My Year of Casual Acquaintances (South Bay #1)

33.

Margaret: WTF? I fixed his dinner the way you told me to, but he won’t touch it. I hope he’s not sick.

This is the text I send to Audrey, the latest of several panic-stricken communiqués today. She’s gone to Jersey on business until Friday night, and this is my first lengthy stretch of time alone with Petey. Our shared custody arrangement will continue until Audrey’s permanent move to the East Coast in the middle of January. I’m excited to have him with me – but nervous, as any new mom would be.

The evening meal I’ve prepared for the Wheaten incorporates dry kibble, canned dog food, warm broth, grated raw carrots, pre-cooked brown rice, and liquid vitamins and supplements mixed into an aromatic stew far more elaborate than the frozen dinner I’ll be microwaving for myself. When I set the bowl down on the kitchen floor, the dog walked over, gave it an apathetic sniff, and sauntered off to the living room to lie down.

Audrey texts me back.

Audrey: When did you give him the food?

Margaret: Half an hour ago.

Audrey: Is that all? I told you, Petey eats like a terrier.

Margaret: And that means what?

Audrey: He doesn’t chow down, he grazes. Like a cat. Don’t worry, I promise you he won’t starve.

A little later, I grow alarmed again when Petey goes out to the balcony and runs in frantic circles, barking, growling, and whining as if fending off a fearsome predator. After this behavior continues for several minutes, I wonder about his sanity. I make a short video of the dog’s run-bark-whine circuit around the balcony and text it to Audrey. Her reply comes within seconds.

Audrey: LOLOL. Totally normal.

Margaret: Are you serious?

Audrey: It’s his active time of day. I call it Wheaten Witching Hour.

Margaret: OMG. He’s going to continue this for a whole hour?

Audrey: Yes, but no longer than that if you’re lucky.

Though Petey has a few quirky traits, in other ways he’s easier than I expected. When I settle in at the computer after my evening meal (Petey remains uninterested in his, even after I toss in a few scraps of chicken from my own plate), I worry he’ll distract me from my work with more whining or some new attention grab. But he doesn’t pester me at all. He lies down close to my chair, head resting on his forepaws, a comforting and undemanding presence.

When I finish my editorial work for the evening, I print out a series of online forms to start the process of getting myself certified as a therapy dog handler. It’s an elaborate undertaking. There’s a comprehensive exam in which I will administer basic commands to Petey in thirteen different test situations. Petey can ace all of this, I’m confident, but I still have a lot to learn. Once certified, the fees I pay to the therapy dog association will include liability insurance coverage. I’ll also be responsible for the dog’s annual health care record and proof of inoculations. I’m supposed to trim his nails and keep him clean, well-groomed, and brushed for our visits. Petey’s long, silky coat can develop invisible clumps and mats below the surface. Unless I’m diligent about brushing, the mats will become so hopelessly tangled, the only remedy will be a buzz cut. I can’t subject this beautiful dog to such a fate. Once I earn my certification, I can escort Petey to hospitals and nursing care facilities as well as the residential board and care home. Yes, it’ll be a lot of work, but . . .

“I think it’s worth it, don’t you, Petey?” I say aloud to the dog.

He opens one eye and emits a low fff sound in agreement before returning to his nap.

When I crawl into bed later to read a book, I pat the covers and he jumps up next to me, then he lies down and curls himself against my legs. I like the warmth his small body gives off and the reassuring sound of his soft breathing. I hope he’ll sleep on the bed with me all night, but after about fifteen minutes, he slinks down and pads over to the doggie bed that Audrey has placed in the far corner of the room. Maybe Petey prefers the familiar scent and softness of his old bed.

Or maybe he’s just not that into me.

