It was a small place, Little Roses, and not quite in the ritzy locales of Napa Valley --not yet, anyway-- but it was hers. The tables, the chairs, the...dishes, the cutlery were hers. The wood and stucco walls and the soft lights overhead were hers. The centrepiece vases on each table displaying peach and white roses were hers. She couldn't see the little flower-girl statuette fountain just outside the doors of the restaurant, but that was hers as well. All of it was hers. Okay, fifteen percent. My toes just barely touched the surface of the stage.Evidently this was a signal of some type because the generalized, unfocused din of the crowd grew silent. The distinctive tap-tap of high heels brought a round of applause. The spotlights shining directly at my face made it difficult to see but I could make out several people in the crowd. Each of them was smiling in anticipation.The glare in my face darkened briefly as a person crossed in front of me. It was tough to tell, but I thought it. More

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