Sweet Forgiveness Read Online Free PDF Page B

dozen garbage bags to Goodwill. The man saved everything.” She laughs softly, and my heart breaks for her. I should have been the one cleaning out his closets. Instead, just like my dad, I let her do the tough stuff.
    â€œYou never found a letter, or letters, or anything at all from my mother?”
    â€œI know she had our address here in L.A. From time to time she’d send him tax documents or whatnot. But I’m sorry, Hannah. Nothing for you.”
    I nod, unable to speak. I didn’t realize until now how badly I was hoping for a different answer.
    â€œYour dad loved you, Hannah. For all of his flaws, he truly loved you.”
    I know my father loved me. So why isn’t that enough?

    I take extra care getting ready that night. After soaking in my favorite Jo Malone bath oil, I stand in front of the mirror in a lacy, peach-colored bra and matching panties, pulling the last section of my hair through a flatiron. Though my shoulder-length locks have a natural wave, Michael prefers my hair smooth. I curl my lashes and apply mascara, then toss my makeup into my bag. Careful not to wrinkle it, I slip into a short, copper-colored sheath I chose just for Michael. At the last minute, I dig out my sixteenth-birthday present, the diamond-and-sapphire pendant. The very jewels that had been plucked from my mother’s engagement ring blink up at me, as if they, too, can’t get used to their remounted contemporary configuration. All these years, I’ve kept the necklace in the box, never having had the desire or the heart to wear it. A wave of sadness comes over me as I fasten the platinum chain behind my neck. Bless my father’s soul. He was clueless. He had no idea his gift symbolized destruction and loss rather than its intended welcome into womanhood.
    At 6:37, Michael steps into my apartment. It’s been a week since I’ve seen him, and he’s in need of a haircut. But unlike my hair when it’s shaggy, his sandy-blond locks fall in perfectly imperfect waves, lending him a youthful, beach-boy look. I like to tease Michael that he looks more like a Ralph Lauren model than a mayor. His cornflower-blue eyes and fair complexion make him the picture of success, one you might find skimming across Cape Cod at the helm of a Hinckley.
    â€œHey, beautiful,” he says.
    Without bothering to take off his coat, he lifts me into his arms, hiking my dress as he carries me to my bedroom. Wrinkles be damned.

    We lie next to each other, staring up at the ceiling. “Jesus,” he says, breaking the silence. “I needed that.”
    I roll onto my side and run a finger down his square jawline. “I missed you.”
    â€œI missed you, too.” He turns his head and pulls the tip of my finger into his mouth. “You’re incredible, you know that?”
    I lie still in the crook of his arm, waiting until he catches his breath and we begin round two. I love these interim moments tucked in Michael’s embrace, where the world is far away and our slow mingled breathing is the only sound I hear.
    â€œCan I get you a drink?” I whisper.
    When he doesn’t answer, I raise my head. His eyes are closed and his mouth is slack. Softly, he begins to wheeze.
    I glance at the clock. It’s 6:55, eighteen minutes from door to snore.

    He wakes with a start, his eyes wide and his hair mussed. “What time is it?” he asks, squinting at his watch.
    â€œSeven forty,” I say, running a hand over his smooth chest. “You were sleepy.”
    He bolts from the bed, rummaging for his phone. “Jesus, I told Abby we’d pick her up at eight. We better move.”
    â€œAbby’s joining us?” I ask, hoping I don’t betray my disappointment.
    â€œYup.” He grabs his shirt off the floor. “She broke a date to be with us.”
    I climb from the bed. I know I’m being selfish, but I want to talk about Chicago tonight. And this time I won’t