Audrey and I have agreed that Petey will continue to receive one long daily exercise walk along the beach as he’s accustomed to, along with two or three short walks, as time permits, to allow him to take care of business. After the first walk of the morning, I check my phone calendar and marvel over how packed my schedule has become. Work continues as before, but now there are many other agenda items. Petey’s daily care and feeding. Practicing for my certification. Therapy dog rounds, which I hope to expand on after I’m certified. Helping with the holiday toy drive at Seaside Fitness – I promised Susie I’d lend a hand. Christmas shopping – so many more people on my list this year. My workout program at the gym. My activities with Benny, Heather, and Michael, which are taking up more and more of my time these days. The online book club I joined, where we discuss a work of classic fiction every month. And of course, there’s Mission Kittredge, my quest to see Charlie again.

I decide it’s time to make some changes in my work life. Assuming my boss cooperates, that is.

Robert answers my call right away, knowing I rarely use the telephone unless it’s something important. “Morning, Margaret. Everything okay?”

“Fine.”

“How’s the new supplement coming along?”

I fill him in on a special trade show supplement we plan to insert in the March issue, a new offering for next year. Then I say, “I’ve got something important to discuss with you. Is this a good time?”

“Go for it.”

“I’d like to cut back to a reduced work schedule after the holidays.”

“When do you propose not to work?”

“All day Wednesdays, and Friday afternoons. I understand you might need to give me a pay cut since I’d only be available three and a half days. Though I think I can still get the job done on the reduced schedule.”

“I think you could get the job done in your sleep, Margaret. You know I don’t care that you keep odd hours. I’ve always given you a lot of rope.”

“And I’m grateful for that, believe me, but now we’re not talking odd hours, we’re talking fewer hours.”

“Makes no difference to me as long as the work doesn’t suffer.”

“That’s great. And what do you think would be fair in the way of a pay adjustment?”

“Let’s give it a trial run for three months with no change to your salary. We can reevaluate after first quarter and agree on how to continue.”

“Wow. That seems more than fair. Very generous, in fact. You sound so serene about the whole idea.”

“Not serene—relieved. I was scared to death you were going to resign again.” He chuckles.

“No, I love my job. But I’m loving my life a little more these days too. Okay, love is too strong a word, but at least I don’t hate it any longer. And I want to make time for some new activities.”

“I’m happy to hear that. It’s been a rough couple of years for you.”

“Yes, it has. One other thing. You’ve always let me moonlight on the side, but that’s all going to stop. I don’t want you to think I’m giving you short shrift in favor of other work.”

“Good. I appreciate you telling me.”

True to my promise, right after hanging up I email my freelance clients, informing them I won’t be accepting any more projects after year-end. Then I text Heather and Michael and offer to sign up for more frequent childcare duties.

Margaret: I can pick up Benny from pre-school after my volunteer work and keep him with me through dinnertime on Wednesday afternoons. And I should be able to take him for a couple of hours on Friday afternoons too.

Heather: That would be fantastic!

Her reply ends with that prayer-hands emoji people use to mean thank you, even though it looks more like please.

Though all else is going well, I’m fresh out of ideas on what to do about Charlie. The obvious strategy would be to track him down at the club. I’ve resumed yoga classes, but there’s been no sign of him. The launch of Second Chance must be occupying all his time. The two copies of the book I purchased before Thanksgiving are sitting on my coffee table, untouched, so I embark on a weekend reading marathon. Second Chance is a worthy sequel to Bicoastal. It picks up the story five years later, focusing on Nomi, Anthony’s New York spouse. Remarried to a kind and trustworthy man named George, Nomi is so damaged by her first husband’s treacherous betrayal that she propels the new relationship into a downward spiral. Gentle George becomes the punching bag on whom she unleashes all her frustration and fury, though not in the physical sense. It’s much more subtle than that.

There’s a scene one of the reviewers has labeled “the dishwasher diatribe.” It begins with Nomi leading George into the kitchen by the hand, like a parent about to scold a wayward child. She berates him for his ineptitude in loading the dishwasher. In a voice oozing venom, she picks apart every aspect of his incompetence. He’s failed to stack the plates symmetrically, leaving large gaping holes. He has loaded forks and knives with the handles facing down, but the spoons with handles up. He’s even committed the egregious faux pas of putting wooden-handled utensils in the machine as only an imbecile would do. She attacks him in this fashion over other mundane tasks. When poor George can no longer stand the constant verbal abuse, the harping over every detail, he moves out. The final third of the novel tells the story of Nomi’s atonement as she confronts her own cruelty and tries to work her way back into George’s good graces. In the end, after Nomi’s concerted efforts to undo previous wrongs, the couple reconcile.

