I hadn't meant for the article to sour my mood, but thankfully, Cortland was a natural conversationalist. Within no time, I was at ease with him. We drank our coffee on the veranda amidst beautiful gardens not unlike the ones I'd visited at the archdiocese. I scanned my memory for info on Cortland. “I hear you play golf with my dad.”

“Yeah. We hit a few balls every now and then. Your dad's a great guy. Mine passed a few years ago.”

“I'm sorry to hear that.”

“Yeah. It's been interesting. My mom just started dating again. Through church, of course. The Singles Again group. Not an easy thing to see your mother get back out there. I went to two socials with her, and if it's not embarrassing enough to have your mother try to set you up behind your back, it's even worse right in front of you.”

“I'm sure your mom's a great matchmaker, but you're kind of an easy sell. The whole handsome doctor thing can't hurt.”

Cortland laughed, and I wondered if I'd said too much. My foot-in-mouth disease was aggravated around handsome men. “Well, maybe I should introduce myself as a grocer and see if that makes a difference.”

“See if they like you for you and not the white coat.” I tried to imagine if my sister would be interested in him if he were just a handsome grocer instead of a handsome anesthesiologist. Nope. Afraid not. “I'd stick with the doctor route. Honesty is usually the best policy. So your mom and my mom conspired to get you and Rachel together. You two must've hit it off.”

Cortland studied me before answering, clearly thinking before he spoke. “Your sister has more energy than all the doctors at Mercy combined.”

So he likes her zest, her zeal for life. Well, who wouldn't? Passion oozed from that sparkly smile, and while I still believed half of it was for show, she did manage to pull it off. “Have you seen her show?”

“No. But I've seen the billboards for more than a year.”

The one Anh and I called “the boob billboard.” Rachel had the shot done right after her implants, when she was still a little swollen. Her network swears her viewership rose three points after the board went up. “What, no TiVo? I TiVo her. It's the least a sister can do.”

He shrugged. “Busy, I guess. But why watch her on TV when you can get the real thing?”

This time I gave him the benefit of the doubt that he didn't mean in bed. I looked beyond the garden at the pool, remembering it was Rachel's first question to my mother about him. “I'm glad Lindsey and Zoe have hit it off, too. Zoe's had a rough couple of years with the divorce and…” I nearly added having my sister as a mother.

“Lindsey's always wanted a sister. Or brothers. Rachel tells me you have two boys. That must be a handful.”

Even with a husband. “ They're great. They are definitely the bright spot in my day.”

“What does your husband do?”

I could feel myself blush. Rachel had told him about the boys, but not that I'm a widow? It had taken me a full year to stop answering yes when someone asked me if I was married. Now I simply said no. If they pressed, I told them I was a widow, but unlike my sister, I didn't seek any sympathy.

He wore what was surely his compassionate doctor's face. The one people saw right before they started counting backwards, imagining little Cortland sheep hurdling over a picket fence. “I'm sorry. Rough subject.”

“Oh, it's okay. I just thought Rachel would've told you. My husband died two years ago. Heart attack.”

Cortland's smile fell. He seemed embarrassed he hadn't been told as well. “God, I'm sorry. The last couple of years have had to be hell on you.”

I caught my breath. “Thank you. Yes. As a matter of fact, it has been exactly like hell. Though Pastor Feelgood never said those words to me.”

“Pastor Feelgood. That fits him, doesn't it? I'm afraid I may never be able to call him by his real name again. How come I've never seen you in church?”

“You mean you didn't spot me among the 10,000 other attendees?”

“Fair enough. But I think I could pick you out in a crowd.”

He raised his eyebrows. I did the same. I felt the coffee swirl inside of me, and I fidgeted to break whatever connection was forming between us, especially so soon after mentioning my husband's name. My sister wanted this man, or at least his pool. I was just the driver, her personal assistant for the day. I should go.

“Well, thanks for the coffee. I have to pick up da Vinci before Bradley's game.”

Cortland stood and stretched again, puffing his chest towards me. “Did you just say you had to pick up da Vinci?”

I laughed. “He's an immigrant student of mine that's living in my garage studio. His name really is Leonardo da Vinci. And to answer your question earlier, my husband Joel was an architect. A very good architect. He actually designed your hospital.”

“Wow. He did great work. The hospital is a masterpiece.”

“Thank you. I'm sure he'd be happy to hear that.”

“And I'd love to meet this da Vinci of yours.”

“So would my sister. We'll have you over soon.” I noticed I had said we as if da Vinci and I were together. “I mean, I'll have you all over to my house soon. Although it's nothing like this.”

Cortland waved it away. “This was my wife's idea. Ex-wife's. She would've wanted the house in the divorce, only the guy she left me for has a house twice this size.”

“Ouch.”

“Very ouch. But looking back, it's better this way. And I'm actually thinking of downsizing. I prefer a cozy little space.”

“Don't tell that to my sister.”

He scrunched his brow. “What do you mean?”

I shrugged, regretting opening my big mouth. “Oh, nothing. I just mean I'm sure she really likes your house. And your pool.”

“It does have a nice hot tub,” he said. “It's nice to get in with a cup of hot chocolate when it's snowy outside. That I'll invite you over for. I mean, Rachel and I will invite you and da Vinci over.”

Our eyes locked again, and I wanted to make a snide remark about hell freezing over before I'd get in a hot tub with my hard-bodied sister, but I didn't think that was really the point. The point, if I was really paying attention, was that we had just made two plans to see each other again.

A FEW THINGS GRIEVERS don't do: We won't tell you to look at the “bright side"; we steer clear of couples' hang-outs; and we absolutely, unequivocally avoid weddings like vampires shun sunlight. The blushing bride and tearful groom and gaggle of well-wishers and sweet sanctimony don't sit well with my kind. We tend to ignore any nuptial events that come our way. (We have nothing against you lovebirds; it's just best not to throw acid into a seeping wound.)

We normally send a nice Target gift card instead.

But this wedding invite could not be swept under the rug or stashed in a file because the bride was none other than the daughter of Mahatma Panchal, as in the Panchal Center for Cultural Diversity, as in my boss.

Besides, Griever or not, I had watched his American-born daughter Marcy sprout from a curious ten-year-old to the girl who gave the commencement speech as the valedictorian at her high school and again when she received her engineering degree from UT four years later. And now, how could I not be there to celebrate her next journey just because it involved love? I had attended nearly every type of cultural wedding over the years, and even though Marcy was marrying a white man, she had decided on a traditional Hindu ceremony, one of my favorites.

Before I lost Joel, weddings had become a sort of hobby for us. I rarely turned down a wedding invite and with so many students each semester I got my share of them. I'd seen them all: Jewish and Greek and Christian and Catholic. But a Pakistani wedding was right up there with Vietnamese in my book: colorful and long and full of symbolism, something every great linguist admires.