My Year of Casual Acquaintances (South Bay #1)

34.

The night of the book signing, I allow an hour and a half for the twenty-mile drive north. When I reach Culver City and park in a municipal garage, it’s much too early to go into the lecture hall. Calculating it will be at least forty minutes before they open the doors, I duck into an Italian restaurant across the street and find a counter seat at the cozy bar next to the dining room.

The bar menu includes several popular Italian dishes in appetizer portions, including white lasagna. I remember that’s a favorite of Charlie’s, and I’m tempted for a moment. But that’s a heavy dish, and even a small serving might leave me droopy-eyed. Falling asleep during the reading is not the ideal path to Charlie’s heart. Instead, I order a tricolore salad and a three-ounce pour of a Sangiovese red blend – enough to take the edge off, but not enough to induce sleep.

The auditorium is packed by the time I go in. There’s a long table in the back of the room where two women are handing out copies of Second Chance, and now I understand why the ticket price is hefty – it includes a hardcover copy of the novel. I already have my two Amazon copies in the bag I’m carrying, and I worry whether that’s bad form, like bringing your own entrée into a restaurant. Well, too late now. At least they’re tucked away where no one can see them.

“Did you want a blank copy, or pre-signed?” The woman behind the table points to two stacks of books. “The blank copy is for Mr. Kittredge to personalize after the reading. You might prefer a pre-signed copy if you don’t want to wait in line after the discussion.”

“I’ll take a pre-signed one, please.” I add it to my book bag, which weighs me down like a sack full of boulders. I will donate the pre-signed copy to my local library and ask Charlie to sign the others. Most of the remaining empty seats are toward the front of the room. Why is it nobody ever wants to sit in front? I grab a seat around six rows back, but I’m not sure if Charlie will notice because the man sitting in front of me is quite tall.

When Charlie is introduced, he walks out wearing a geometric print silk tie, slim-fit jeans, and a gray sports jacket the color of his eyes. I’ve never seen him dressed like this before. Muffled gasps escape from some of the women in the audience. The sight of him – combined with the crowd’s reaction – makes me wonder if my quest is hopeless. This man is a celebrity, and right now he could pass for a movie star.

Charlie is a relaxed and confident speaker. He pays his respects to the moderator and the staff, he thanks the audience for coming out during the busy holiday season, and he warms up the crowd with a few humorous stories – one of them using his Cary Grant voice – before reading excerpts from the novel. After Charlie finishes, the moderator opens the event up to questions and instructs the audience, “Please raise your hand if you have a question, and I’ll bring you the microphone. One other ground rule: If you’ve already read the book, please – no questions or comments that contain spoilers. We don’t want to ruin anyone else’s reading experience.”

The first question is an old chestnut that Charlie must’ve answered a thousand times, delivered by an elderly man in the back of the hall. “How do you get your ideas?”

I remember Charlie telling me how he likes to make up little stories about observations in day-to-day life . . . like the time he mistook an Irish setter for a woman breaking up with her boyfriend at a traffic intersection. But he doesn’t tell this story tonight.

“I don’t find the ideas as much as they find me,” says Charlie to the attentive crowd. “It happens first thing in the morning, right after I wake up. Random thoughts, fragments of ideas literally pop into my head. I can’t tell you where they come from, but I write them down as fast as I can. I revisit the notes later, over and over, to see which ideas are the ones that stick.”

I like this response. The next question comes from a youngish woman two rows back from me, who wants to know whether we can expect to see Second Chance on the big screen as we did with Bicoastal.

“I certainly hope so,” says Charlie, “although you might see it on a small screen instead.” A soft ripple of laughter follows this comment. “With all the different paid TV channels and various streaming services, it’s become more difficult to get a film adaptation into theatrical distribution. But on the bright side, an author today has many more options than a couple of decades ago, when we only had the movies and a handful of television networks. So far I’ve had a few nibbles, but nothing I can announce to you yet.”

