Roost: As fate would have it: A love story

By Amy Roost

On October 29, 2007, my teenage sons, their dad and I met with a geneticist at Children’s Hospital to assess our family’s medical history in an effort to understand why our oldest son, Stuart, has been beleaguered his whole life with health issues. We got more than we bargained for when the doctor unceremoniously announced that in addition to a brain malformation, atypical melanoma, anaphylactic allergies, and birth defects, Stuart had scoliosis.

This latest diagnosis hit me like a sucker punch that takes your breath away. And so as we left the hospital I announced that I was canceling my plan for the evening to go to a book signing. But my guys wouldn’t hear of it. “You’ve been talking about this event for weeks, Mom,” Stuart said. “We’ll go with you!” my younger son added looking to his dad — whose night it was — for approval. His dad nodded in agreement, and so it was decided: We’d all go to see neuroscientist Daniel Levitin speak about his book “This Is Your Brain on Music.”

It was a packed house at Warwick’s so the four of us stood against the back wall. A few minutes into the talk, I noticed a tall, well-built man quietly enter the store. He was scanning the room looking for a place to stand, when, just like in the movies, our eyes locked ever so briefly before we each regained our composure.

During Levitan’s presentation, I asked, “Why is it when I hear the Boz Scaggs’ song, “We’re All Alone,” I’m 16 years old again on a boat kissing my boyfriend?” Levitin explained how memory and music work together before making closing remarks.

Since it was a school night, the boys and their dad bid farewell. I stayed behind and made my way to the signing line, where, as fate would have it, I found myself standing directly behind the tall, good-looking guy. He looked toward me and asked, “What did your husband think of that question about your high school boyfriend?”

“That was my ex-husband,” I replied. At this, he turned around to face me. I had his full attention.

That first conversation lasted nearly an hour. We spoke of music festivals, the Constitution and neuroscience. Once our books were signed, I introduced my new friend to the bookstore staff, who I knew from my days of working at Warwick’s. After mingling briefly, he deftly handed me his business card and took leave.

The next day, I stared at his card on my desk wondering if I’d ever see this “Clinical Psychologist” again. Since I’d not told him my name or where I worked, that fate would fall on me.

And so I screwed up my courage and emailed him: “It was nice to meet you last night. BTW, did you give me your card because you think I need therapy, or because you’d like to take me out for a glass of wine? I hope it’s the latter.”

His memorable reply: “Both. But let’s start with a glass of wine.”

It didn’t take but a few dates to discover that what we saw in each other that first night was more than good looks. We had each traveled on the same bus to the Los Angeles Festival of Books a year earlier, and, in the presence of others, we’d been to several of the same book signings, concerts and sporting events. There was a long list of missed connections between us, as fate would have it.

And yet on October 29, 2007, fate would have me attending a book signing that I’d nearly traded in for a night of wallowing in self pity. Fate would have my children and ex-husband escort me. And fate would introduce me to my future husband.

Isn’t that just like fate. You get unexpected bad news, and it takes your breath away. You receive support from an unexpected source and you catch your breath. And then you lock eyes with a old familiar stranger across a crowded room and it Takes. Your. Breath. Away.