Widowish: A Memoir(42)

But it felt odd. I didn’t think that he was afraid of The Widow . . . but we only discussed the gear, and hardly even that. He was so casual. He mentioned Joel easily and seemed perfectly comfortable with the task at hand. We didn’t know each other well. In fact, we really didn’t know each other at all. Sophie hadn’t had a lesson with him in over a year, and I had only met him a handful of times at most, including the night I asked for his help. Maybe he was just a no-nonsense guy. An attractive no-nonsense guy. A really cool no-nonsense guy.

I went inside and called Jillian.

“Are you sitting down?” I asked.

“Uh-oh,” she said. “What happened?”

“Sophie’s guitar teacher, you know, who we saw play the other night? He just came over and took a bunch of Joel’s music gear with him.”

“OK,” she said.

“And it was totally . . .” I tried to come up with the word. “It was like . . . He acted sort of . . . I don’t know what I’m trying to say,” I admitted.

“Did he hit on you?” she asked.

“Oh my God, no!” I said. “I wish!”

I wasn’t expecting that to come out of my mouth.

“Ha!” Jillian laughed.

I gasped. “I can’t believe I just said that!”

“You told me you thought he was sexy.”

“Sexy? Is that the word I used?” I asked.

“Yup,” she said.

Joel had been gone for six months. In that time, a good friend had tried to fix me up with one of his brothers, who was moving back to LA after living abroad most of his adult life. I told him I wasn’t ready.

Sophie had a friend whose parents had been divorced since we met them in elementary school. The dad had messaged me early on to tell me that he always liked me, and that if I ever wanted to grab coffee or a drink, to please be in touch. I declined.

I also received a marriage proposal from an English guy I exchanged a few words with in the wine aisle of Trader Joe’s. I told him I’d think about it (he had dimples!).

The thought of meeting someone new, or even getting together with someone I already knew, was not appealing. I was a married woman. I was married to a man I loved. It was baffling to even consider dating because, how could I? I loved Joel. My marriage didn’t feel like it was over, even though it was. But not by choice.

Marcos and I were Facebook friends, probably from when he first started teaching Sophie. I scoured his page, looking for clues to his personal life. There was nothing about a wife and nothing about a model girlfriend either. Nor did I see anything about his son. What I did see was post after post about his past and upcoming gigs. Where most people I knew were bragging about their kids’ accomplishments, or posting silly pet photos, or getting into deep discussions about neighborhood issues, Marcos seemed to live in a world of self-promotion. I got it. He was making a living as a musician. He kept things professional.

A few years earlier, Joel had come home from one of Sophie’s guitar lessons. I was in the office writing. Joel walked in, kissed me hello, and handed me a CD.

I looked at it. “What’s this?”

“Marcos’s newest CD. You should listen to it. I think you’ll like it.”

I shrugged and put it near my car keys so I could listen to it in the car. I always took Joel’s music recommendations to heart. Marcos’s sound was bluesy and skilled—I liked it.

Now I was mourning my husband and tried to practice what I always preached to Sophie: Just feel your feelings, whatever they may be. Grief was my constant companion who occasionally took naps. It was during those nap times that I made my way back to myself. Through my writing. Through my spiritual readings. Through my close friendships. And now, through the slight rumblings of attraction to someone new.

It was easier than I care to admit, to consider a possible fling. But it was also unrealistic. I had no idea what Marcos’s personal life was, other than what I assumed was a clean and sober existence. Plus, as confident and casual as he seemed, I was a widow. Who’d want to deal with that kind of complication?

Over the course of a couple of weeks, I heard from Marcos about some of the music gear that he was able to sell or donate.

Sold the acoustic, the text would read. Or, Keeping the harmonica for my lessons. Smiles. Once, I came home and there was an envelope under my front door mat with some cash in it. A Post-it note inside said, From Marcos.

It was a weird way of doing business, but taking Maria’s advice, I decided to keep things easy and tried not to think about it too much.

One night, Sophie lying next to me in bed, I got a text from Marcos asking if I was available to go to the guitar shop with him the next day to try to sell Joel’s one remaining guitar. My stomach did a flip-flop. I was excited. I was nervous. And I felt guilty about the kind of thoughts I was allowing myself to entertain.

It’s nothing. A simple business transaction. As Joel liked to remind me, I was a writer. I was creating a scenario between Marcos and me that didn’t make sense. I was a Jewish only parent and widow who was trying to get back to living my life. He was a recovering drug addict and/or alcoholic who lived behind a church, taught and played music, and fed the homeless.

These were the thoughts I had as I fell asleep that night. They were a welcome reprieve.





FIFTEEN