“I’m a pediatrician,” Marissa replied.

“Another doctor!” Sonya remarked. “It’s reassuring that you professionals suffer along with the rest of us. There’s another doctor here, an ophthalmologist. Wendy Wilson.”

“Wendy Wilson!” Marissa exclaimed, her eyes immediately sweeping the room. She felt a surge of excitement. Could it be the Wendy Wilson she’d gone to Columbia Medical School with? Her eyes stopped on a woman across the room who was not much taller than herself, with short, sandy-blonde hair.

Marissa excused herself and began to weave her way through the people to her old friend. As she got closer, the impish, pixie-like features were immediately unmistakable.

“Wendy!” Marissa shouted, interrupting the woman in midsentence. Wendy turned her eyes to Marissa.

“Marissa!” Wendy cried, giving her a big hug. Wendy quickly introduced Marissa to the woman with whom she’d been speaking, explaining that Marissa was an old medical school chum she’d not seen since graduation.

After exchanging a few pleasantries, the other woman politely excused herself, suspecting they had a lot of catching up to do.

“When did you get to Boston?” Marissa demanded.

“I’ve been here for over two years. I finished my residency at UCLA, worked for several years at the hospital, then came east with my husband, who took a surgical position at Harvard. I’m at the Mass. Eye and Ear. What about you? When I first got back, I asked about you and was told you’d moved to Atlanta.”

“That was just for a two-year stint at the CDC,” Marissa explained. “I’ve been back for about three years.” Quickly she filled Wendy in on her marriage, her practice, where she lived.

“Weston!” Wendy laughed. “We’re neighbors. We live in Wellesley. Hey, you’re not here as tonight’s lecturer, are you?”

“Afraid not,” Marissa said. “How about you?”

“I wish,” Wendy said. “My husband and I have been trying to have a child for two years now. It’s been a disaster.”

“Same with me,” Marissa admitted. “I can’t believe this. It takes being infertile to meet up with you. And here I was worried that I’d meet someone I knew.”

“Is this your first Resolve meeting?” Wendy asked. “I’ve only been to five or so, but I’ve never heard your name.”

“First one,” Marissa admitted. “I’d always been reluctant to come, but recently a counselor recommended it.”

“I’ve enjoyed it,” Wendy said. “Problem is, I can’t get my granite-headed husband here. You know how surgeons are. He hates to admit that somebody might have something to offer in the way of information or expertise.”

“What’s his name?” Marissa asked.

“Gustave Anderson,” Wendy said. “And he’s just what he sounds like: one of those white-blond Swedes from Minnesota.”

“I can’t get my husband, Robert, to get near anything that smacks of therapy,” Marissa said. “He’s no surgeon, but just as rock-headed.”