patio with a drink. If that sounds good to you.”

“That sounds great.”

“I’ll drive. Parking is so bad over there, it’s crazy to take separate cars.” We agree on a pickup time the following Wednesday.

. . .

Michael’s old bike is at a repair shop where I dropped it off a few days ago for a complete reconditioning. I thought it would only take a day or two but was disappointed when the proprietor handed me a job ticket and said, “About two weeks, ma’am.”

My face falls. “That long?”

“It’s our busy time of year,” he says.

Who knew? Well, it’s been sixteen years since Michael last laid eyes on that bike, so I suppose another couple of weeks won’t matter. When it’s ready, I’ll arrange a meeting date to present it to him.

I stop by the Ostrowski place to visit Nancy and Grace, who is now on board as part-time caregiver. Nancy’s niece came down for several days to sort out her aunt’s affairs. She and I met twice during that time to review what I’d done, and I also introduced her to Grace, who was hired on the spot to work six mornings a week. Grace comes in time to get Nancy up, assist her with washing or showering, and feed her a hot breakfast.

Sipping a glass of ginger ale, Nancy inquires, “How is your son doing? Did you give him the bike yet?” She’s forgotten Michael’s name, but she remembers the notorious bicycle incident and seems determined to set things right after all this time.

“I’ve taken it to a bike shop to get new tires and whatever else they do to refurbish an old bicycle,” I say. “I think it’s going to cost a lot more than we paid for that bike in the first place. But it’s worth it.”

“Oh, let me pay for that, dear. It’s the least I can do.”

“That’s sweet, but not necessary. Thank you though.”

She stands slowly, holding both palms flat on the tabletop to support her as she rises from the chair. Grace puts a hand around the older woman’s upper arm to help steady her. “All of a sudden, I’m so sleepy,” Nancy says. “I think I’ll lie down for a bit. Thanks for stopping in, dear.”

When Grace returns after settling Nancy down for a nap, I ask how it’s going.

“Better.”

“That’s great news.”

“Don’t get me wrong – I’m not saying her memory is improving or anything like that. But she’s not as confused now that I’m here to help keep her on track. She likes to run errands with me after breakfast, or sometimes we go for a short walk instead, and she dozes afterward. Lunch is her big meal of the day and it’s when she takes most of the meds. After I clean up from the midday meal and put her down for the afternoon nap, I fix a sandwich and leave it on the table for her supper with a cookie, packed in a little cooler with a reminder note on top. When I come back the next morning, most of the sandwich is gone, if not all. At least she’s remembering to eat.”

“What will happen on Sunday—your day off?”

“Well, her niece plans to drive down every other week to spend the day with her aunt. The alternate weeks, I understand you’ve volunteered to stop by and make sure Nancy is doing the important stuff.”

“Right—like eating, and taking her meds, and not setting the house on fire.”

Grace laughs. “We can add not drinking to that list,” she says. “Turns out she was hitting the bottle with considerable gusto. Alcohol and dementia don’t mix well. The good news is, she’s forgotten that she likes to drink.”

“Ah. The silver lining of memory loss,” I say. “But will she be okay without you here on Sundays?”

“She’ll be fine,” Grace assures me. “If you fix her lunch, give her the pills, and put out her supper the way I described, she can manage. I’ll leave extra sandwiches and snacks in the fridge that you can take out at your discretion. And I’ll write you notes on what to do.”

“Sounds good. What happened when she went to the doctor for tests?” I ask.

“They did some cognitive testing, and they’ve ordered an MRI,” says Grace. “Nothing definitive yet, but the doctor thinks this is most likely Alzheimer’s.”

I shake my head and sigh. “Poor woman. She finally gets out from under the thumb of that awful husband after all these years, and now this.”

“Yeah. It sucks.”

“What happens when morning care isn’t enough?”

“When it gets to the stage where Nancy needs a second caregiver, I know people who can pitch in.”

“Glad to hear that. How—how long do you think it will be before that happens?”

“Your guess is as good as mine. Years? Months? Days? Everyone is different with this illness.”

. . .

I devour Charlie’s blockbuster novel, Bicoastal. As with Change/Of Course, he employs a double entendre in the title. This time, Anthony (the protagonist) is a man leading a double life, supporting a spouse on either coast; but his California partner (Evan) is male, while the New York partner (Nomi) is female. With my editor’s eye, I can see that his writing is more mature and self-confident than in the first novel. It’s a compelling story and a total page-turner. But as before, the dazzling prose elevates it to the lofty realm of literary fiction.

Halfway through the book is a yoga bondage scene, the details of which resonate with a clarion ring of familiarity. I’m not offended to discover that my memorable moment with Charlie on the yoga mat turned out to be a reboot rather than original material. It’s flattering to have been part of the creative process, though I’d love to know where the idea started. Is this art imitating life, or life imitating art?

After finishing the book, I view the film adaptation on Netflix, pleased with myself for not cheating and watching the movie first. The film has a star-studded cast, from the bisexual two-timer and his partners down to the many cameo roles. I somehow missed the movie when it first played in theaters. I investigate the film’s approval rating on Rotten Tomatoes: ninety-two percent positive reviews from critics, eighty-four percent from audiences. Not too shabby. If people were rated using the same system as films, I might rack up a ninety percent popularity score from my superficial acquaintances at the gym, but only thirty or forty percent from close relatives – maybe even lower from my sternest critics. Like Michael, to pick a name out of a hat.

Next, I dive into Newlyn Nights, Charlie’s sole foray into historical fiction. It’s the story of a World War I veteran who returns to his hometown in Cornwall and reconnects with a young woman with whom he had a brief affair ten years ago, before going to war in France. He now suffers from PTSD – or shell shock, as they called it back then – and he finds it painful to interact with this gentle young lady and her close, cheerful, boisterous family. Though he keeps trying to withdraw from them, they gradually win him over with their compassion and generosity. By the time I finish the last chapter, I am warm, wistful, and teary from reading this testament to the redemptive power of love. I want to be part of a family like this. A group of good, simple, loving people who don’t play mind games with each other. Do families like this even exist in the real world?

Newlyn Nights wasn’t a smash hit, either with critics or with readers. I remember Charlie telling me a producer optioned it for a TV movie, hoping to coast on the laurels of the previous bestseller, but the project never got off the ground. Successful or not, the book has a powerful effect on me. I decide on impulse to write Charlie and tell him this. Before I lose my nerve, I send him a text.

Margaret: I’ve been reading your books. I found Newlyn Nights so moving. It’s been days since I finished, and it’s still on my mind.

Hours go by with no response, and I think he’s blown me off. But then he writes back:

Charlie: I hope you know you’re an outlier. That book was never a popular favorite.

Margaret: Well, it’s a favorite with me. Can I look forward to more historical fiction from you?

Charlie: Doubtful. After that novel, I decided to stick with the old “write what you know” dictum.

Now I’m emboldened by the fact that he’s engaging with me.

Margaret: Maybe I could buy you a cup of coffee sometime to discuss?

A few minutes elapse before his response pops up on my screen:

Charlie: Probably not a good idea.

Oh. Is he avoiding me because he’s involved with that woman I saw him with at the movie theater? Or does he simply want nothing to do with me? But I continue to read his books, and I text him with a comment and a question about his fourth novel, The Chandler – the story of an overaged hippie whose modest candle-making business grows into an empire, causing him to become a greedy capitalist and reverse roles with his once ambitious wife. Charlie replies to my question, and I text him back one more time:

Margaret: Thanks for the info. My offer of coffee still stands if you ever change your mind.

But he doesn’t respond.