A/N: Just a brief interlude…

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Chapter 6

Don slammed the door of the SUV, jogged to the kitchen door. "Sorry I'm late!" he shouted as he let himself in. Amita smiled at him over a casserole dish.

"Actually" she said, turning to carry the dish into the dining room, "you're just in time!"

Charlie reached across the table to poke him in the stomach with a warm loaf of French bread. "Yeah," he grinned. "Grab a beer and come on in."

Don heard his father's greeting as he called from the dining room. "Come and help me, Donnie. Charlie and Amita made dinner. They may both have at least two doctorates, but simple recipe quantities seem to have escaped them."

"Hey, Charlie protested, sitting the bread on the table and grabbing a chair for Amita. "We meant to do that. Leftovers."

Don grinned at his father and then sat next to him. "You've gotta admit, Dad, you've always been big on leftovers yourself."

Alan had dished up some casserole, was blowing on the fork. He frowned at his eldest and put the food in his mouth. "Mmmmm…" he closed his eyes, sank back in his chair. He opened his eyes again and looked at Charlie. "This is good. Which one of you is responsible for this?"

Amita laughed, accepting a serving bowl from Don. "Actually, it's a dish I learned to make in India the first time I went to visit, but I taught Charlie how to make it. I'm surprised he hasn't made it for you before."

"Spicy," Don observed after his first taste. "Charlie, why haven't you made this before?"

His brother shrugged. "Dad's usually halfway through dinner before I ever get home. It just never came up."

"You can cook any night you want to, Charlie," said Alan, "it's your house. Just let me know, first."

Charlie grinned. "Yeah. Right. Hold your breath on that, Dad."

After a few minutes of serious eating, Alan cleared his throat, had a sip of wine. "So, Amita," he said congenially. "You left my son at the altar. What else have you been up to?"

Don nearly choked on the bite of food he'd been working on, and he heard a strangled, "Dad!" out of Charlie. Alan clapped Don on the back a few times, never taking his eyes off Amita.

"I guess I deserve that," she said quietly.

Alan sighed and rubbed his hand over his face. "No, Amita, Charlie — I'm sorry. Didn't even know that was hiding in there."

Amita looked at him earnestly. "I'm not surprised, Alan. You were with Charlie when I…left…I'm sure it was very difficult for you to watch him go through that."

She reached across the table to touch Charlie's hand. "I've apologized to Charlie, although an apology after something like that seems ridiculous. It's all I have to offer, though…" She turned again to look at Alan, then to Don. "I'd like to apologize to both of you, as well. I still think the final decision was the right one — for both of us — but I handled it very badly. I hurt everyone. I hurt myself."

The room was so silent they could hear the clock ticking on the wall. Don looked at his brother, whose face still harbored a sad shadow, and saw him smile at Amita. Then he locked eyes with Don.

"I guess," Don heard himself saying, "I guess, Amita, that this is what people do. We love each other as best we can, and sometimes, we all have things to be sorry about."

She smiled at him gently, then, whispered, "Thank you, Don."

He could feel his father's eyes on him and he looked over to an arched brow. "And where did you pick up that little piece of wisdom?"

Don just grinned, lifted his beer to drain it. "From a genius, Dad, from a genius."