“The chicken-and-cashew quiche. It’s to die for.”

I ordered scallops, and when Roland had gone, Glenna said, “After graduation, Robin and I drove cross-country with Palmer. We crashed with Elliot Mintz, Palmer’s pal from Columbia undergrad. Elliot has this rambling Victorian in the Haight and owns a big chain of health-food stores. That’s when I met Roland. Before buying this place, he managed the Fickle Fox in San Francisco.”

“Why didn’t you do your internship and residency?”

“One afternoon, Robin and I took the ferry to Sausalito. The town knocked me out. The hilly, crooked streets. The fog rolling off the bay. And we went into an art gallery and met the owner, Hildegard. There was a HELP WANTED sign in the window. As a goof, I spent some of my vacation working at the shop. I felt so good, so relaxed—not being at the hospital, not listening to the girls at Palmer’s clinic. The morning before we were supposed to go home, I told Robin and Palmer I was staying in Sausalito. They freaked. You would’ve thought they’d paid my med-school tuition.”

Roland served our meal. I was starved and forked the plump sea scallops from the pewter plate, mopping up the lemon juice and melted butter with a hot sourdough roll.

“I called my folks,” Glenna said, sampling her quiche. “They freaked, too. But they had paid some of my tuition, and I had all these loans, so I got on a plane and started my internship at Presbyterian. The legislature had legalized abortion in the spring, so I was happy to be done with the clinic, but I couldn’t stand being at the hospital and didn’t make it through July. I was in the cafeteria, facing a shelf of rice pudding, and I walked out. I couldn’t even remember why I wanted to be a doctor. I moved to Sausalito and worked with Hildi till this January, when she decided to open a gallery in SoHo. I came back to work with her. Robin and Palmer said I was crazy. You wouldn’t believe Robin. She looks great. She kicked her ice cream habit, made it to a size six, burned her overalls, and won’t wear anything she doesn’t see in Vogue.”

I was astonished that the subject of Robin still made me nervous and studied Glenna over the rim of my glass, trying to determine if she knew about Robin and me. I finished my drink and concluded that, against the longest of odds, Robin had kept our secret.

“How’d that happen?” I asked.

“She fell in love with Palmer’s friend Elliot Mintz. He’d been in SDS back in New York, but he’s now the organic-food king of the West Coast. He turned Robin onto a macrobiotic diet and got her into hiking and kayaking. They got married when Robin finished her internship at Columbia. She’s doing a dermatology residency at UC in San Francisco. You should’ve seen the wedding Esther and Phillie threw them at the Plaza. I was the maid of honor. After the ceremony, Robin said to me, ‘You’re always a bridesmaid, never a bride.’”