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Dr. A. Jerome Minkoff, family practitioner, three years a widower and coming up on his sixty-fourth birthday, met Larissa Friedman, two years into her widowhood and fifty-two, at a charity dinner at the Ambassador East Hotel in Chicago for ALS, dreaded, goddamn Lou Gehrig’s Disease, from which both their spouses had died. Each had donated $25,000 to the annual national ALS fund-raiser in Chicago, and they were seated next to each other at the same table near the dais. Mrs. Friedman gave the few things he said full-court-press attention. She smiled. She agreed emphatically. More than once she touched his forearm, gave it a gentle squeeze. Since Marlene’s death three years ago, Minkoff had been considered, if not by himself then by friends, many patients, and all female acquaintances, a highly eligible bachelor. He had gone out with a few women, but nothing resembling a relationship came from it. Instead, he grew wary. Divorcees recited ghastly sagas of grievance that were too lengthy and painful. Others were far too willing to share their many problems. Minkoff, who had never in his life uttered a word of complaint to anyone but his wife, preferred to devote his problem-solving prowess, which he thought not inconsiderable, to the patients in his large family practice.

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