Three Fates

breakfast every morning, seven days a week, at precisely eight-thirty. He would now be on his second cup of coffee and have moved from the front page of The New York Times to the financial section. He’d have finished his fruit and would have moved on to the next course. Which, Tia noticed, was an egg-white omelette today.
    Her mother would take her herbal tea, her freshly squeezed juice and her first of the daily dose of eight glasses of bottled water—using them to wash down her morning complement of vitamins and medication—in bed. With it, she’d have a single slice of whole wheat toast, dry, and a cup of seasonal fruit.
    At nine-twenty, Alma would come downstairs, regale Stewart with whatever physical complaints she might have that morning, ramble off her appointment and task schedule while he checked his briefcase.
    They would kiss good-bye, and he would walk out the door at nine-thirty.
    It was, Tia believed, as reliable and exacting a schedule as a Swiss train.
    There had been a time when she’d been part of that schedule. Or, she thought, had been worked into it. Was it their fault or hers that she’d been so unable to do anything, anything at all, to interfere with its precision?
    Their fault or hers that even now the idea of doing so made her queasy?
    Stewart glanced up as Tia entered, and his creased brow lifted in mild surprise. “Tia. Did we have an appointment?”
    “No. I’m sorry to interrupt your morning.”
    “Don’t be foolish.” But even as he said it, he glanced at his watch. “Would you like some breakfast? Coffee?”
    “No, thank you. Nothing.” She stopped herself from linking her restless fingers together and sat across from him. “I wanted to speak to you before you went in to work.”
    “All right.” He spread a thin layer of butter on lightly toasted whole wheat bread, then blinked. “You’ve cut your hair.”
    “Yes.” Feeling foolish, she lifted a hand to it. “A few days ago.”
    “It’s very flattering. Very chic.”
    “Do you think?” She felt her color rise. Foolish again, she decided, to be so flustered by a compliment from her own father. But they came so few and far between. “When Mother saw it, I don’t think she was pleased. I imagined she’d have told you.”
    “She may have.” He smiled a little as he continued to eat. “I don’t always listen, particularly when she’s in a mood. She has been.”
    “It’s my fault, and one of the reasons I wanted to see you this morning. Mother dropped by my apartment on her way to a doctor’s appointment. It was . . . an awkward moment. I was with someone.” She drew a long breath. “I was with a man.”
    “I see.” Stewart hesitated, frowned, stirred his coffee. “Do I see, Tia?”
    “I’m involved with someone. He’s staying with me at my apartment while he’s in New York. I’m working on a project with him, and some other people just now. And I’m . . . I’m having an affair with him.” She finished on a rush and fell into miserable silence.
    Stewart contemplated his coffee another moment. It was a toss-up which of them was more uncomfortable. “Tia, your personal . . . relationships aren’t my business, or your mother’s. Naturally, I assume anyone you’re involved with is suitable and appropriate.”
    “I’m not sure you’d find him so either, but I do. Surprisingly,” she rushed on, “he thinks I’m interesting and attractive, which makes me feel interesting and attractive. And I like it. In any case, Mother was—and I imagine is—very upset. I’m not sure I can smooth things over with her, but I’ll certainly try. I’m going to apologize in advance if I’m unsuccessful. I can’t and won’t order my life to suit her needs. Or yours. So I’m sorry.”
    “Well.” Stewart set down his fork, drew air through his nose. “Well,” he repeated. “I never expected to hear that from you. You’re saying that though your mother and I may disapprove, may even be angry, you’ll do as you please.”
    She knew the pain in her stomach was tension, but couldn’t help wondering if she had a tumor. “In a nutshell, I suppose that’s it.”
    “Good. It’s about goddamn time.”
    She forgot all about the possibility of stomach cancer. “Excuse me?”
    “I love your mother, Tia. Don’t ask me why, as I haven’t a clue. She’s a pain in the ass, but I love her.”
    “Yes, I know. I mean, I know you love her—not that she’s . . . I always knew you loved each other,”