It was my sister Marie on the phone, trying to persuade me to go to the party she was giving that weekend. Marie, who worked on a super-glossy Seattle magazine, seemed compelled to give these parties every now and then, inviting everyone she knew and some she didn't know so that her house became a mob scene.

"I don't know," I said. "I'm pretty busy now."

"You're always busy, Paul.. You know the saying, all work and no play. And you might meet that certain someone at the party." Besides giving these parties, Marie's other compulsion was, as the phrase had it, to "fix me up." I was 36, had a good job with a non-profit organization devoted to helping kids and was happily unmarried. Marie was determined to remedy this situation.

"I've never met anyone at your parties. And for your information I've already met someone, at that conference last week."

"Oh, who is she?"

I hesitated. "Well, I don't really know. I talked to her for a while, got her business card, then I couldn't find it when I got home." I felt a little foolish telling Marie all this. "But she lives and works in Seattle. I'm sure I can track her down."

"Maybe. But all the more reason you should come to my party. She could very well be there."

Marie believes in all of those coincidences so popular in romantic movies. You see someone on the street, then you go to the dentist and there she is in the waiting room. "Most unlikely," I said.

"So just come and have a good time," persisted Marie. I knew she'd keep on this way until she wore me down, so I said, "Okay, I'll drop in for just a little while."

"Good. And who knows what might happen." I sighed. Marie was incorrigible.

The party was going full-blast when I arrived. I edged my way into the large living room and eventually made my way to the bar. I was just tasting my drink when Marie appeared at my elbow. "I'm so glad you made it," she said. "And you can't say there aren't enough attractive women to choose from. I went all out this time."

I looked around. Marie was right: a petite redhead there, a buxom blonde there, a raven-haired beauty over there. Then I saw her, the woman from the conference, over in the far corner. "Excuse me,": I said to Marie and, after much elbowing through the crowd, I finally reached her. "We met last week," I quickly said to her. "At the Save-a-Child conference. I'm Andy Collins."

"Oh, yes. Didn't I give you my business card?"

"You did, but I'm afraid I misplaced it."

"I'm Diane Simpson, with Drexel and Drexel."

"Right. The public relations firm."

"Yes. This room's so crowded I can hardly breathe. Who's idea was it to invite so many people?"

"That would be my sister Marie. She likes crowds. Would you like to go someplace quieter, and less crowded."

At that moment a tall, blonde guy with the wide shoulders and tan of a California surfer came up and said, "Sorry to have left you so long, Diane. Fellow was a former patient of mine." He looked at me. "I'm a neurosurgeon."

"This is Dr. Rodney Harmon," said Diane.

"Call me Rod," he said, enveloping my hand in a bone-crushing grip.

We talked for a while, or rather Dr. Rod did, with his arm possessively around Diane, then I excused myself and made my way back to the bar where, once again, Marie appeared at my elbow. "I saw you talking to that woman," she said. "Not bad. See, I said you'd meet someone here."

"It so happens that was the woman I told you about."

Marie's face lit up. "See, I was right."

"It was just coincidence," I said. "With all the people you invited, it's not that unusual that she was one of them. But it doesn't make any difference. She was with someone, a neurosurgeon, no less."

"So what. At least you know who she is now. Maybe the neurosurgeon will be hit by lightning. Don't give up so soon."

I shook my head. "I know when I'm overmatched. Besides, I'll probably never see her again."

In this it turned out I was wrong. A couple of weeks later my boss gave me a ticket to a touring Broadway production that was playing in Seattle. My seat was in the middle of the third row. A few minutes before curtain, a woman came down the row, whispering, "Excuse me. Excuse me," and took the empty seat beside me. It was Diane Simpson. "Hi," I said.

She looked at me. "Andy. Sorry I caused such a fuss. My boss just gave me his ticket; he was called out of town."

The play started and we couldn't talk any more. When the first act was over, she asked me how I'd happened to be there. "My boss gave me a ticket," I told her.

"That is a coincidence," she said.

After the play, we went to a nearby Starbuck's and both ordered mocha lattes. "My favorite," she said.

"Mine, too." We talked for about an hour, exchanging life histories. She had an older brother; I had an older sister, Marie. She came from a small town in Oregon. I was from a small town in Idaho. In college, we'd both majored in sociology. We both liked living in Seattle. Finally, I could hold back no longer. "What about that doctor you were with at the party?" I asked. "Are you still, uh, seeing him?"

"Yes, I am. He's off at some high-level medical conference this week. He's one of the top men in his field, you know."

"And he looks like a surfer."

"He's a golfer, actually, a two handicap."

"So he's good at that, too."

"Yes, it does seem that he has everything. Sometimes I find it hard to believe that I'm his girl friend."

"Yeah. Well, I wish you weren't." I took her hand and held it.

"Maybe I wish that, too, but there you are."

"Right." We stood up, said our good nights and I watched her disappear in a taxicab.

I was sitting on a bench by a lake. It was May, a beautiful afternoon. Not many people knew about Blueberry Lake Lodge, 30 miles north of Seattle. It was a place you went to when you wanted to get away. The Lodge was actually a collection of cottages and a main building where you had your meals. There were no television sets in the cottages and no phones. The food was reputed to be the best in the Northwest. Their dessert special, needless to say, was blueberry pie. The residents at the Lodge could include a movie star or a famous artist. I'd gotten in through the pull of my sister Marie.

A figure came around the bend in the path and approached the bench. It was Diane Simpson. It couldn't be, but it was. "Diane, is that you?"

"Paul, what are you doing here?"

"I needed some time to myself. My sister Marie pulled some strings and got me in here."

"My brother did the same for me."

"Where's your boyfriend, the famous neurosurgeon. Is he here with you?"

"No, Rod was hit by lightning while playing golf in a benefit tournament."

"What! That's unbelievable. So he's dead?"

"Not at all. He was just knocked out. His former wife came to see him in the hospital and they reconciled. I suppose that's why I'm here."

"Do you remember that night when we had coffee after the play? I've felt low ever since you walked away. I suppose that's why I'm here."

"Paul, we met at that conference, then again at your sister's party, then at the play, and now here. Do you suppose that means something?"

"That we're meant to be with each other? No, I don't believe in that stuff. They were just coincidences. On the other hand, Doctor Rod getting hit by lightning. How likely was that to happen? Well,. coincidences or not, I'm glad you're here. By the way, you don't happen to know if your brother knows my sister, do you?"

"I don't think so. Why?"

"Nothing. I bet I know something about you."

"What?"

"Your favorite dessert is blueberry pie."

"Your're right." I took her hand and we went back along the path to main building to have dinner together.