December 31, 1990
Chase Park Plaza, St. Louis
The lobby carried a steady hum. Not loud. Just enough to make everything feel in motion. A string quartet tuned near the bar. Glass caught the light from the chandeliers. Outside, Forest Park was dark, edged with frost.
Deanna saw her parents first. They stood almost at the same time. She crossed the room quickly, and the three of them came together in a tight embrace that didn’t need to be explained.
Two years.
When they stepped back, her mother held her face for a moment, studying her.
“You look thin.”
“I’m a resident,” Deanna said. “It’s a condition.”
Her father laughed under his breath.
Deanna turned.
“Mom. Dad. This is James.”
James stepped forward. Her mother reached him first and embraced him without hesitation. It caught him slightly off guard.
“James,” she said, “we are so sorry about your father.”
No softening. Just direct.
Her father followed with a handshake. Firm. Steady.
“Deanna told us about the funeral,” he said. “And the eulogy.”
“Thank you.”
“That wasn’t easy.”
“No,” James said. “It wasn’t.”
The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. It settled. Then her mother stepped back and smiled faintly. “Well,” she said, “you both look like you survived.”
“Barely,” Deanna said.
They sat near the window. Menus opened. Closed again. Her mother scanned the page.
“They’re attempting duck,” she said.
Deanna sighed. “She judges cities by their duck.”
“That’s not true,” her father said. “We judge by the wine. Duck is secondary.”
James smiled. “I didn’t prepare for this part.”
“No interrogation,” her father said. “We’re diplomats.”
Wine arrived. Her father tasted it. Nodded once.
“So,” her mother said, “you’re the one who won’t overcall.”
James glanced at Deanna. “I see I’ve been discussed.”
“He argued over a margin for twenty minutes,” Deanna said.
“It mattered.”
“That’s why we like him,” her mother said.
Her father leaned back slightly. “She described you carefully.”
James raised an eyebrow. “That sounds dangerous.”
“Steady,” her father said. “Disciplined. Not easily impressed.”
“That’s a compliment,” her mother added.
“It’s also a warning,” Deanna said.
“Should I try to be more dramatic?” James asked.
“Please don’t,” her father said. “We’ve had enough of that.”
“Dad!” The table collapsed in laughter.
Dinner came. The duck was… acceptable. That seemed to matter.
“James,” her mother said, “this has been a difficult year.”
He nodded. “My father was… particular.”
Her father smiled slightly. “Most surgeons are.”
“He believed in absolutes,” James said.
“And you don’t.”
“I prefer margins.”
Her father nodded. “That helps in marriage.”
“Father.”
Her mother leaned toward James. “She reorganized our pantry at twelve.”
“I improved it,” Deanna said.
“She labeled everything.”
James looked at her. “Should I be concerned?”
“Yes,” both parents said.
Even Deanna laughed. At one point, her mother watched quietly. The way James listened. Not waiting to speak. Just… listening. She glanced at her husband. Said nothing.
A television near the bar shifted to footage from the Gulf.
Troops. Desert.
Her father looked briefly. “Strange way to start a decade.”
“Feels like something’s waiting,” her mother said.
“In hospitals too,” James said. The moment passed.
“Tell me about Los Angeles,” her father said.
“High volume,” James said. “Public system. More layers.”
“And you’re comfortable?”
“I’m comfortable working.”
Deanna leaned back. “That’s his answer.”
“It’s a good one,” her mother said.
Her father watched him for a moment. Then: “You should know something about her.”
Deanna closed her eyes. “Please don’t.”
“When we were in Nairobi,” he said, “she volunteered at a clinic.”
“No antibiotics for months,” her mother added.
“She wrote letters,” her father said. “To anyone who might listen.”
“I was angry,” Deanna said.
“You were persistent,” he replied.
James looked at her differently. “That explains a lot.”
“She comes from people who argue with God,” her father added.
James blinked.
“That’s the Jewish side,” her mother said.
“My grandmother said questioning is required,” Deanna said.
“That’s medicine,” James said.
Her father nodded. “You look at the evidence. You challenge what doesn’t fit.”
He lifted his glass slightly. “That’s close enough.”
Later, her father said quietly: “She almost left medicine once.”
James turned to Deanna. “You never said that.”
She shrugged. “I thought distance might help.”
“And it didn’t.”
“No.”
“I lost a patient,” she said. “Couldn’t stop thinking about it.”
James held her gaze. “And pathology?” he asked.
“You still carry it,” she said. “Just differently.”
Her mother reached over and squeezed her hand. “She carries more than she should.”
James didn’t hesitate. “She won’t carry it alone.”
No one added anything to that. As midnight approached, her father stood. “Walk with me.”
Outside, the air cut through the warmth.
“You understand Los Angeles will test you,” he said.
“Yes.”
“It won’t be easy.”
“I don’t need easy.”
Her father studied him. Then extended his hand.
“You’re not being evaluated.”
James smiled slightly. “That’s good to know.”
“You’re being welcomed.”
They went back inside.
Ten… nine…
Deanna slipped her hand into his under the table.
Three… two… one…
“Happy New Year!”
Glasses touched.
“1991,” her mother said.
Her father smiled faintly. “Let’s hope diplomacy works.”
Outside, fireworks flickered over the park. Inside, everything felt… settled. Not finished. Just… set. Six months.
Deanna leaned toward him.
“Still nervous?”
“About your pantry?”
She smiled. “About us.”
He looked at her. Then at her parents. Then back again.
“No,” he said.
And this time, he wasn’t thinking ahead.