Hila at the Mansion

Hila

She entered the house and was immediately assailed by the aroma of cooking; tempting, appetizing whiffs of food long-forgotten, wafted into her nostrils; familiar ones, nostalgic ones that brought back memories of sunny, laughter-filled afternoons with her family.

Astonished, Hila turned to Piers instinctively. He grinned, his white teeth flashing in the dim corridor.

“Mumma,” he said simply and that explained everything.

The achingly familiar aroma of chicken in honey garlic, roasted for special Shabbos dinners by her mother when she was a small child in Israel, accompanied by honey-glazed carrots, tantalised her reminiscently. She sighed unconsciously and did not notice Piers sliding a quick, triumphant grin at her. Another familiar aroma: could it be…?

Piers was hurrying her along the carpeted corridor, an urgent hand on the small of her back although she wanted to linger and savour those tantalising aromas. She knew the familiar aroma of lamb chops, as they basked in the deli