Sweet Forgiveness Read Online Free PDF

fresh-baked bread. My blatant attempt at domestic seduction. And tonight I need all the reinforcement I can gather. I’ve decided to take Dorothy’s advice and tell Michael straight up that I don’t want to leave New Orleans—i.e., him. My heart speeds at the very thought of it.
    With greased hands, I lift the sticky ball from the mixing bowl and turn it onto a floured breadboard. I work the dough with the heels of my palms, pushing it away, watching it fold over itself. In the cupboard beneath the island, less than a foot from where I stand, sits a shiny Bosch bread mixer. It was a Christmas gift from my father three years ago. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I am a sensualist, that I prefer to knead my dough by hand, a ritual that dates back over four thousand years, when the ancient Egyptians first discovered yeast. I wonder whether it was just another tedious task for the Egyptian ladies, or if they found it relaxing, as I do. For me, it is soothing, the monotonous push and pull of the dough, the chemical transformation, barely visible, as the flour, water, and leavening become silky and glutinous.
    It was my mother who taught me that the word
lady
evolved from the medieval English phrase
dough kneader
. Like me, my mother had a passion for baking. But where did she learn this piece of trivia? I never saw her read, and her mother didn’t even have a high school education.
    I push a strand of hair from my forehead with the back of my hand. Ever since Dorothy ordered me to make peace with my mother three days ago, I can’t stop thinking of her. Is it possible she really did try to contact me?
    There’s only one person who might know. Without waiting another minute, I rinse my hands and pick up my phone.
    It’s one o’clock Pacific Time. I listen as the phone rings, picturing Julia out on her lanai, reading a romance novel, or maybe doing her nails.
    â€œHannah Banana! How are you?”
    The joy in her voice makes me feel guilty. For the first month after my dad died, I called Julia daily. But quickly the calls dwindled to once a week, then once a month. It’s been since Christmas that I last spoke to her.
    I gloss over details about Michael and my job. “Everything’s great,” I say. “How about you?”
    â€œThe salon is sending me to a class in Vegas. It’s all about hairpieces and extensions these days. You might want to try one. They’re really convenient.”
    â€œI just might,” I say, before getting to the point. “Julia, there’s something I need to ask you.”
    â€œThe condo. I know. I need to get it on the market.”
    â€œNo. I want you to have it, I told you that. I’ll call Ms. Seibold this week and see what’s taking so long with the title transfer.”
    I hear her sigh. “You’re a doll, Hannah.”
    My dad began dating Julia the year I left for college. He retired early and decided, since I was going to USC, he may as well move to L.A., too. He met Julia at the gym. She was in her mid-thirties then, a decade younger than my father. I liked her instantly, a kindhearted beauty with a penchant for red lipstick and Elvis memorabilia. She once confided that she’d wanted children, but she chose my father instead, who was, in her words, a big kid himself. It makes me sad that, seventeen years later, her dream of children has vanished, along with her “big kid.” Giving her my dad’s condo seems a sorry substitute for all she sacrificed.
    â€œJulia, my friend told me something I can’t seem to shake.”
    â€œWhat is it?”
    â€œShe . . .” I tug on a lock of my hair. “She thinks my mom tried to contact me, that she sent me a letter—or letters. I’m not sure when.” I pause, worried that what I say might sound like an accusation. “She thinks my dad knew about it.”
    â€œI don’t know. I’ve already taken a