Indiscretions Read Free

mists spiraling across the magical waterborne city with washes of pale color and deft brushstrokes, and set in the antique frames that India scoured the small junk shops of Rome for, they were charming.
    India sighed. That described them perfectly. Charming. But not good enough for a major gallery. Still, Marella’s small boutique on the corner of Via Margutta would place them prominently in its window and they would be sold within days. Of course the card statingboldly that these were
Watercolors by India Haven (daughter of Jenny Haven)
brought in the tourists by the droves; the boutique could sell as many as India could paint. Marella Rinaldi was a shrewd businesswoman, and if India were at the shop when a potential customer came in, the paintings and India would be displayed almost as a package deal and a quick fifty percent added to the price. They were bought mostly by Americans, for whom Jenny Haven was a public dream. India never failed to be astonished by how intimately these strangers felt they knew her mother, often recounting anecdotes about Jenny of which she herself was completely unaware. How they had met Jenny’s daughter in Rome and bought one of her paintings would be the talking point of many an Illinoian or Texan party for a long time after the holiday was forgotten.
    The frown faded from India’s brow and her spirits began to rise as she collected the paintings from the mantelpiece, wrapped them in tissue, and slotted each one into a box. They fitted exactly. A lemon ribbon around the gold box, and they were the perfect gift. “Mementos of Italy by India Haven”; she remembered Fabrizio Paroli’s words with a grin. “Package them, India. You must always give them the little extra touch that they feel they are getting free, and then you can charge ten percent more.” And he was right, it worked every time. People were almost as delighted with the pretty box and its ribbon as they were with the paintings. Yes, she thought as she placed the six boxes in the bottom of her big black Gucci satchel and swung it over her shoulder, she certainly had satisfied customers. And these six would pay the rent for the next two months.
    India took a quick glance in the enormous mirror surmounting the fireplace and quickly fished the lipstick from the side pocket of her bag. A flash of scarlet on her generous mouth to match the new Ginocchietti sweater,a quick run of her hands through the spiky curls on top of her head, a smoothing of the pigtail that reached to her shoulder blades at the back, and she was ready. Or was she? Hesitantly she turned and looked more closely at her reflection. Her wide brown eyes stared back at her, the whites clear and bluish with health. Small straight nose and a generous mouth that dazzled into a smile as she looked at herself. Pretty, she thought, and sometimes charming—like the paintings. Not worth much in the major galleries, but in lesser surroundings very popular! Damn it, why didn’t Fabrizio fall in love with her? Was it that she was only five feet three? Maybe he really liked tall women. She teetered doubtfully for a moment on her high-heeled black boots. With the spiky upstanding curls and these heels, surely she looked at least five six? It was the bane of her life that she hadn’t been born taller like Paris and Vennie. They both had Jenny’s long American legs and elegant bodies that adapted themselves to almost any kind of clothes. She always had to be careful. Full bosomed since fourteen, India had been forced to the realization that though most men found her wonderfully attractive she would never have the clothes-horse figure of her sisters.
    “Smaller and rounder,” Jenny had told her, “that’s what you were when you were born. Of course, you’re built like your father, not me.” Fathers weren’t mentioned too often in the Haven household and India had known better than to press the matter. But smaller and rounder—though, thank heavens, never fat—was