Angie always looked like she was sulking. Sometimes I missed my cheerful little girl, baby tooth smile, chubby cheeks. I swallowed a dry ball of meat and wondered what was wrong with me. Why did I want everything to be frozen in the past?

As annoyed as I was with Angie and her "coolness" Craig seemed amused, and he kept breaking into his wide grin, asking her questions, teasing her until she smiled.

I poured myself some more wine and then it occurred to me Craig could drink, too. Not that he hadn't been drinking when he lived here in high school, but that was different. It was sanctioned now. I raised my eyebrows in surprise at the thought. Time, I thought, looking at the congealing sauces and cooling bowls of vegetables, time was moving on.

"Craig, want some wine?" I said, and he looked slightly surprised by the offer.

"Sure," he said, and I poured him a glass. Still, I thought of the meds he was on and how drinking might not be such a good idea with them, you know, heavy duty psych meds like that. But I figured one glass wouldn't hurt.

He sipped it and I looked at his face, an adult's face now fully. Any trace of the child and teenager I had known was gone. I licked my lips and thought of the wrinkles I saw in the mirror every morning, little lines and deeper lines, deep grooves. I could see my dead wife in the shape of his eyes, the way he smiled and laughed. Between the two of my children they had all of her features covered. Angie's hair was the exact shade of Julia's, her eyes the exact shade of her eyes.

"I haven't seen you on MTV or anything," Angie said, and there was a kernel of seriousness in the teasing. I saw the flash of Craig's hurt look, and in that flash he looked younger somehow. I closed my eyes and remembered finding him at Julia's grave that night, and he was shaking, trying so hard to hold it together. That was the night he became my son, not just my step-son.

"It takes time," he told her, composed again, sipping his wine. My wine was top notch. The best vineyards, the best years. I was done with Boone Farm and Zinfindel.

"How much time? Six years?" Angie said, and her features were sharp, her look pointed. She attacked everyone, going for the weakest spot like a predator.

"Maybe. Maybe longer,"

Craig was old enough to know success wasn't so black and white anymore, not so set in stone. Maybe it would take longer, maybe it would take forever. I glanced at his guitar leaning in the corner, saw the nicks in the shiny wood finish. He was doing something he loved, sometimes that was success enough.

"Seeing anyone?" I said to him, and I could tell by his playful smile that he wasn't seeing anyone serious. He turned the question back on me.

"What about you, Joey?" he said, and I thought back to the last year he lived here, his senior year in high school. Come to think of it, he'd seemed kind of adult-like even then. It had seemed like we were roommates sometimes then. I'd date girls and he would, and we'd compare notes like two bachelors in the evenings.

"No. Not really," And the truth was, except for Caitlin, I'd only dated pale copies of Julia and then got rid of them when they couldn't measure up, and they never could. Sometimes I felt like I had to face it, my mate was my dead wife. I could still feel her so much, I could close my eyes and there she was.

"How about you, Ang?" he said, spearing a carrot and chewing it.

"Well…" she said, her tone shy all of a sudden. She was seeing someone, or liked someone or something. My Angie. I couldn't believe I hadn't thought to ask this question myself.