I’ve been trying to catch the moderator’s eye, and finally I succeed. I stand to accept the portable mic from him, and as I do, Charlie reacts with a startled double-take. He recovers his composure so quickly, I doubt anyone has noticed but me. “First, I’d like to tell you how much I enjoyed Second Chance,” I say.

“Thank you. So you’ve read the book?”

“I have. And the title intrigues me because I think it refers not only to Nomi’s second marriage but also to whether people deserve multiple chances to correct their behavior.”

“You remember the caveat about no spoilers?” he says.

“I do—don’t worry. Let me phrase it this way. Regardless of what happens to the characters in this book, is it fair to say that you yourself believe someone deserves a second chance to shape and redefine a relationship? Especially after that relationship has faltered?”

“Yes . . . but only under the right circumstances.”

“And what are those circumstances?” There are maybe two hundred people in the hall, but Charlie and I are having a private conversation.

“For a second chance to succeed, the person needs to have changed. And it’s not enough to express the intent to change. The actual accomplishment of change is much harder to achieve. People sometimes confuse the two.”

“How do you know if someone has truly changed?”

“It has to be shown through actions. Not words. Take old Ebenezer Scrooge – he transformed himself from a heartless miser to a kind, sentimental, and generous benefactor. Now there’s a guy who knew how to change.” I hear soft laughter from the group.

Following the Q&A, I wait in line for him to autograph my two copies of the novel. When it’s my turn, I step forward and say, “Please sign this first one to Heather.” He flips to the title page and signs it. “And this one is for me,” I say as we exchange copies.

“Should I make it out ‘To Mar,’ then?”

“‘To Margaret,’ please. And I’d appreciate if you would also write, ‘To better times—and better timing.’”

Charlie gives me a curious look, but he does as I ask . . . and when he hands the book back to me, I detect a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

. . .

When I wake the next morning, Charlie is sitting up on the other side of my bed, jotting notes on a little yellow pad. “Did an inspired idea pop into your head?” I ask.

“Oh yes, a very inspired idea.” He puts the pad and pen down and turns to me, enveloping me in his arms and flinging one warm bare leg over mine.

“I think I’m going to like your idea,” I say in a whisper, and he rewards me with a slow, deep kiss.

Okay, this isn’t happening in real life, only inside my head. I’ve been indulging in elaborate fantasies since my conversation with Charlie at last night’s book signing. I know this is pathetic. I’m acting like some loser kid with an imaginary friend. I’ve taken the first step, connecting with him at the author event. The challenge now is to keep up the momentum.

I attend a yoga class, one that used to be on Charlie’s regular rotation at the club. He’s not traveling on the book tour – I’ve practically memorized his schedule for the next ten days – so I’m hopeful he might make a rare appearance in class. But it’s a no-go. This is disappointing because one of our talks over coffee on the poolside deck would be an ideal way to continue the conversation from last night. I will have to come up with a Plan B.

Much later, after Petey’s beach walk, I pull up Charlie’s book launch schedule online and compare it with my own Outlook calendar. His professional commitments appear to be tapering off next week, probably given the proximity to Christmas. My own calendar is chockablock with entries, and there’s no sign of it lightening up. Next Friday is good for me, though, and Petey will be with Audrey that weekend. Better not to have that complicating factor in the picture.

Next comes the difficult part – composing a text to Charlie. My years of professional writing experience are no help to me now. I spend a full hour drafting and re-drafting the text message on my computer since I’m more articulate typing on a keyboard than I am punching my fingers into a phone. I experiment with a dozen different versions, and each time I picture Charlie reading and rejecting it. When I’m on the verge of ditching the entire plan, I think of Vincent and my unfulfilled promise to him. I copy the final message into my phone and hit the send button before I have time to lose my nerve.

Margaret: You gave Nomi a second chance. Now, how about me? One chance, please, to show you how things have changed. How I have changed. Dinner at my place next Friday, 7 p.m.? I make a wicked good white lasagna.

Nothing to do now but worry.

Time slows as I await Charlie’s reply. After ten minutes – more like ten hours in my tortured imagination – my cellphone rings. The sound sends an electrical charge through my nervous system. He’s calling instead of texting. That has to be good, right? But when I grab the phone, I see it’s only Susie from the gym.

