My Year of Casual Acquaintances (South Bay #1)

32.

Vincent is in the hospital. When Petey and I make our board and care rounds, I ask why he’s not there and learn he was rushed to South Bay Medical Center’s cardiac care unit following a heart attack four days ago. The other patients are sad and subdued without their ringleader to watch out for them. Even Petey can’t perk them up today.

“How’s he doing? Can I visit him there?” I ask.

“They moved him from the ICU to a patient room yesterday, so you should be able to visit,” says the director. “Vincent DiLorenzo, room 334, East Wing.”

I drive straight over to the hospital and lead the terrier into the East Wing lobby. At the front desk, I show the receptionist Petey’s therapy dog certification. “The patient loves Petey, and I think a visit from the dog would be beneficial,” I say. “Maybe I should have called first? I just found out about Mister DiLorenzo and hurried over.”

She studies the papers and says, “Okay, and where are your credentials?”

“My credentials?”

“Yes, both the handler and the dog have to be certified for patient visitation. Hospital rules.”

I escort Petey back to the car. “Sorry, buddy, but you’ll have to wait out here while I check on our friend Vincent. I won’t be long.” He hops into the back seat and cocks his head at me as I crack the windows to let the cool breeze flow through the car. Have I been a bad dog? he appears to say, ears twitching.

“Petey, it’s not you, it’s me.” This has become an all too familiar catchphrase during the past year. But I never expected to utter these words to a dog.

Vincent is awake and sitting up in his hospital bed when I enter the room. He looks comfortable, and his mouth curves into a grateful smile upon seeing me. The one shocking aspect of his appearance is his pallor. I’d thought his dark suntan was permanently baked in, but his skin has faded to a pasty grayish hue in a week’s time. “How are you doing?” I administer a gentle hug and pull up a chair next to his bedside.

“Tired. Weak. But better today than I’ve been since the heart attack.” His voice is thick with fatigue.

“I rushed over right away when I heard you were here. I tried to bring Petey in to visit, but it wasn’t allowed.”

“Now that’s a shame.”

“I apologize for showing up empty-handed. Let me swing by again tomorrow with some books for you.”

“Oh, no need, Margaret. The volunteers bring me reading materials—when I’m not snoozing, that is. I don’t think I could focus on a novel right now. Or anything much deeper than People magazine. Too drowsy from the medication, you know?”

“I can imagine. Everyone misses you back at your place. Petey and I could both sense it today.”

“I miss them too. I never thought I’d miss an assisted living home, but it’s the Garden of Eden compared to the ICU. And to think I even got a visit from my favorite novelist. That would’ve never happened if I were still living in my old apartment. Thank you again.” Vincent’s eyes flutter closed and we sit together, silent, for a couple of minutes. “Have you seen him again?” he asks.

“Charlie? No.”

His eyes still closed, he says, “You know, lying in this hospital room has made me think about the past. I had a woman in my life for over thirty years. We were friends and companions, we traveled together, but we never married. I think that was deeply disappointing to her. But I never had a passion for her.” Vincent’s breathing deepens, and for a moment I think he’s dozed off. But then he says, “That husband of yours—the one you don’t miss—I’m guessing he wasn’t exactly the love of your life either.”

“True enough.”

“Maybe it could be a different story with Kittredge?”

“Oh, I think that ship has sailed.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure. Any man who acts that nervous around a woman must have powerful feelings for her.”

“Well, Vincent, you finally got a smile out of me.”

Without opening his eyes, Vincent smiles back and says, “There was someone else in my life. When I was a young man in college, I fell in love with a girl named Amelia.”

“Such a pretty name.”

“Such a pretty girl. When we both finished UCLA, she wanted to move in together.”

“And did you?”

“I wasn’t ready, so we went our separate ways. Then a couple of years later, we started seeing each other again.” Vincent’s voice is so low, I have to lean in to hear him.

“I remember thinking, ‘Now. Now I want to see this woman’s face every day when I wake up.’ But Amelia had other ideas,” he continues. “She’d been accepted into a graduate program at Boston University, and that was the end of it. The timing never worked for us.”

