Destined

by Gail Cleare

  When I reached the end of the long corridor, I turned. My employer was still standing in the doorway, watching me with a little smile and the sparkle of mischief in his eyes. I was, once again, flabbergasted.

  “How many?” My voice echoed down the rows.

  “Ten thousand three hundred and eighty-two,” he declared proudly, folding his hands. “Approximately. At the moment.” He gestured vaguely. “As I mentioned, they come…and go.”

  I swallowed, considering that the preparations I had thought nearly completed were possibly far from that. My confidence began to ebb. But then I noticed a small sign made from a pink index card at the end of the row next to me. It was attached to the side of the bookshelf with silver duct tape. In faded brown ink, spidery handwriting had inscribed, “Art History, Ren. - Imp.” Entering the row, I saw that the books seemed to be arranged alphabetically by author and then title, with all the spines neatly aligned to the front of the shelves. This was encouraging.

  He had quietly shuffled to stand beside me. His eyes shone with pride, or a touch of obsession.

  “Some of the very rare titles are kept under lock-and-key in my study,” he confided. “Just another hundred or so.”

  I nodded, still feeling overwhelmed. He looked at me anxiously, reading my mood.

  “Everything here is quite in hand,” he said. “No fear. You won’t need to do much to make this room ready for the public. Just a bit of spit and polish, that’s the ticket!”

  “Okay,” I agreed in a small voice.

  He patted me on the back as we turned to exit the room.

  “You’re doing a lovely job,” he said encouragingly. “Just the thing! Keep it up!”

  “Thank you,” I replied bashfully. “I’m enjoying it.”

  He closed the library door and we went into his office. When I entered the room I was glad to see that there was a computer workstation in the corner, attached to a fat cable connection.

  A stone fireplace occupied the far wall with two armchairs in front of it, a low table between them. A yellow book was lying spread open on the table, with three unusual brass coins marking the place. I thought I recognized it as the I Ching, an ancient Chinese tool for divination. I wondered whether he had been using it for fortune telling and was consumed by curiosity.

  Mr. Paradis went to the computer and leaned over it, tapping a few keys efficiently. The screen lit up and he flipped through several directories. He showed me his system for tracking inventory.

  “I found a Tarot card in the cash register,” I mentioned.

  “The ace of pentacles?”

  “Yes, did you put it there?”

  “I did, long ago. It stands for money, the start of a new business enterprise. It’s there for good luck, to attract lots of other pentacles!”

  “Are you interested in fortune telling?” I gestured toward the yellow book.

  His eyes met mine and looked inside my head, as he seemed to do so often.

  “Looking forward is a very good thing.” He repeated the words he had said the first day we met. “You know, forewarned is forearmed. Sometimes we can change our direction and avoid disaster. Other times it’s useless to try, and our energy is better spent preparing for trouble.”

  “It would be good to know when we’re going with the grain, and when we’re going against it.” I saw a mental image of an invisible pattern underneath reality, like a texture.

  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.

  The High Priestess

  KNOWLEDGE OF SECRET MYSTERIES

  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.

  “We’ll go over there right now to see what you might need,” she said, taking off her apron. I waited while she asked John to watch the flower shop, then we crossed the street and went into my store.

  I turned on the art deco chandeliers, and the room glowed. Laurel oohed and aahed, amazed as I had been by the assortment of exotic goods. We strolled around the showroom admiring various treasures, and she spotted the bar at the back of the room.

  “Wow!” she exclaimed, “Do you realize what this is?”

  She approached the espresso machine, shining brightly now thanks to several hours of my time and a bottle of Brasso.

  “If this still works, it’s a gold mine,” she murmured, running her hand over the elaborate design etched into the gleaming metal. An eagle with spread wings adorned the domed top like a hood ornament on the front of an elegant car, and the name Victoria Arduino was inscribed below.

  “Lets’ see what you’ve got here!” She slipped behind the coffee bar to open cupboards and drawers, pulling out metal containers and other mysterious objects that looked like machine parts.

  Snapping the pieces together expertly, she assembled a little metal basket with a handle that fit into a slot on the machine, and slid a small glass coffee pot into place underneath it. She plugged the espresso machine into the wall and cooed with satisfaction when a little red light turned on.

  Laurel picked up a stainless steel pitcher and grinned at me.

  “Got any coffee beans? Wanna try this baby out?”

  We found some Dark French beans in the pantry and filled the pitcher with cold water. After grinding the beans for quite a while, Laurel packed powdery coffee into the little metal basket. She poured water into an opening i
n the machine. Flipping a switch, she caused a deep rumble then a steamy swish, and in a few minutes a dark thick brew oozed out into the waiting glass pot. It was thick, the consistency of honey. We filled two of the espresso cups, stirred with two of the little silver spoons, and sipped.

  Outrageous! We grunted with satisfaction and sipped again. The flavor exploded in my head and I saw happy stars.

  “Okay,” she said, “So we will definitely serve this at your party. And,” she added with a sigh, “I’ll be over every morning from now on for my daily fix. We don’t have an espresso machine yet, though it’s on my wish list.”

  I laughed and told her she’d be welcome.

  Laurel advised setting up a buffet on folding banquet tables positioned in front of the display windows. She said she knew a barista we could hire to work the event, an expert at drawing the dark nectar out of the espresso machine and making the fancy coffee drinks. I vowed to learn to do this myself, eventually.

  “We use only organic fruits and vegetables in our kitchen, by the way,” Laurel said. “We grow our own organic herbs and salad greens in the garden behind the restaurant. And our meats and fish are either organic, free range, wild caught or all of the above. Organic whole grain pasta, rice and baked goods, plus gluten-free alternatives. We use recycled paper products, too. We’re the only truly ‘green’ restaurant in town. We’re pretty serious about nurturing the Earth.”

  She reached up and touched her pentacle earring, rubbing it between her fingers as though for luck. I wondered if John was a witch too, and decided to wait until I knew them better to ask about their religion.

  I remarked that considering her last name and the lime green theme across the intersection, being “green” was a great marketing niche for them. She laughed and made a joke about hidden subtexts in the menu and subliminal messages embedded in the background music.