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as your mother. When I first saw you I thought you were your mother."

Carrie blushed at the praise. "People tell me that all the time." She suddenly glanced at her watch. "Oh, no. I hope you'll forgive me, but I have to rush back to work."

"Of course," Greg said as Carrie turned away.

"Goodbye, darling," Catherine called after her. "We'll see you and Jason Sunday for dinner."

When she was gone, Catherine looked at Greg. She'd always known this might happen, that she'd encounter Greg again, but now that she had, she wasn't sure what to do or what to say.

Greg seemed equally flustered. "It's been...a lot of years."

She gave a quick nod.

"Would you care to sit down?" he asked, then offered her a shaky smile. "Frankly, my knees feel like they're about to give out on me."

Catherine didn't feel much steadier herself. "That sounds like a good idea."

Greg led her to a sidewalk cafe, and when the waiter appeared, he ordered coffee for both of them. Although she normally drank her coffee black, Catherine added sugar to help her recover from the shock.

"Does Carrie have any older siblings?" Greg asked after a moment of stilted silence.

"A brother...I...had a boy seven months after you left," she said.

"You kept the baby?"

"Yes."

"You raised him?"

"Yes."

"Alone?"

She merely nodded this time, her throat thickening with the memory of the hardships she'd endured in those early years - the long hours, the hard work, the sleepless nights. "I...married when Edward was eight," she managed after a while, "and a year later Larry adopted him."

"So I have a son."

"No," Catherine told him, but without malice. "You are the biological father of a child. A wonderful young man who matured without the opportunity of ever knowing you. Without your ever knowing him."

Greg stared down at his coffee. "I was young. Stupid."

"Afraid," Catherine added softly. "We both were."

"But you weren't the one who ran away."

Catherine's laugh was wry. "I couldn't. I was the one carrying the baby."

Greg briefly closed his eyes. "I regret what I did, Catherine. I wanted to know what happened, but was afraid to find out."

"I know."

He looked at her then, as if he found it difficult to believe what she was saying.

Catherine glanced away. "It happened a very long time ago."

"I'm so sorry." He choked out the words, his voice raw with emotion.

"Don't say it," she whispered.

His face revealed his doubt, his confusion.

"You don't need to apologize, Greg. I forgave you years ago. You didn't realize it at the time and neither did I, but you gave me a beautiful gift in Edward. He was a wonderful child and a joy to my parents, who helped me raise him those first few years."

"You moved back home?"

"Until the baby was born. Then Mom watched him for me during the day while I finished college."

"It must have been difficult for you."

"It was." Catherine wasn't going to minimize the sacrifices demanded of her as a single mother. Those years had been bleak.

"Edward," Greg said. "After your father."

Catherine nodded, surprised he'd remembered her father's name.

"How could you forgive me?" Greg asked, sounding almost angry that she didn't harbor some deep resentment toward him. It was as if he expected her to punish him, to mete out her own form of justice right then and there.

"I had to forgive you, Greg, before I could get on with my life. After a while, the bitterness was more than I could endure. I had to leave it behind, and once I did, I discovered a true freedom. Soon afterward, I met Larry. We've been married for twenty-seven years now."

"But I don't deserve your forgiveness."

"That's not for me to say. But don't think forgiving you was easy, because it wasn't. When I first heard you'd left, I refused to accept it. I read your letter over and over - even though I couldn't take it in. I was convinced you'd be back. All you needed was time to sort everything out. I told myself you'd return to me and everything would be all right...but I had a rude awakening."

"I...wasn't ready to be a father. I guess I never was."

Catherine wondered if she'd misunderstood him. "You mean to say you never had children?"

"None," he said. "Three wives, but not one of them was interested in a family. For that matter, neither was I." He hesitated and his gaze skirted hers. "I was a selfish bastard when I left you. Unfortunately that hasn't changed."

She couldn't confirm or deny his words, for she no longer knew him.

"Would you