Same as Charlie and me. Then my thoughts turn to Audrey and Nathan. They broke up for the same reason.

“Some people like to say the devil’s in the details. But I say the devil’s in the timing,” Vincent adds, his breathing growing labored.

“I’m afraid all this talk is exhausting you.”

He opens his eyes and gives me a piercing gaze. “Let me finish. Then I’ll rest. It doesn’t have to end the same way for you.”

“How can I change the ending?”

“You can try fighting for it. I didn’t do that. When Amelia got into that program at BU, I let her go. I could’ve tried to talk her out of it. Hell, I could’ve gone with her.”

“Sorry to say, I don’t have much of a fighting spirit.”

“Neither did I. That’s why I’m telling you, don’t do what I did. Don’t give up that easily.”

“I—I’ll think about what you said.”

“Good.”

His eyes close again. I hesitate, trying to decide whether to stay with him a while longer, but his breathing has deepened into a soft, rhythmic snore. I return to the car, and I don’t realize I’m crying until I hug Petey and all he wants to do is lick the briny tears off my cheeks. I tighten my hold on him. Suddenly, I wish I possessed the power to keep them both safe and well. Petey . . . and Vincent.

Later, at home, I see an announcement online: Second Chance: A Novel. A woman’s marriage falters when she finds she is still haunted by her troubled past in a stunning sequel to Bicoastal by New York Times bestselling author Charles Kittredge. This title will be released on November 20.

I pre-order two hardcover copies from Amazon – one for myself, the other for Vincent. Before I settle into an evening of work, I take care of one more item of business online. I set up a Google Alert on my computer for Charles Kittredge. Now I’ll be able to keep tabs on the Second Chance book launch, critical reviews, and live appearances.

It’s official. I’ve degenerated from dewy-eyed fan to creepy cyber stalker.

As I open up the Word document for the Powder World cover article I’ll be editing tonight, I take a long sip of chamomile tea. Last week, for our annual plant safety issue, I wrote a column on the topic of how safety can impact workers’ rights. The column focused on a Copenhagen food processing plant that gave their workers free beer all day long as a perk. Management rescinded the privilege over concerns about personnel safety, and the workers went out on strike. Despite the protest, the unpopular new policy remained in force, though the workers received one concession – free beers in the cafeteria after work. I’ve decided it might not be such a terrific habit to nurse a glass of wine during every working moment, so I’ve substituted herbal tea for my own safety. But like those Danish workers, I’m not embracing abstinence. I reward myself with a glass of something nice when I shut down my computer at the end of the day.

. . .

Audrey, Petey, and I are at the halfway point in our beach walk, and she asks if we can sit down on a bench and take a break. Her cheeks are flushed and she is more out of breath than usual. “This work schedule is wrecking my health,” she says. “I need to get back to my walks.”

“Are the planning meetings over?”

“For now.”

“And have they determined your fate at the company?”

“I was about to update you on that.” She takes a swig of water, looks down at Petey, then over at me. “I’m being promoted – but not to southwestern regional sales manager, which I thought might be the next move. They offered me a staff position instead.”

“Congratulations. Where?”

“Well, that’s the thing. Corporate headquarters. New Jersey.”

“Oh my. How do you feel about that?”

“Excited. Nervous. Freaked out. I’m eating too much and running on no sleep.”

“When will you have to move?”

“January fifteenth is the official date. But I’ll need to spend a lot of time back there between now and then for end-of-year meetings and apartment hunting. I can’t believe I’m moving back to New York after all these years. Well, Jersey . . . close enough. I guess they figured I’d fit right in with this accent of mine.”

“What about Petey?”

She sighs. “That’s the hardest part.” She pronounces it hoddest pot. “Petey can’t go with me, but my parents will give him a home.”

“They live someplace east of LA, don’t they?”

“Yeah, about ninety minutes from here, on the road to Palm Springs. They love Petey, but it’s not ideal. For one thing, it’s wicked hot out there in the summer, and Petey hates the heat.”

“Must be that Irish blood.” I learned from Audrey that the soft-coated Wheaten terrier breed originated in Ireland.

