Destined (5 page)

He reached into one of the many pockets
of his jacket and pulled out a small brown bottle. “This might help make the
good luck stronger. I’ve been meaning to give it to you.” He handed me the
bottle. It was labeled “Essential Oil of Basil.”
 

I opened it and sniffed the delicious
aroma, which reminded me of Italian food.

“It’s lovely. What is it for?”

“A few drops on your palms every
morning when you open the store will draw money into your hands, and you might
sprinkle a bit on that Tarot card too! No harm in creating a positive atmosphere
where our business will flourish, eh?”

I agreed, putting the bottle in my
jeans pocket. In light of his obvious interest in the occult, I decided to
bring up the subject of my encounter with the hovering man on the back porch.

“By the way,” I searched for the right
words, “Have you ever…um…noticed anything odd in the hallway by the kitchen?”

He looked at me sharply. “Odd in what
way, Emily?” His eyes pulled the answer out of me before I could hesitate. When
I described the Chinese man, my employer fairly buzzed with excitement.

“It sounds like my old friend from
Hong Kong! It was he who sold us the porcelain, many years ago. How intriguing,
my dear! We haven’t seen him in ages. He died in 1942, you know, or so everyone
assumed. His body was never found, unfortunately. It was wartime you know,
things were in an uproar.”

He reached for my hand and squeezed it
comfortingly.

“You’re not upset about this, are you
Emily? I do hope not. Nothing to fear.”

“Not if you don’t mind,” I said,
relieved that he didn’t seem to think I was mentally unstable. Quite the
opposite, in fact. He beamed at me with approval and begged me to call him
immediately if I ever caught sight of the Chinese man again. My parents had
always cautioned me not to speak of events like this, because it frightened
people and would prejudice them against me. It was wonderful to meet someone
who seemed to accept my unedited self. A rush of happiness shot through me, and
I thanked my stars for putting me on the path that had led here.

Heading back down the stairs, I
imagined a beautifully lettered sign in the downstairs hallway with an arrow
pointing the way that said, “BOOKS.” I bounced a little on the steps, happily
planning my next tasks.

That evening, when I closed the front
door behind me and locked it with the key Mr. Paradis had faithfully given me
on my first day, I saw again the Indian woman I had noticed on my first visit
to the neighborhood. She passed on the sidewalk, this time carrying two string
shopping bags filled with packages and groceries. Our eyes met, and hers glowed
with interest.

“Hello,” I said cheerfully, with a
warm smile. I was very eager to meet some of the neighbors, for several
reasons. She looked interesting and friendly.

She paused and turned, bowing her head
slightly. She had strikingly beautiful eyes, and shining black hair hung down
her back in a long thick braid.

“Good evening, Miss,” she said. “I
hope you have been having a very happy day!”

Her melodious voice made me think of
curry and spices. A red spot was painted on her forehead in the position of the
third eye. Many thin silver bracelets cascaded down her slender arms. As
before, she wore the traditional Indian sari, this one made of a deep blue
patterned fabric with a silver thread woven through it.

“Why, yes, thank you! Very happy
indeed,” I said, charmed. “And the same to you!”

She bowed again, her beautiful flyaway
eyes lowered politely, yet still observing me from behind her lashes.

“We are getting ready to open the
store,” I confided, hoping to engage her in conversation. She looked intrigued
and lingered to talk.

I’d been spending an awful lot of time
alone lately and was eager for a nice girl-to-girl chat. The women I’d worked
with at the gallery never called anymore. They were probably afraid Lexi would
find out if they socialized with the enemy.

“Ahh,” my new friend said, her eyes
alight, “Very good! Everyone has been wondering what is happening here.”
 

She smiled shyly and turned to scurry
down the sidewalk with her packages.

Across the
street, Mr. Sorrentino was once more sweeping in front of his store.
He solemnly raised his hand toward me
for a fleeting moment. Aha! He was starting to warm up! And now I had two new
friends in the neighborhood.

I turned to look back at my
storefront, admiring the clean, freshly painted front door with its shining
brass knocker and the neatly pruned holly and evergreen bushes on either side.
The tall windows had been washed inside and out, and I’d left a small table
lamp lit on the counter with the cash register. The building looked warm and
inviting, as I had dreamed it would.

The future was turning out just as I
had imagined, so far. My visions were manifesting in reality. And this was just
the beginning.

Description:
 
Clad in the robes of mystery, the High
Priestess holds a scroll or book containing the wisdom of the ages.

Meaning:
 
Knowledge of arcane secrets. Psychic
ability, magical powers, spirituality.

I went to the town hall and got a copy of the street
lists for Market and Crescent. All the residents were included. I learned that
Mr. Anthony Sorrentino and his family lived upstairs in the grocery store
building. His wife Josephina and several others were also listed at that
address. A person named R. Sorrentino occupied the building next door to the
market, apparently living upstairs over the pizzeria.

