By age 77, I had given up. After two failed marriages and years of unsuccessful dating, I accepted what seemed to be my fate: single for nearly 40 years, and single for as many as I had left. You can’t have it all, I told myself. I was grateful to have family, friends and a job. Life fell into what seemed like order.
Until Ty.
As my best friend's husband, he wasn't a stranger, but he usually wasn't much of a big deal. Ten years ago, my friend got lung cancer. During visits, I was stunned to see how loving Ty could be, caring for her even though they had separated years earlier at her request.
After she died, Ty and I kept in touch sporadically: a surprise exchange from her second granddaughter a year after we scattered my friend’s ashes, an invitation to my book launch a year after that. Ty attended, hovering in the back, emerging after everyone left to attentively help load my car.
Two more years passed. In quiet moments, I remembered his sweetness. I also remembered his handsome face and tall, slender body. Confused about what I wanted, I texted Ty, who is an architect, under the pretext of buying a tree for my garden.
We spent an afternoon at the nursery, laughing, comparing options, and agreeing on a final choice. When the tree arrived, I emailed him a photo. He emailed me back a thank you email.
Another three years passed, interrupted only by the news of his third granddaughter and my memories of how good it felt to be with him. Attentive to his attention, but uneasy both by his distance and by my growing interest, I took the risk of contacting him again, this time to remodel my garage.
Ty spent several hours at my house taking measurements, checking the foundation, and sharing photos of his Topanga home. His garage sketches arrived two weeks later via email.
I appreciated his help, but I wasn't sure what kind of friendship we were developing, at least from his point of view. I was clear, though: I wanted him to wrap his long arms around me, say sweet things to me, and make me his.
Instead, I sent a gift card to a restaurant in Topanga to thank him for his drawings.
“Maybe we should spend it together,” he wrote.
We dined in a late summer evening. Our conversation was quiet. The awkwardness lay in what was left unsaid. Anxious to clear things up, I let my hand linger several times near the flickering candle in the center of our table. I kept it untouched.
And that was as far as I was willing to go. I refused to be more direct, having already committed myself beyond my comfort level to what seemed, at least to me, embarrassingly transparent efforts to demonstrate my interest. Not making the first move was a big deal. If a man couldn't approach me, if he didn't have the self-confidence to make the first move, he would not, I firmly believed, be a good match for me.
Two weeks later, Ty emailed me suggesting a sunset hike in Tuna Canyon in Malibu. The setting was perfect. The sun was shining off the ocean and a gentle breeze was blowing. We hiked up the hill for panoramic views of the coast and circled down into the shade of the live oaks. We only touched when he took my hand to steady me in a spot where the path was slippery. At the end of the trail, overlooking the juncture of mountains and sea, we stood facing each other and talked animatedly for nearly an hour, both reluctant to part.
Our conversation was interesting, but my internal dialogue was louder. When, I wondered, is this man going to suggest we continue the evening over dinner? We didn’t have to go out. We could have dinner at his place. It was 7 p.m., for crying out loud. Passing hikers even stopped to comment on our matching white hair and how great they thought we looked together. It was like a movie scene where the audience is yelling, “Kiss her, kiss her,” waiting for what they know is going to happen as the tension becomes almost unbearable. But I endured it.
Each of us ate alone.
A few weeks later, at his suggestion, we returned to Tuna Canyon. This time Ty invited me to finish the evening at his house. Sitting together on his couch, but not too close, we grew closer to each other in the darkening room. His shoulder brushed mine as he reached for his coffee cup. My hip pressed into his as I leaned in to sip my tea. Slowly, sharing hopes and wishes for the years ahead, we became shadows in the moonlight. And in that darkness, in that illuminated space, he reached out his hand to me.
This reticent man, this man who was so slow to approach me, this sensitive man who hid behind such opaque layers that I wasn't sure of his interest, released everything he had inside of him.
“I wanted you,” Ty repeated over and over. “I was afraid of ruining things. You were my best friend. I didn’t want to lose your friendship.”
Our pent-up tension exploded.
Dazed and excited, I leaned into the space he opened.
Three years later, it's a space we still share: a place where neither of us has given up, a place where he wraps me in his long arms, a place we hold carefully against our fading days.
The author is the owner of a preschool in Venice, as well as a psychotherapist, photographer, and writer. Her first book, “Naked in the Woods: My Unexpected Years in a Hippie Commune,” was published in 2015. Her most recent manuscript, “Bargains: A Coming of Aging Memoir Told in Tales,” is currently seeking a publisher. She lives in Mar Vista and can be found at margaretgrundstein.comInstagram @margwlaHalf @margaretgrundstein and Substack @mgrundstein.
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