I Thought There'd Be More Lunches

I’ve met a lot of people in the 2½ years I’ve lived in LA, and one of the best of the lot was Karen. We met at a writer’s workshop put on by our mutual friend Vicki Abelson a couple of years ago. Each month, Karen and I were part of a group of women gathered around Vicki’s dining table to read aloud and gently critique each other’s work. Karen had presence. Her readings were performances that drew you in. She was engaging. She always had a smile and a twinkle in her eye. I secretly coveted her thick, lustrous, long hair, because mine is fine and is scraggly if I try to grow it out. Karen and I had a bit of a mutual admiration. We genuinely loved what the other was writing. I couldn’t wait each month to hear the next chapter in Karen’s story of the years she lived in France as a child. Because we both were writing about our families, we felt a little bit like we knew each other’s kin. “How are Anna and Paul?” I’d ask, when I wanted to know how Karen’s memoir was prog...