Also listed nearby on Market Street
were a restaurant called Buddha and another called the Green Thumb Café. The
latter was located on the far corner of Market and Crescent, diagonally across
from us.

Lime green and white striped umbrellas
topped round tables scattered on the patio in front of the Café. A lime green
awning shaded its many windows. It looked like the original porch of the
building had been enclosed. Attractive flower boxes and stonework surrounded
the entrance, which was set back from the street. I had seen them serving
outside in the evenings.

A flower shop called the Potting Shed
was attached to this building in the rear, located in a long one-story
structure that had obviously once been the carriage house. A garden contained
by a low picket fence painted lime green filled most of the little yard in
front. Both businesses were listed as owned by the same two people:
 
L. Green and J. Laroche.

Most of these buildings had apartments
on the second and third floors. Some contained up to a dozen apartments, with
occupants whose names were Japanese, Chinese, Arab, Indian, Polish, Italian,
German and Latino, mixed in with the Smiths and the Joneses. The well-kept
townhouses on Crescent were occupied by people with dignified names like
Winthrop, Bardwell, Dubois and Goldstein.

Mr. Paradis gave me a list of twenty
or so additional names to be sent invitations. Half of the addresses were in
foreign countries. “My private customers and some friends,” he confided. “They
may not come, but they’ll enjoy being included.”

I had to do something about
refreshments. There was no way we could serve my current specialty, pretzels
and Diet Coke. I stood in the open doorway and looked at the Green Thumb Café.
Pulling on my jacket, I went over to see if they did catering.

As I stood and waited for the walk
light to come on, I admired the landscaping around the Café. The place looked
closed, at the moment. At the flower shop next door, however, the huge old
carriage house doors stood open. Various small shrubs and potted plants were
displayed in the sunny doorway, and two women came out of the store and walked
away down the sidewalk. One of them carried a bouquet of flowers wrapped in
lime green tissue paper.

The light changed and I crossed
diagonally. A flagstone path led through the garden to arrive at the door of
the Potting Shed. The garden was filled with perennials in bloom. I recognized
yarrow, echinacea and lady’s mantle. Several low-growing herbs were used for
edging the path, and sweet fragrances wafted up at me as I walked along.

“Morning!”

The voice came from behind the bee
balm. A waving hand appeared first, followed by a man wearing a straw hat,
cut-off jeans, green rubber boots, and a black T-shirt that said in small white
letters, “Stop Staring at Me.” He had wispy, curly blonde hair and a mustache.

“Hi!” he said, “How are you, neighbor?”
He turned around briefly to pick up a bucket of freshly pulled weeds. The back
of his T-shirt said, “Stop Following Me.” I grinned when I read it and his pale
blue eyes crinkled as he smiled back. “I’m John Laroche. I’ve seen you at work
across the street, welcome to the crossroads!” He wiped his right hand quickly
on the blue bandana hanging out of his pocket, and then stuck it out to shake
mine. He had a very firm grip.

I introduced myself and admired the
garden. He told me the names of a few plants I couldn’t identify as we strolled
toward the flower shop entrance.

“Come on in and meet Laurie,” he
urged, preceding me through the carriage house doors.

It was an old country barn, right here
in the middle of the city. Golden brown wood lined the walls and ceiling, with
baskets and bundles of dried herbs and flowers hanging from the rafters.
Grapevine wreaths, stone cherubs and ceramic faces were displayed on the walls.
John strode across the floor and disappeared through a hallway that led into
the Café building. I heard the rumble of his voice and he returned, followed by
a woman. He mentioned my name and she reached out to take my hand.

“I’m Laurel Green, it’s so nice to
meet you! We’ve been meaning to come over and say hello. Everyone is talking
about the shop reopening.”

When her hand touched mine, I felt a
strong connection. In my mind’s eye, I saw a group of women in a wooded
clearing and the flicker of flames from a campfire. Laurie had long reddish
brown, curling hair, beautiful green eyes and an elfin face. I imagined her
wearing a hooded cape. She was slim and looked strong, medium height, in her
early thirties.

Today she wore a jeans skirt and a
lime green T-shirt, covered by a chef’s apron with a Green Thumb Café logo
printed on it. Little silver circles with sparkling stars inside them dangled
from her ear lobes. I saw she wore a flat silver wedding band that matched
John’s, and concluded that the two were married despite the different last
names. He touched her arm in an intimate way as he excused himself to go back
outside.

Laurel and I chatted. I felt very
drawn to her, as though we were old friends. I found myself wanting to tell her
the entire story of my life, all my secrets. Eventually I got around to
mentioning the opening, and asked if she might be able to help with the food
and flowers.

“Are you kidding?” she grabbed my arm.
“I’d love to help you!”

Again, at her touch, I experienced a
flash of seeing her in a grove by firelight, a silver pentacle dangling from
her neck on a long chain as she passed a chalice of wine to the figure standing
next to her. Wiccan, I thought with excitement. She is a priestess, a wise
woman.