Then he’d met Julie. He’d been in line at Whole Foods, paying for his hot-food-bar dinner of salmon and greens, when he heard the woman in front of him apologizing as she rooted frantically through a leather purse stained black at one corner, where a pen had exploded.
“I’m so sorry… I think I left my wallet in my other purse.” She was wearing a long, loose-fitting sundress and dangly gold earrings, with her brown hair slipping out of a bun that appeared to have been secured with one of the elastic bands that postmen used to wrap the mail. Sam watched her pull things out of the seemingly bottomless bag: a pair of leggings, a single kid’s-sized sneaker, a water bottle, a lip gloss, a sample-sized box of dental floss, a plastic bag full of goldfish crackers. Her face flushed when she pulled out a tampon. She was biting her lower lip, sweat beading faintly at her hairline, as the boy beside her tugged at the skirt of her dress and said, “Mama, I have to go potty!”
“Oh, God,” the woman breathed.
“Can you use Apple Pay?” asked the cashier, nodding at her iPhone. There were five people in line, counting Sam, and a few of them were starting to grumble.
“What? Oh, no. I’m sorry. I’ve been meaning to figure it out. God, I’m such a ditz, I’m so sorry…” She started rummaging in her bag again, and Sam saw her eyes shining with tears. She didn’t appear to be broke—Sam thought her bag and her dress both looked expensive—but she was obviously ashamed. Beyond the immediate chagrin, Sam saw resignation in the slump of her shoulders, the twist of her lips. This is what always happens, her face and her posture projected. This is the way it will always be.
“If you can just maybe put my things aside, and I’ll run right home, and…”
“Here.” Sam reached past her, extending his credit card. “I’ve got it.”
“Oh, no, really, that’s so nice, but I can’t let you—” The woman and the boy were both looking at him. They had the same pale skin, the same round faces and fine brown hair and eyes that tilted down at the corners.
“It’s no problem,” he said, handing the cashier his card.
“Oh, God, thank you, thank you so much! That’s so kind of you.” Her face was alight, and Sam felt something in his heart shift as the cashier handed him back his card.
The woman’s name was Julie Barringer. Her son’s name was Connor. Julie told Sam that she managed at a music store on the Sunset Strip, that she was divorced, and that she and Connor lived with Julie’s father in a mansion on Coldwater Canyon. Officially, Julie and her ex-husband shared custody, but, for all practical purposes, Julie was raising Connor alone. “His dad means well,” she said on her first date with Sam, at a sushi restaurant near her shop. Connor’s father’s name was Jason. He played the guitar—Julie had met him when he’d brought it in to have his truss rod adjusted—and he’d been a member of four different bands. Each one of them had, Julie said, been on the cusp of success at one point, but none of them had ever quite made it. “Jason does studio work, mostly, and he travels. And he doesn’t make a lot of money, so he’s not too consistent with his child support.”
“Well, I guess it’s good that you’ve got your father,” Sam said.
Instead of answering, Julie nibbled a bit of seaweed salad and asked Sam about his own family. Sam was happy to discuss his twin sister （married, stepmother of one and mother of two, all of which, he thought, recommended him as a suitor）， as well as his parents, who’d just celebrated thirty-five years together.
“My father’s a lawyer. He did mostly corporate litigation, but lately he’s gotten involved in more pro bono work. Tenants’ rights, immigration, things like that.”
Julie nodded her approval as Sam talked about his dad: how Lee Weinberg hadn’t been especially athletic, but had volunteered to coach all of Sam’s youth league teams; how he wasn’t a fan of classical music but had faithfully attended every one of Sarah’s recitals; and how, on the weekends, he’d been the one to drive them both to their various camps and games and lessons, so that their mother could have some quiet time. “My mom’s retired now, but she used to be an English professor. She wrote two novels, back in the 1980s, before my sister and I were born.”
Julie set her chopsticks down. Her round eyes were open wide; her face was curious. “Why’d she stop?”
Sam shook his head. His mom had never talked much about her writing days. “I’m not sure. I think she didn’t like going on book tours, or being away from us.”