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he was making turkey chili and the rental didn’t have any cumin. His name was Robert, and he was in radiology. He lived in San Diego. His first email had just been friendly, Julia said. A regular old great-meeting-you-hope-our-paths-cross-again kind of email. No more than two sentences, and a signature featuring a long list of his various titles and affiliations. They had exchanged business cards after eating a complimentary buffet breakfast together at the hotel, at one of those big round banquet tables where solitary conference-goers are herded into each other’s company. She had had a yogurt and watched him polish off a plate of warmed-over scrambled eggs. After the perfunctory exchange of cards, and after being slightly sickened by the spongy look of the eggs, she was then surprised to experience a little surge of erotic feeling when he stood from the table and she registered how tall he was. Not just tall, but big. Visibly strong through the chest and shoulders, and with thighs that looked like they could belong to an Olympic speed skater. Briefly he had loomed over her.

He was not her type at all, not by any stretch of the imagination—and yet she had been moved to reply. Take care was what he’d written in closing, and though every rational part of her knew that this farewell was, if not electronically generated, then at least his go-to phrase when signing off in casual correspondence, Julia couldn’t help but feel that there was a hidden message for her in the words he had chosen, as if he had perceived, and was tactfully acknowledging, that she might be in need of some care. So it seemed reasonable to answer, Thank you for your kind message, and somehow just the typing of that one word, kind, released the series of sentences that followed, which began lightly enough, with a humorous account of the delays she had faced when flying home from the conference, but then made a sort of unexpected but lyrical turn toward the prospect of another long winter, the ineffectiveness of Lexapro, and the pain of watching one’s only child struggle socially at school. Off it went, off into the ether, and a several-day silence had followed, long enough that she thought for certain she would never hear from him again, an idea that didn’t really bother her once she realized that simply the act of writing those sentences down had helped her, and that maybe she should just start keeping a journal like everybody suggests, or at least consider combining some talk therapy with the medication, when bam! There in her inbox one overcast morning: the most wonderful, wonderful reply.

The sound of the garage door churning open caused us to drop our knives and circle helplessly around the kitchen, but Julia, pausing, promised us that Sunny already knew about the radiologist. “I’m committed to being transparent,” she said. “And nothing has actually happened. I haven’t even seen him since the conference, which is strange to realize. But I feel like something might happen. Soonish.” She said it ominously, and all of a sudden looked as if she might cry again. She tore a paper towel from the roll and swabbed her eyes while we tried to keep our faces still. We wished that the children would appear, demanding snacks and a different show. What were we to do with this information, except pretend that we hadn’t received it? Sunny came inside with the cumin, cheerfully unaware that we’d had this talk, and what a relief it was when Henry pulled his groin on the slopes the next day and we had to head home early.

Back in South Pasadena, under the safety of our own duvet, the conversation turned inevitably to Julia and Sunny. And now this new person, this Robert. A radiologist, of all things. It was impossible to conceive of the attraction, despite his size and his flair with email. The simple fact was that no one could compare to Sunny, who was sensitive without being spineless, capable but not controlling, funny, affectionate, generous, a highly respected doctor, a hands-on parent, and still so staggeringly handsome. He was aging better than the rest of us. True, they had landed in a city that was a bit off the beaten path, it was hard to get direct flights, the school options weren’t terrific, he had persuaded her, for Coco’s sake, to adopt a small hypoallergenic dog that she hadn’t wanted, her father was showing signs of dementia—but still, on balance, in fact by all imaginable measures, her life was good. Wasn’t it? We sank into bemused silence for a moment, and then got sidetracked by a disagreement over who had made the greater professional sacrifices for the other, Sunny or Julia, and in a fit of sulkiness stopped talking, only to wake up in the middle of the night to have intense, heartbroken sex that resulted in our sleeping through the alarm the next morning and Henry being late to Chinese school.

A phone call from Julia soon followed. “My mom wants Coco to stay with her over the summer. And though my initial response was to say no, now I’m thinking it could be good for both of them.” She was calling from the car, on her way home from the hospital. “Coco can be an uplifting presence when she wants to be. Even if she’s not, just her being there will keep Mom from dwelling and, you know, fixating. She was always a worrier but it’s gotten so much worse with my dad.” The ticking of a turn signal punctuated the roar in the background. “The great thing is it’ll be a chance for Coco to train with my old swim coach. And she’s never ready to come home when we visit. She always wants to stay longer. I think she’s kind of starved for an environment that isn’t dominated by freeways and Chipot- les. A place where you can walk to the corner