Sweet Indulgences 1 Read Online Free

says? Was your mother always doing that ‘I’m disappointed in you’ routine when she was alive?”
    “I don’t really remember her. I was too young.” That’s not exactly true. I might remember if I tried. But, given all the trauma about the way she died, remembering always brought so much guilt and pain that I learned, long ago, not to do it.
    “Try, darling. It might help us get this sorted out.”
    The word “us” rings in my head. Antonio’s expression and voice are caring and earnest. I can’t say no.
    I frame my face with my hands and sink into their support as I try to remember. I close my eyes, strive to shut out the presence of noisy strangers, to summon memories. True memories, not visions of the ghost-mother preaching at me.
    As from a distance, Antonio’s voice comes, low and almost hypnotic. “Was she tall or short? What color hair? What did she like to do? Did she wear jeans or dresses? Did she play with you, read to you?”
    I do my best to not resist the memories and to let his voice guide me. Now there’s a scent in my nostrils, elusive, like the image that is floating just out of reach. I concentrate harder. Antonio must see it on my face because he goes quiet. I inhale more deeply, and once I realize it’s perfume I’m smelling, the whole scene pops into my mind, sharp and fresh. I am both observing the curly-headed little girl and being her, being inside her as she watches her mother get ready to go out for the evening.
    Both the Leslies, child and adult, are spellbound.
    I don’t know how long it is before the memory-pictures fade gently to black, leaving me with tears rolling unchecked down my face. I open drenched eyes and stare at Antonio.
    He meets my gaze and waits, silently. He is one of the rare men who isn’t uncomfortable with tears.
    I find a tissue in the pocket of my skirt, blot runny mascara, and blow my nose. Then I reach for his hand. For a moment I just savor the firm, warm grip, the comfort and affection that he transmits.
    “The Christmas before she died, Dad gave her perfume. Not one big bottle, but a lovely little padded box filled with tiny glass vials. Each vial held a different perfume and they had colored beads at each end. There was a key to identifying them—you know, like inside boxes of chocolates? The names were magic. They conjured up exotic, sophisticated images. Who could resist an ‘Evening in Paris’?”
    He smiles appreciatively but doesn’t speak.
    “She and I both loved those miniature perfumes. When she and Dad were going some place special—out dancing, or for dinner—she’d ask me to help her dress. She did it all, all those womanly things. Painted her fingernails and toenails, painted mine too, fussed with her hair, put on real silk stockings and pretty dresses. She’d put on her lipstick really carefully then blot it on a tissue and ceremoniously present me with that one, perfect kiss.
    “The very last thing was the perfume. We’d debate the choices then she’d let me break off the bright glass bead. She’d put her finger to the end of the vial then touch her pulse points, even the backs of her knees—isn’t that sexy? Then she’d dab a little on my wrists and behind my ears. I’d be sitting on the end of my parents’ bed in my flannelette jammies, with my stubby nails painted, smelling like a sophisticated woman.”
    Antonio’s expression tells me he’s captivated.
    “She wasn’t an old-fashioned woman,” I say. “She was liberated and all that, but she believed you could have a little romance, a little excitement, in the middle of your busy, ordinary life. I remember now. That was her special talent. She made those magic moments happen. Not just for herself, but for me, and Dad, and everyone she cared about.”
    I stare at him, as realization sinks in. “She was like you. You do that too.”
    He smiles delightedly. “Thank you, Leslie. That’s the best compliment I’ve ever had.”
    He’s right. My mother would