My Year of Casual Acquaintances (South Bay #1)

30.

Vincent’s weather-beaten face crinkles into a broad smile when I give him the news. “Charles Kittredge? Coming to see me?” he says, incredulous.

“That’s right. He texted to say he’ll be here in ten minutes.” Charlie is running early. I had suggested two-thirty, and it’s not yet two o’clock. I want to give his visit my full attention, so Petey and I will have to push back our rounds with the other patients.

“Now, isn’t that something? That is really something,” Vincent says with a chuckle. “What will I say to him?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry. He’s friendly. And you’re not the type to be at a loss for words.”

“I guess not, but I’ve never had a celebrity visit me before. Maybe I’ll get tongue-tied. I wish—I wish I’d had more time to prepare.”

“I didn’t know until a little while ago if he’d be coming.” I’d considered giving Vincent advance notice, but I decided against it on the off-chance that Charlie might have to cancel and disappoint him. Charlie took a day and a half to respond to my reminder text, and when he wrote back this morning to confirm the address, he reiterated how busy he was and cautioned me that his visit would be brief.

“Why don’t we have him autograph your books while he’s here?” I say.

“Now, that’s an excellent idea. Would you grab them from the shelf for me? You can put them right on the table there.” I do as he asks while Petey sits next to the old gentleman’s wheelchair and sniffs his arm. The paperback copies of Charlie’s novels are almost as weathered as Vincent himself, causing me to wonder how many times he’s read them. More than once, according to a lengthy conversation we had during last week’s visit.

“Is there anything in particular you’d like to ask?” I say. “Like how he became a writer, or which book is his favorite?”

“Hmm . . .” Vincent scratches Petey around the ears as he ponders this. “Sometimes I wish I could find out what happens to the characters after the story ends. Should I ask him, do you think?”

“That’s a terrific question,” I say, smiling.

When Charlie arrives a few minutes later, I show him into the room and make the introductions. Being in close quarters with him after all these months has an unnerving effect on me. A powerful force tugs at every fiber, as if a magnetic field is pulling me into his orbit. It takes all my strength to resist this force, to keep myself from running to him and flinging my arms around him. Instead, I busy myself moving chairs around for our visit. I arrange the seating into a kind of triangle, placing my chair close to Vincent’s wheelchair and leaving enough space for Petey to settle on the floor between us. For Charlie, I place a large armchair facing the two of us.

Charlie takes off his fleece hoodie and drapes it meticulously across the back of the chair, smoothing out every wrinkle as if he were fussing over an Armani suit jacket. Anything to postpone looking at me, I suspect. When he finally takes his seat, an awkward silence follows. Glancing back and forth between Charlie and me, Vincent raises one bushy eyebrow and then comes to the rescue, assuming his favorite role as master of ceremonies. The old man leans in toward my chair as he addresses Charlie. “I thought I knew your books better than anyone, Mr. Kittredge, but this gal has me beat. We had a lively discussion about your work last week.”

“I’m flattered she’s become a fan of my work,” Charlie says to Vincent, as though I were not in the room with them. “And please, call me Charlie.”

I search his face for some kind of clue, but he is a closed book. I’m more than just a fan of your work, I want to tell him. But of course, I can’t say that—especially not here, not now. “I pulled out Vincent’s copies of your novels to sign,” I say, gesturing toward the stack of paperbacks on the bedside table. “He’s been following your career from the time Change/Of Course was published.”

Charlie takes the books without looking at me. Now Vincent promotes me shamelessly. “She gave me insights I never had about that book, even after all the times I’ve read it. We’re sure lucky to have your friend as a volunteer.”

Charlie hesitates before saying, “Yes—you are.” I wait, hoping he will look at me and smile or let his guard down, but when he pivots in my direction, he still avoids eye contact. “I thought you didn’t read much fiction.”

“That used to be true. But lately I’m consuming it nonstop, trying to make up for lost time. I—I hope it isn’t too late.” I’m uncertain whether Charlie grasps the hidden undercurrent of meaning in my words, but we finally lock eyes and I see a look of—what? Hurt? Sadness? Longing? As diverse as those emotions may be, I think I find all three in his gray gaze. For a hopeful but fleeting moment, I detect a chink in the armor, a tiny opening through which Charlie might start letting me in again.

