LOVE LATER ON by Peggy Knickerbocker
Sixty-three years old, content and fulfilled, I’d spent the last three years healing from my final disastrous relationship. There would be no more. My career as a food writer was winding down, as the magazines I wrote for were folding or changing hands. After five successful cookbooks, I grew weary of writing about food, and I’d run out of ideas.
My life was good, I felt blessed. I lived in a jewel box house in San Francisco on the Hyde Street Cable Car line, three blocks from the bay, the bay in which I swam.
I’d recently sold an apartment in Paris where I’d intermittently spent time, relishing a stimulating and glamorous life, on my own. I was filled with gratitude 85% of the time, the other 15%, could be lonely.
I’d had terrible taste in men. My friends and I wondered why I had been afraid to aim high with men, when I’d always aimed high in my career and with friends.
It occurred to me that while I was pleased with myself about how well my life was going, this might be the moment I would actually meet a man. Not a loser, not a boy, not an alcoholic or addict, but a real man. I suggested the idea to my oldest friend, my childhood friend, Cal Ferris.