I call Sunny to share my reactions. “That dishwasher thing . . .” I say. “Charlie takes the most trivial domestic scenario and charges it full of dramatic tension. I stayed up late reading it.”

“Yeah, me too. He’s writing about a kitchen appliance, for God’s sake, but it’s like reading a Stephen King story.”

“This got me thinking about how much Charlie’s writing has changed since his first novel.”

“The one about the brother and sister who have superpowers?”

“Yes. It’s like Charlie has pivoted a hundred and eighty degrees since that book from magical realism to this kind of gritty, ultra-realistic style where the characters’ flaws are exposed under a microscope.” Hah. A year ago, I didn’t even like fiction, and here I am commenting with authority on the various fictional sub-genres.

“It’s powerful,” Sunny says.

“Changing the subject, how’s it going with the plan to open a new spa down in this neck of the woods?”

“I’m working on it,” she says. “How’s it going with the plan to reconnect with Charlie?”

“I’m working on it.”

Google Alert messages are dribbling in as more of the leading literary critics publish their reviews of the book – most of them positive, I’m happy to note. I also see alerts on book signings and appearances in Northern California. This explains why Charlie hasn’t been to yoga class. Then, a few days later:

Book signing event, December 10th, 7:00 p.m. Meet bestselling author Charles Kittredge, who will read excerpts from his new novel, Second Chance.

The notice cites a venue in Culver City, about thirty minutes away. Bingo. This is the opportunity I’ve been waiting for.

The announcement includes a link that I use to purchase a ticket online. The admission fee is steep, but what do I know about author events? I click on a second link that takes me to a page on the publisher’s website, where I find a full list of Charlie’s book launch activities. How did I not see this before? He is scheduled for another appearance closer to home, but I prefer to go to a more remote location where I won’t run into a roomful of familiar faces. Anyway, I’ve already bought this expensive ticket for Culver City.

. . .

Petey and I are settling into our new arrangement. He is a good boy most of the time, except for one problem – the incessant barking on the balcony during Wheaten witching hour each night. The next-door neighbor leaves me a snarky note, and I’m worried he’ll complain to my landlord if I don’t control the situation. I come up with an ingenious solution. As the witching hour approaches, I strap Petey into his therapy dog harness. Sure enough, now that he’s put on his work uniform, the training kicks in. He knows he isn’t supposed to bark and dials back the volume to subtle “woofing” mode.

Good dog parenting, Margaret. My stratagem works brilliantly—for three days. On day four, as I’m strapping him into the harness, Petey gives me a look that says, I’m on to your tricks, lady. Harness or no, he reverts to full-throated barking.

“Petey, stop. Please. Be a good boy. Here’s a treat.” But my pleas and bribes have no effect, and I’m forced to lock the dog inside. He paces back and forth by the balcony door, whining and panting, while I try without success to focus on my editing work. My one-year lease runs out at the end of December. When I signed it last year, the property manager told me I could go month to month when the initial lease ran out. She remarked at the time on how easy it is for them to rent out waterfront apartments in the current real estate market.

I shoot out a quick email to her: Effective January 1st, I wish to rent on a monthly basis as you said I might do. I understand you require thirty days’ notice to vacate the unit. After the holidays are over, I’ll start the search for a small house to buy or rent in the area. I’ll lose my beautiful view, but I’ll gain a little yard for Petey and Benny, and a real home for us to share. Hopefully one with tolerant, dog-loving neighbors. When I imagine us together in that cozy little house, with a fenced-in yard lined with tall hedges, my insides tingle with warmth and pleasure. I’m optimistic that whatever happens, I will be all right.