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what it’s like. He was sleeping with another woman. That is not something a person can just be sorry about. And it’s not something you can just forget.”
    Tears glistened at the corners of her eyes, and I felt wetness in my own eyes. “You can if you want to bad enough.”
    For a few seconds we just stood there, each flicking glimmers of tears away. I knew I was being unfair to her. But she had gotten what she wanted after my father hurt her and I hadn’t.
    “This is why you never gave me permission to date, isn’t it?” she said. “Because you blame me for what happened.”
    Caution had kept her single. Not me. “You don’t need my permission to date,” I answered.
    “But that’s exactly what you’re demanding! Permission!”
    I stared at her, wordless.
    “You never let me feel like I could date again, that I deserved to date again. And for a very long time, I didn’t think I did either. That’s why I waited to tell you about Devon. And why I picked a public place and told you nothing before you got here. But you’re right about one thing. I don’t need your permission to date. I’m going back to the table.”
    She turned, swung open the door, and left.
    I stood there for several minutes waiting for the tumbling thoughts in my head to settle. I couldn’t make sense of anything she had said, and I knew that wouldn’t change by standing there in the ladies’ room at the Melting Pot. I needed to go back to the table, collect my things, and offer a suitable excuse to bow out. I needed to be home in the quiet of the cottage to deal with this.
    I took several deep breaths and walked back to our booth. The menuslay on the table unopened. My mother had refilled her wineglass. Devon’s expression was kind but pensive. I didn’t like the lingering wave of attraction that I felt for him. I reached for my purse.
    “I am so terribly sorry to do this, but I won’t be able to stay for dinner. I’m not feeling very well. Devon, it was a pleasure to meet you. I do mean that. Please stay and enjoy the fondue.”
    Devon stood and shook my hand. The sheen of concern on his face was nearly paternal. I looked away from him. “Sorry, Mom. Really. Call me tomorrow?”
    She nodded and raised her glass to her mouth.
    “Can I walk you out?” Devon asked.
    “Thanks. I’ll be fine.”
    He touched my elbow. I wavered a bit. “I am really sorry about this,” he said.
    “Don’t be,” I said quickly.
    “Perhaps another time?” Devon asked.
    My mother looked up and waited for me to answer.
    “Of course. Another time.”
    I waved good-bye to my mother, and she blew me a kiss, though her eyes betrayed the hurt she still felt.
    I walked away from the booth, passing table after table of patrons happily plunging tiny skewers into sizzling, steaming pots.

When my father was young, did he lie awake and wonder what it might be like to feel his mother’s hand pressed to his cheek? Did he ever envision how his life would have been different had his father lived? Did he know that if he’d been groomed to be an Orsini duke, as he should have been by his father instead of being left to untangle life’s hardest lessons on his own, he might’ve been a different man? I’ve heard that my father frequented brothels, spent money as though it had no value, and was addicted to having the latest fashion or convenience, whatever it may be. Had he the guidance and discipline of an attentive father, would he have still led an unsatisfied life?
    In my lessons I was given the opportunity to learn a variety of instruments, but I wanted to paint. I wanted to see what it was like to create beauty out of nothing. I hadn’t the skill of the masters; I knew this. And my tutor was not inclined that I should take up the brush—painting was messy work. But he provided me canvases and colors, nonetheless, and an instructor named Benito who needed the money. For my first work, I painted a picture of how I imagined my father as a child. I painted