But he turns back to Vincent, who jumps in once more to fill the cavernous silence. “Never too late, is it?” says Vincent, winking.

“To read? I should say not,” Charlie says. “Tell me what it’s like, living here. Are you able to get your hands on new books? Is there any sort of discussion group?”

“Oh, things are pretty informal at this place, but a few of us exchange books, and sometimes I still—”

Vincent’s response is interrupted when an aide knocks on the door and opens it partway, sticking her head into the room. “Sorry to barge in, but we need you to bring Petey out to the back patio,” she says to me. “A patient’s grandkids are visiting out there. They have to leave in a few minutes, and I promised they could meet the dog.”

“I—I—of course.” I give a light tug on Petey’s leash and he jumps up, rubbing his head against my leg to signal cooperation. As we pass Charlie on our way to the door, he reaches out to pet Petey on the head.

“Handsome dog. How long have you had him?”

“Oh—Petey’s not mine; he belongs to a friend. We volunteer together here.” As I walk Petey out, I turn to the two men and say, “I’ll be back as soon as I can. Maybe you’ll still be here.” Charlie gives me that same brief but complicated look again, the look that reignites a few embers of hope. I check the time on the wall clock, making a note to return in around ten minutes.

It’s chaos at the board and care today. The family visit on the patio takes longer than expected. Then, I cross paths with a visiting nurse who’s come to administer flu shots. I wait for her to finish before letting Petey interact with the other residents. I try to lead the dog away, promising to return soon, but one of the more cantankerous patients clucks her tongue and says, “Stay right here. I refuse to miss out on my time with Mister Petey.”

When I’m at last able to break away from this madness, I hurry back to Vincent’s room, hoping to escort Charlie out to his car and have a private moment with him. But he’s already gone. Dammit. The big opportunity for us to reconnect has evaporated, and I bleakly acknowledge there’s no telling when or where we might cross paths again.

Vincent, at least, is pumped up from the visit. “You were right. He’s a helluva nice guy. I thought he’d be more serious, you know? Like his books. But he’s easy to talk to.”

“Yes—yes, he is.” I force a smile, but I guess an involuntary grimace of pain must cross my face.

“Are you okay?” Vincent asks, and I can tell he understands my disappointment.

“Yes. No. Sort of.”

“I picked up on a little, uh, tension between the two of you? You’re welcome to tell me it’s none of my beeswax, but maybe it’ll help to talk about what’s going on.”

“We were seeing each other for a while, but things didn’t work out.”

“I figured it was something like that.”

“By the way we were acting today?”

“Last week. Your face lit up when you talked about his books.”

I sigh. “It was my fault. I got divorced the year before, and I wasn’t ready for a serious involvement. Charlie and I didn’t want the same thing at the same time.”

“Bad timing is never anyone’s fault.”

I shrug.

“How long did your marriage last?” he asks.

“Twenty-eight years.”

“My goodness, I wouldn’t have guessed from looking at you.”

“Thanks.” I smile at him.

“Do you ever miss it? Marriage, I mean.”

I think about this. “I miss the safeness of it, the feeling of security. But I don’t particularly miss Henry.”

A bushy eyebrow shoots up again in that perceptive way of his. “I see.”

“Anyway . . . I ended it with Charlie because I felt like I needed time alone. Time to sort myself out.”

“Sometimes you can sort things out more readily with the right person by your side.”

I stop to digest his comment. “That may be true. But six months ago, I didn’t see it that way.”

Vincent nods, then sighs and leans his head back. “I feel a catnap coming on. The excitement must have worn me out.” He holds his arms up to me, and as we hug he says, “Thank you for today. It meant the world to me, meeting my favorite author.”

“I’m glad it worked out for you.” But sadly, not for me. I tell myself it’s ridiculous to feel wounded over Charlie leaving without saying goodbye. He’s under tremendous work pressure, and I knew he might have to take off in a hurry. With all he has going on, I’m sure he wasn’t even thinking about me.

And that’s what hurts the most.