“Hey, Margaret. I’m calling to remind you that tomorrow is the gift-wrapping party. Four o’clock, in the first-floor studio.”

“I’ll be there.” This literal “wrap party” is the final step in the club’s holiday gift drive I’ve been helping with since the beginning of December.

“Oh, and I need a favor. Judith was supposed to bring an appetizer, but now she can’t make it. Can you take care of that?”

“Sure, Susie. No problem.”

“Great. See you then.”

I make a note on my calendar to pick up cheese and crackers for tomorrow afternoon. Another ten minutes pass before that tinkling glass chime signals the arrival of a new text message.

Heather: Michael and I talked, and he agreed it’s okay for you to take Benny to Seaside Kids next week when he’s on winter break from pre-school.

The message is followed by an emoji of clapping hands. I respond:

Margaret: Good work convincing him.

Benny will be thrilled to get back to the bounce house. I text her another idea.

Margaret: If the weather warms up, maybe we can take him to the pool too.

Heather replies with a thumbs-up. I pour a small glass of wine to steady my nerves while I wait to hear from Charlie. Then it occurs to me it could be hours before he responds, or – oh God, what if he doesn’t answer me at all? I need to stop obsessing over this. I kick off my shoes, plunk myself down on the couch, and turn on the news.

A few minutes later, the text chime pings again. This time (hallelujah) it’s Charlie.

Charlie: White lasagna? I thought you hated to cook.

Margaret: That’s changing. Lots of things about my life are changing.

Charlie: Tell me.

Margaret: But Charlie, you said change must be shown through actions. Not words. That’s why we need to see each other.

The phone goes silent for a few more minutes, then rings again. This time it’s the director at the board and care residence where Vincent used to live. “Can you bring Petey a little earlier next week? To coincide with our holiday luncheon.”

“What time?”

“Noon.”

I check my calendar. “Yes, we’ll be there.”

After noting the time change, I open the Amazon app on my phone and search for reindeer antlers for dogs. I find a cute little number that combines bright red antlers with a Santa hat, and I order it for Petey. Given his proud terrier temperament, I hope he won’t find it demeaning to wear. Impossibly, the phone rings again, and I pick up to say hello to Grace. “Hi there. Everything okay with you and Nancy?”

“Yes, she’s having a good week. I’m calling to see when you want to get together.”

I’ve bought Christmas presents for both women, and we’ve agreed I’ll join them at Nancy’s house one day next week for lunch and a gift exchange. “How about Tuesday?”

“Tuesday’s fine. We don’t have a lot on the schedule here.” She laughs. “See you around noon.”

Another text arrives. This time it’s a group message from some of Jax’s students who are trying to arrange a get-together after hip-hop class. As if I had room on my calendar for another holiday party. To complicate my life further, Mum has finally decided to come from New York over Christmas week. In her usual inconsiderate fashion, she hasn’t informed me when or for how long.

Yet another text. Whenever my phone emits a sound, it shaves a year off my life expectancy. But this time it’s Charlie again.

Charlie: The lasagna. Do you actually layer it yourself?

He’s referring to the day in his kitchen when I asked that same question about the dish he served me. I try to duplicate his response as well as I can remember it.

Margaret: I layer it, I sauce it. All the required steps.

Please, Charlie, can you just say yes or no to the goddamn invitation and put me out of my misery?

And then I wait some more. I walk barefoot into the kitchen to fix Petey’s dinner, placing my phone on the counter. Assembling, warming, and mixing the numerous ingredients will distract me for a few minutes at least. Petey joins me in the kitchen to supervise my work. I’ve known dogs that leap about with wild enthusiasm as they await their dinners, but Petey observes the preparations with blasé indifference.

The millionth text of the hour comes in, and I snatch up the cellphone to read the newest message. I drop the phone back onto the counter, bounce up and down on my toes, and say, “Petey—he said yes. He said yes!” Petey barks and jumps up on me, feeding off my enthusiasm. His entire backside wiggling with unbridled joy, he plants sloppy kisses on my nose as I throw my arms around him and bury my face in his soft, clean-smelling coat. “He said yes.”

