inhaled the crisp sea air as he swiped his credit card in the parking meter. On a Saturday afternoon, he’d been lucky to find a space.
Seagulls mewed overhead as he descended the steps to the quay. Surf and souvenir shops lined the inland side of the wooden wharf, while small piers thrust outward into the harbor, tethered boats bobbing beside them in the water. In the breezy March sunshine, white sails filled the harbor.
To his right, past a tumble of rocks, stretched a beach dotted with a few brave sunbathers. During his teens, the beach had been popular with Marshall’s classmates, but he’d been too busy with Advanced Placement and International Baccalaureate classes to hang out at such places. However, he’d enjoyed the sounds and smells of the ocean on rare jaunts with family friends who’d owned a powerboat.
Ahead, at the Sea Star Café, outdoor diners basked in the comfort of warming devices shaped like metal umbrellas. No sign of Franca.
Inside the café, the scents of coffee and spices greeted him. Families and couples had claimed all the tables, and he was wondering if they should have chosen a less popular locale when he spotted a tumble of red-gold hair at a booth.
Hands cupped around a mug, Franca gazed out the window to her left toward the open ocean. In profile, she had a straight nose, a determined chin and long lashes. When she swung toward him, her mouth curved in welcome. She waved at almost the same moment that the loudspeaker squawked her name.
“I went ahead and ordered,” she explained when he reached her. “Hope you like pita sandwiches. You can have either the falafel and hummus or the Swiss and turkey.”
“Take whichever you prefer.” Marshall usually picked items that could be trimmed, such as sandwiches on bread. Still, he refused to become one of those fussy eaters who drove everyone around them crazy. He had even recently discovered the pleasures of pizza. “I’ll pick up the order.”
“I’ll hold down the table,” she said. “Either sandwich is fine with me.”
Marshall claimed their tray and on his return, handed her the falafel and hummus pita—definitely messier. He slid several bills across the table to cover his check. “No arguing.”
“Wasn’t going to,” she said.
He removed the plates, utensils and glasses of water from the tray, then carried it to a disposal station. “You’re always so neat,” Franca remarked.
“As opposed to?” He raised an eyebrow.
“Me.” She indicated a glop of hummus she’d spilled on the table.
“A little mess doesn’t bother me as long as it’s not mine.” Marshall had the sense he was being perpetually judged, thanks to his parents’ habitual criticism. He tried, not always successfully, to cut others more slack.
After a few bites of pita, he brought up the proposed counseling group. “Any suggestion for how to get out of this?”
“Are you sure we should?” Responding to his frown, Franca said, “This would benefit many patients. It also could reinforce Dr. Rattigan’s view of you as a key player in the department’s expansion.”
Marshall mulled the idea as he ate. Adding such a group did seem logical. “What exactly happens in a counseling group? If that isn’t a bonehead question.”
“It’s more a reflection on what medical schools teach doctors, or fail to teach them,” she said.
“I took courses in psychopathology and clinical psychiatry,” Marshall countered. “As well as serving a rotation in psychiatry.” Psychopathology was the study of the genetic, biological and other causes of mental disorders, along with their symptoms and treatments.
“Dealing with psychotics and how to medicate them?” Franca summarized.
“Basically, yes.”
“I figured.” Her nose wrinkled. “We won’t be dealing with psychotics. We’ll be helping ordinary people whose infertility creates problems for them.” Having finished her pita, she wiped her hands on her paper napkin.
Marshall reached across with his own napkin to dab the corner of her mouth. “Missed a spot.”
Startled, Franca lifted her chin, and her cheek brushed his hand. An electric tingle ran along his arm. “I could use an aide to follow me around and clean me up,” she said.
“Why bother, when I’m here?” he teased.
She smiled. “Promise you won’t do that in front of patients.”
“Promise you won’t eat a pita in front of patients.”
“It’s a deal.”
He returned to their topic. “I don’t mean to be dismissive, but why not refer troubled patients to Resolve?” The national organization assisted people coping with infertility.
“It’s a terrific group, but it’s a complement to therapy,” Franca said. “It doesn’t replace it. But I never answered your question.”
“About what happens in counseling?”
She nodded. “Infertility is a stressful experience. People often feel out of control and that they’ve failed. There’s loss and grief as well as financial concerns.” Fertility treatments could cost tens of thousands of dollars and were rarely covered by insurance. “Sharing your pain with others who are in the same boat can be a relief.”
“But why have a separate group for men?”
Franca took a sip from her mug. “Most infertility counseling focuses on the woman or on the couple’s relationship. But when the man is the source of the infertility, that can affect his feelings of masculinity and self-worth. And men in general have a harder time expressing their emotions.”
“That’s true of me,” Marshall conceded. Although he wasn’t entirely convinced, he’d run out of arguments. Moreover, an earlier comment of hers was rattling inside his head.
He’d assumed that by adopting, his parents had put to rest the issues associated with their infertility. Perhaps he’d been wrong. “Could those concerns persist after the couple adopts?”
“Certainly.” Sunlight through the window brought out the sprinkling of freckles across Franca’s cheeks. “A lot depends on the patients’ self-esteem and how they view adoption.”
“And therapy can help?” Too bad his parents hadn’t availed themselves of it. But that wouldn’t have suited their superior, stiff-upper-lip attitude.
“It isn’t a cure-all, but yes,” Franca said. “For example, adoptive parents worry whether there’ll be a temperamental mismatch and whether the child will bond with them as strongly as with a birth parent.”
“Or whether they’ll bond with the child?” Marshall asked.
“That, too.”
“You raise interesting points,” he said. “To me, therapy has always seemed unscientific, perhaps even...” He paused as a couple moved past them to claim an empty table.
