My Year of Casual Acquaintances (South Bay #1)

Excerpt Chapter 1

Have a drink. Eat dinner. Break up with her.

As Margaret opened the door, Charlie reminded himself to stay on track with his game plan. She’d told him she was serving lasagna, and mouth-watering aromas enveloped him as he entered the cozy, waterfront apartment. On the coffee table, a bottle of champagne nestled in an ice bucket, its stainless steel surface glistening with beads of condensation. The eating and drinking portions of the evening were already a fait accompli.

Margaret looked good – too good – in jeans and a clingy red cashmere V-neck sweater, her soft brown curls falling to her shoulders. The breaking up part of the agenda might not be so easy. “Break up” was probably the wrong term, considering they’d barely seen each other during the past six months. Their relationship had been a whirlwind affair – only one short, passionate month. Charlie had fallen for Margaret – fallen hard; but she’d broken things off without warning last June, and the rejection wounded him to the core. But now she’d asked him to dinner, making no secret of the fact that reconciliation was her goal.

“Charlie. I’m glad you came.” Her face lit up with a welcoming smile.

“Hi, Margaret. I thought you might like to serve this with dinner.” He thrust a package toward her – a bottle of wine inside a knitted Christmas gift bag with candy cane striping, tied at the top with a red ribbon from which a pair of jingle bells dangled. All at once the bag appeared silly, embarrassing even. But he was glad he’d brought it. If nothing else, it created a physical wedge between them, a barrier that kept them from touching or kissing.

“Thank you,” she said. “Do I need to chill this?”

“No, it’s a red. Sangiovese.” He had to stop himself from adding your favorite. He mustn’t sound nostalgic. It might encourage her. She motioned for him to sit on the couch as she popped the cork on the champagne bottle and picked up a pair of crystal flutes, filling each glass with the bubbly liquid. Champagne seemed inappropriate, yet he couldn’t accuse Margaret of a social faux pas in choosing it. She had no way of knowing he’d come on a mission of closure, not celebration.

In the December darkness, Margaret’s place felt warmer and more intimate than he’d remembered. The recessed lights were dimmed. Candles flickered on the dining table. In the distance, looking out beyond the sliding door that led to the balcony, he could see Christmas lights twinkling from the masts of sailboats docked in King Harbor in Los Angeles’s South Bay area. The effect was charming. Margaret had set the stage for a romantic evening. Her texted invitation was clear on that point.

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.?

Though Margaret was not a writer of fiction like Charlie, she edited a technical journal, and the woman knew how to turn a phrase. The words second chance echoed the title of Charlie’s newest novel, about a woman named Nomi who sought forgiveness after cruelly driving away her husband. In the end, the husband took her back. Margaret (who had never been cruel, merely honest) wanted from Charlie the same consideration he’d granted his own protagonist – another chance to make things right. But it was too late for that.

This wasn’t the first time in the past few months that Margaret had been in contact. In early November, she’d recruited him to visit a fan named Vincent at a senior home where she volunteered. Then she’d turned up at one of Charlie’s book signing events. The dinner invitation soon followed. Perhaps he should have turned her down, but he’d decided to meet face-to-face and explain why he couldn’t pick up where they left off six months ago. That was the plan – to let her down gently but firmly and close the door on their relationship once and for all.

. . .

“That was scrumptious,” he said, laying his fork across the empty plate.

“Beginner’s luck. I’ve never made it before.” Margaret laughed softly, her dark gaze warm and inviting. The delicious white lasagna – his favorite – told Charlie how much effort she’d made to please him.

He was struck, as always, by how young she seemed for a woman of fifty. It wasn’t just the candlelight working in her favor; her skin was smooth, her cheekbones pronounced, her hair natural, her expression animated. No one would ever call Margaret gorgeous, but she had an aura about her that Charlie found more alluring than any classic expression of feminine beauty.

Dammit. He shouldn’t have come.

“I can’t pretend cooking has become a new passion. But I’ve been changing a lot of things about my life.”

Here we go. Over champagne and dinner, they’d confined their conversation to safe topics. They spoke at length about the early success of Second Chance, published the week prior to Thanksgiving. They discussed their friend Sunny Ericsson; he learned from Margaret that she was planning to move back from the San Francisco area. And they lamented that the holiday season was always so hectic.

But Margaret was pivoting to a more serious subject. This would be the perfect time for him to segue into his rehearsed remarks. I’m glad you’ve made positive changes, Margaret, but I can’t be part of your life going forward. When you broke things off, I had an extremely tough time.

Perhaps the worst part had been the effect on his writing. Second Chance was already being prepared for publication when Margaret gave him the bad news. Charlie was trying to build momentum on a new manuscript back then, but after their breakup he had frozen in his tracks – unable to write, unable to focus. This had never happened to him before, not even when Bet died of a stroke more than four years earlier. Back then, work had been a soothing balm, a way to escape the traumatic shock of his wife’s unexpected death.

After enduring a much graver loss, why did he fall apart over Margaret? It made no sense. He’d given up trying to puzzle it out, concluding only that he was better off staying unattached. He couldn’t risk letting another romantic rejection disrupt his success as an author after so many years of disciplined work. But he didn’t share this with Margaret. Instead, he said, “Why don’t we step outside for some fresh air?”

“Great idea. It’s stuffy in here.”

Out on the balcony, they gazed down at the distant marina. “Do you hear that?” Margaret asked, cupping one hand to her ear.

“Carolers,” said Charlie. “I hear them, but I don’t see them.”

“They’re way down on the docks, but the wind is blowing the sound toward us.” It was a chilly evening by California standards, cold enough for them to see their breath. Margaret shivered. If Charlie was being a gentleman, he’d offer his jacket or put an arm around her. But no. There’d be none of that.

“It’s colder than I realized,” Charlie said. “Maybe we should go back indoors.”

“Listen to us—it’s too hot, it’s too cold,” she said, lightly diffusing the awkwardness.

On the way in from the balcony, Charlie stumbled lightly over a rawhide dog bone. “You have a dog?” he asked as they took their seats back at the dining table.

“Petey. Do you remember him? He’s the Wheaten terrier who was with me at the senior home.”

Charlie thought back on his meeting with Vincent, a kindly old gentleman who knew all of Charlie’s novels. How nervous Charlie had been that day, seeing Margaret for the first time in months. She’d seemed tongue-tied as well, and he recalled the way Vincent tried to build them both up, singing each one’s praises to the other. Charlie suspected Margaret had an ulterior motive in inviting him. But he only saw her for a few minutes during his hurried visit. He also recalled the handsome terrier lying by Vincent’s wheelchair, doing his job as a therapy dog. “I remember Petey. But I didn’t know he lived with you.”

“Long story, but I have him on a sort of shared custody basis with his original owner. She’s moving to New Jersey sometime in January, and then Petey will be with me full-time.”

“Ah. And how is Vincent doing?”

“He—Vincent died,” she said, looking down at her uncleared dinner plate and tracing the rim with one finger.

“Oh, no.”

“He had a serious heart attack a couple of weeks after you met him. When I visited him at the hospital, they’d moved him out of the ICU, and he seemed to be recovering. But he didn’t make it.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. I could see you two were good friends.”

“At the hospital that day, he talked about you.”

“He did?”

“Yes. He told me how much it meant for him to meet you.” Margaret glanced up, tears filling her eyes. She looked so vulnerable, he half-wanted to slip his arms around her. Why did he feel this confusing urge to hold her when he’d come to push her away?