“Yeah, no kidding. And my folks are only in their sixties, but they’re both couch potatoes, ya know? I worry they won’t be able to give him enough exercise.”

“He’ll miss the board and care visits too. It seems like Petey needs stimulation and a sense of purpose.”

Audrey nods and wipes away tears. “Shit. I’m crying like a baby these days. Sometimes I don’t even know if I’m sad about Nathan, or Petey, or leaving this beautiful place.”

“Probably all the above.” Petey’s radar homes in on a golden retriever walking by, and the terrier emits a low growl. Though goldens are the most happy-go-lucky dogs in the world, Petey is unimpressed by their good nature and treats them with suspicion and even hostility. A bit like me with Alice.

Audrey leans in to give the dog’s neck a comforting massage. “Take it easy, pal.”

“Petey could come live with me.” My words tumble out so fast, I’m not sure how it happens. I hadn’t consciously planned this . . . it’s as if my mouth became an independent instrument with a mind of its own.

Audrey’s eyes are wide with surprise. “But you’re in a small apartment with no yard. Can you keep him at your place?”

“Dogs are allowed in the terms of my lease. Besides, this is Petey’s home turf. He’d have his regular walks on the beach and his therapy dog routine. And he’s already familiar with my place from the afternoons he’s spent with me when you’ve been working late. I honestly think this could work.”

I watch Audrey’s excitement build as she thinks it through aloud. “If you need to travel for business or go away on vacation, my parents could take the dog. And they’d drive in to pick him up and deliver him back to you—I’m sure they’d do that. Like I said, they’re both crazy about Petey. Nathan misses him too. He can walk him sometimes if you’re too busy.”

“You see? I told you this could work.”

“You’re a doll to offer, but we don’t need to decide anything today. It’s a big decision. Take your time and think about it.”

“I don’t need to think about it.”

Mum will disapprove, for sure. Though she adores animals and makes a great fuss over other people’s dogs and cats, she believes pet ownership interferes with one’s own self-centered pursuits. “It’s better not to have a dog,” she’s often cautioned me. Petey will be a big responsibility, and there’ll be a learning curve involved, thanks to Mum’s strict policy of pet-free living while I grew up. But I want this. I’m not sure why I want it so much. I only know that I do.

. . .

“What is that ingredient in turkey that makes you sleepy?” says Heather. “Because I’m drowsy as hell right now.”

I Google it on my cellphone. “Tryptophan. But wait . . .” I scroll down. “It says that’s a myth. The tryptophan in turkey doesn’t make you any sleepier than a lot of other foods.”

“If that’s true, it’s got a pretty strong placebo effect. I think I could sleep for the next twelve hours,” says Michael.

It’s Thanksgiving, around seven-thirty in the evening – though it feels more like midnight. The room is so quiet, the only sound is the crackling of logs in the fireplace. Benny is dozing face-down on the family room rug, and the adults are comatose with food. We’re gathered around the fire as we finish our last crumbs of dessert – the four of us, Michael’s next-door neighbors, and a single friend of Heather’s, a young woman from Manhattan Beach. Henry and Alice are out of the picture, as they’ve gone to spend Thanksgiving with her sister in Scottsdale. Thank God. On their way to the airport this morning, Alice had reportedly swung by to drop off a centerpiece of fall flowers she’d arranged in a turkey-shaped vase, and a pumpkin cake she’d baked in the shape of an actual pumpkin. As I bite into the cake, I comment, “Alice is four hundred miles away, but she still manages to steal the show.” I say this in a joking way, and even Michael is amused.

My contributions were two top-notch bottles of vino and a store-bought apple pie. “The pie was out of this world,” says Heather. “I liked it better than the pumpkin cake.”

I blow her a kiss and say to Michael, “You married well, I hope you know.”

“I do.” Michael is nursing an after-dinner scotch and acting unusually mellow.

“This has been delightful, but I’m going to head out now,” I say, rising to indulge in a luxurious stretch in front of the warm fire. I turn to Heather. “Can I take a small packet of dark meat for Petey?”

“It’s already wrapped in foil. And I packed some other leftovers for you in sandwich bags. Everything’s on the counter, to the right of the fridge,” she says.

