She asked where the woman went after the ride.
Marco opened his mouth and closed it again. The rain thickened against the glass. Sofia turned the bottle carefully in her hands, admiring the way the light caught the etched leaves on the glass, and for a moment nobody moved. Elena set the unfinished towel on the arm of the sectional and crossed the room with the quiet purpose of someone approaching a cliff edge. She did not snatch the perfume from Sofia. She knelt instead, so that her eyes were level with her daughter's, and she spoke gently even as something inside her chest went rigid.
"Mija, that perfume is very grown-up," she said. "Can Mommy hold it for a minute?"
Sofia nodded and surrendered the bottle. The sparkly pendant swung as she leaned forward. Elena took the glass as if it might burn. She knew this bottle. She knew the weight of it, the slight chip on the bottom edge from the time it had fallen in a bathroom sink in another life. She knew the name printed in thin gold letters along the neck: Rosa de Medianoche. Midnight Rose. She had bought it herself, years ago, with money from her first real paycheck after college, and she had given it to someone she had sworn she would never speak of again.
"Sofia," Elena said, still kneeling, "go put the pink sweater back in Mommy's closet, please. And wash your wrists with soap. Real soap. Then you can pick a story for Daddy to read."
"But I smell pretty," Sofia said, not complaining so much as confirming a fact of the universe.
"You always smell pretty," Elena answered. "Go on."