I peel myself off the ceiling long enough to finish preparing Petey’s dinner, but I can’t think about food myself. The torturous series of texts from Charlie has left me excited but overwrought. Then, self-doubt creeps in as disturbing questions percolate in my head. My breath quickens. I’ve promised this man a new and improved Margaret, but can I deliver on that? What if I’ve made the classic mistake Charlie warned about at the book signing, that of confusing the intent to change with the actual accomplishment of it? Have I changed – and will the change be enough for Charlie to begin to trust and care for me again?

As if sensing my nervous excitement, Petey pads over, his tail trembling in a tentative wag. He rests his head on my lap and gazes up at me with devotion and concern. If dogs could talk, I think he’d say, Margaret. Don’t worry about whether you can change. You’ve been changing all along.

And so I have. As I gaze into Petey’s warm and trusting brown eyes, I think about what’s been happening in my life – not only with the dog, but with all the people and activities that now pleasurably fill my once empty calendar. My transformation may not be as dazzling as Scrooge’s, but I’ve safely crossed some major hurdles. I stroke Petey’s head while thinking about next Friday’s dinner. I promised Charlie homemade white lasagna, which poses a different type of hurdle for a blundering cook like me. I’ve already downloaded an astonishingly complex recipe I’ll have to make from scratch, an expression that doesn’t even make sense to me. But after the more challenging tests I’ve faced this year, creating a casserole of lovingly layered noodles, meat, cheese, and sauce should be within my grasp.

. . .

The big day arrives, and seven o’clock is fast approaching. I’ve been hard at work since morning, and everything is ready. Well, nearly. I step into the overheated kitchen, where rich cooking odors envelop me, to check on dinner again. Earlier this week, I had the brilliant idea to bake a test lasagna and deliver it to Nancy’s house for my visit with her and Grace. The trial run didn’t go so well. Distracted by re-reading Second Chance, I detected a faint odor of smoke and raced to the oven, dismayed to find the cheese starting to burn. I cut the crusty blackened edges off and salvaged the rest, but Nancy and Grace appeared to struggle with it at lunch.

It’s a good thing I’ve got a second chance with the lasagna. This time I’m determined it will be perfect. As I spoon a little homemade béchamel sauce on to moisten the dish, breathing in its intoxicating aroma, I spill some on my white silk blouse. Cursing myself for not wearing—or even owning—an apron, I hurry to the bedroom to change my top. I slip on a form-fitting red cashmere sweater with a plunging neckline I’d previously dismissed as too seductive. Maybe a sexier look isn’t a bad idea for tonight, though, and at least the sweater’s more tasteful than, say, a tight leather miniskirt and fuck-me boots.

I’d envisioned Charlie and me starting the evening on the balcony, sipping champagne, enjoying the effervescence that feels so impossibly wet and dry all at once. But the crisp December air stings my cheeks. It’s too chilly to sit outdoors. Still, we might step out to listen to carolers and admire the holiday lights that twinkle along the harbor, so I want everything to look inviting. Toweling dried leaves off the balcony furniture, I give an involuntary shiver. I allow myself a brief fantasy of Charlie catching me in his arms and covering my mouth with a kiss so scorching, I no longer feel the cold.

Back indoors, I glance at the clock. It’s time! I’m so on edge, I pace the room and wonder how I’ll get through the evening. A few minutes later, a knock. My heart is galloping. I open the front door and there stands Charlie, handsome as ever, clutching a festive wine gift bag. He looks anxious, but then I remember something Vincent said about him that day in the hospital: Any man who acts that nervous around a woman must have powerful feelings for her.

Heartened by those wise words, I trust that Charlie and I will be all right. I utter silent thanks to Vincent for helping us find our way, thinking how delighted he would have been to witness this moment. Then I greet Charlie with a warm smile as he crosses the threshold back into my life.

THE END