“Thanks.”

“I still can’t believe you’re about to become a dog owner,” says Michael. “It’s nuts.”

“You sound like your grandmother. Mum’s been trying to talk me out of it all week.”

“No, no, I meant nuts in a good way. I think it’ll be fun for Benny. This dog is okay around kids, right?”

“Better than okay. Don’t forget, Petey’s a trained therapy dog.”

“Right.”

“Also, don’t forget my offer to babysit this weekend. Unless you have plans with Dad and Alice when they get back from Scottsdale?”

His upper lip curls into a little snarl. “No plans. And to be honest, I don’t give a sh—” He looks down at Benny on the floor. “I don’t care to see them.”

I recognize all too well the bitter, antagonistic tone that has now pivoted from me to his father. “We talked about this before. It doesn’t help, carrying this kind of resentment around. Let it go. I have.” And though I didn’t know it till now, I truly have.

I’ve given the matter a lot of thought, ever since the big blow-up on the day of Henry’s birthday party. That day, I got on his case for sweeping his infidelities under the rug. But all those years ago, when he made his tearful confession about that first one-night stand, I see now that I was complicit in the sweeping. Perhaps if I hadn’t let it go so readily, if I’d shown passionate outrage, if I’d pushed back and insisted on family counseling, the long-term outcome might have been different. But I didn’t put up a fight. Call it acceptance, call it indifference – whatever it was, I handed Henry a free pass to continue the unfaithful behavior. I say to Michael, “Your father and I were both so young and naive when we got married, we were clueless about the effort that goes into a successful marriage. Instead of confronting our problems and working them out, we ignored them and hoped they’d resolve on their own.”

Michael says, “That doesn’t bode well for Heather and me.”

“Because you married young too?”

“Yes.”

“Michael, trust me – there’s no gene for infidelity, or for cluelessness. Your relationship isn’t doomed just because your parents screwed up. Learn from our mistakes. Talk with Heather about your differences. Work together to keep the marriage strong.”

He nods, and I enfold him in a hug. He stands stiffly at first but then wraps his arms around me so tightly it hurts, though just a little. He walks me outside, and we hug again before I slide into the driver’s seat. I’m chilled to the bone with that sensation you get after a large meal, when all the blood rushes to the stomach, leaving the extremities brittle and exposed. I had planned to visit Vincent in the hospital tonight and surprise him with the newly published copy of Second Chance, which arrived yesterday, but I think the hour is too late. Besides, I’m wiped out. I did some editorial work in the morning, worked out at the gym, and took Petey on our therapy rounds for a special holiday visit before going to Michael’s for the Thanksgiving feast. I’ll bring the book to Vincent tomorrow, right after my power sculpt class.

When I go to the hospital around midday on Friday, I bypass the reception desk and ride the elevator up to room 334. The room is empty. Maybe they’ve taken Vincent out for a walk or to a therapy session. I stop at the nursing station to inquire. “I’m here to visit Vincent DiLorenzo. Can you tell me where I’ll find him?”

“Are you a relative?”

“No, a close friend.” That’s a bit of a stretch, but I figure it’s the only way I’ll get any information out of her.

“I’m sorry to tell you, Mister DiLorenzo passed away.”

I reel back as if punched in the face. “When?”

“Early this morning.”

I stand there rigid, absorbing the news. I look down at the jacket of Charlie’s book with the sorrowful realization that Vincent will never see it now. I had rehearsed what I was going to say on this visit. I’ve given a lot of thought to your advice, and I’m determined to go for it. I promise I’ll try my hardest to find a way back to Charlie if he’ll have me. Vincent would’ve loved this pledge, as he would’ve loved receiving his favorite author’s new book. If I’d stuck with my original plan and gone to the hospital on Thanksgiving, maybe both the gift and the promise might have brightened Vincent’s final night on earth. But I waited until today, and now it’s too late. It wasn’t meant to be. Is this an omen that Charlie and I are not meant to be, either? Or a sign that I should honor Vincent’s memory by following through on my undelivered pledge?

I’m not sure, but I know that fine old gentleman was right about one thing. The devil is indeed in the timing.