One of the main commuter rail branches went directly from Long Beach to Manhattan, so it was handy for when I had meetings in the city, which seemed to happen with increasing frequency once I’d quit Brooklyn. Of course.
But the weekends were all about the beach. Even in the winter, when it definitely wasn’t lay-out-in-the-sun weather, people still liked to parade. The boardwalk spanned the entire town and every type of person seemed to take a Sunday stroll, although perhaps I was the only one who still enjoyed walking in the rain.
On a nice day, families mingled with the athletic-types taking a break from the overcrowded and sweaty gyms, to go for a run or bike ride in the open air. Elderly couples would sit at one the many benches, gazing out towards the water. I liked to fantasize that they were contemplating their youth and memories of earlier days, when running and jumping came as naturally as breathing, but perhaps they were just planning what to eat for lunch.
Perhaps they were thinking about their families: children who lived in different states or different countries; long-lost friends; dear, departed parents.
I had been close to my father, but my darling papa had died more than 12 years ago. I was not close to my mother. She did not like her daughter.
I didn’t like to look back that often.
My most precious memories were closely guarded secrets and I only looked at them occasionally, taking them out of my Pandora’s Box of the past, to treasure and enjoy, then carefully replace and lock away. As the years passed, I looked less and less; because, perhaps, I felt there was more to look forward to. And this was new.
As far as my friends were concerned, I barely had a past. They recognized that I preferred not to talk about it, and they respected my wishes; or else they knew better than to ask.
I’d dropped my married name the moment I’d left my husband, and I’d even hacked my Christian name into small pieces, choosing just one short syllable: a new identity for my new life. Instead of Mrs. Caroline Wilson, I was now Carolina Venzi – pronounced the Italian way – but known to my new friends as ‘Lee’.
And funnily enough, it turned out to be very handy: people often made the assumption that ‘Lee Venzi’ was a man. There was one editor who had bought my freelance features for five months before he’d discovered that it was a woman writing articles about crime in the city. I’m not sure I’d have gotten the job if he’d known the truth, but by then it was too late and, he had to admit, he’d liked the job I’d done – which was all that mattered, in my opinion.
It amused me, but it suited me very well, too. I was eager to retain a level of anonymity in my work; more particularly, some distance from my past.
And now I was forty. More confident than ever before in my life, believing in my abilities, and comfortable in my skin, I had a career that I enjoyed. True, it was an itinerant lifestyle that could take me away from home for weeks or even months, but it was one that suited me. I’d spent the first thirty years of my life dormant and static: now I liked to be on the move. Besides, there wasn’t much to go home to other than a shelf of books, and a closet full of clothes from my old life that I no longer wore.
A few men, very few, had drifted in and out over the years, but there was no significant other; there was no significant anything at all – and I was quite happy to keep it that way. I had the company of my friends, and that was more than enough.
Nicole, in particular, found my casual celibacy hard to understand. She was forever trying to set me up with ‘cute guys’ that she knew. It became something of a game between us: her vowing that one day I’d meet someone who’d sweep me off my feet, and me promising it would never happen.