Goddess of Spring (2 page)

As usual, Eirene was correct. The woodland Dryads were ethereal and delicate. Each of them was a breathing masterpiece. It was easy to understand why mortals found them irresistible. But when compared to Persephone, their beauty turned mundane. In her presence they became common house slaves.

My daughter's hair shone with a rich mahogany luster, the color of which never ceased to amaze me because I am so fair. It does not curl, either, as do my grain-colored tresses. Instead her hair was a ripple of thick, brilliant waves that lapped around the soft curve of her waist.

Obviously feeling my scrutiny, she waved joyously at me before capturing another watercolored leaf. Her face tilted in my direction. It was a perfect heart. Enormous violet-colored eyes were framed by arched brows and thick, ebony lashes. Her lips were lush and inviting. Her body was lithe. I felt my own lips turn down.

“Your wine, my Lady.” Eirene offered me a golden goblet filled with chilled wine the color of sunlight.

I sipped thoughtfully, speaking my thoughts aloud, secure in the knowledge that they were safe with Eirene. “Of course Persephone is supple and lovely. Why would she not be? She spends all her time frolicking with nymphs and picking flowers.”

“She also creates glorious feasts.”

I made a very ungoddess-like noise through my nose. “I am quite aware that she produces culinary masterpieces, and then lolls about feasting to all hours with”—I wafted my hand in the direction of the Dryads—“semi-deities.”

“She is much beloved.” Eirene reminded me patiently.

“She is frivolous.” I countered.

Suddenly, I closed my eyes and cringed as another voice rose from the multitudes and rang with the insistence of a clarion bell throughout my mind.
Lover, somber Goddess of the Fields and Fruits and Flowers, strong and just, please aid our mother's spirit as she roams restless through the Darkened Realm without the comfort of a goddess . . .

“Demeter, are you well?” Eirene's concern broke through the supplication, effectively causing the voice to dissipate like windblown dust.

Opening my eyes I met her gaze. “It has become never-ending.” Even as I spoke more voices crowded my mind.
O Demeter, we do call upon thee, that our sister who has passed Beyond be accorded the comfort of a goddess . . . and . . . O gracious goddess who gives life through the harvest, I do ask your indulgence for my beloved wife who has passed through the Gates of the Underworld and dwells evermore beyond the comfort of a goddess . . .

With a mighty effort I blocked the teeming throng from my mind.

“Something must be done about Hades.” My voice was stone. “I understand the mortals. Their entreaties are valid. It is fact that there is no Goddess of the Underworld.” I leapt up and began to pace back and forth in frustration. “But what am I to do? The Goddess of the Riches of the Field cannot abandon her realm and descend into the Land of the Dead.”

“But the dead do require the touch of a goddess,” Eirene agreed firmly.

“They need more than just the touch of a goddess. They need light and care and . . .” My words faded away as Persephone's bright laughter filled the meadow. “They need the breath of Spring.”

Eirene's eyes widened. “You cannot mean your daughter!”

“And why can I not! Light and life follow the child. She is exactly what is needed within that shadowy realm.”

“But she is so young.”

I felt my gaze soften as I watched Persephone leap over a narrow stream, allowing her hand to trail over the dried remains of the season's last wildflowers. Instantly the stalks filled and straightened and burst into brilliant bloom. Despite her faults, she was so precious, so filled with the joy of life. There was no doubt that I loved her dearly. I often wondered if my fierce devotion had kept her from growing into a goddess of her own realm. I straightened my shoulders. It was past time that I taught my daughter how to fly.

“She is a goddess.”

“She will not like it.”

I set my already firm jaw. “Persephone will obey my command.”

Eirene opened her mouth as if she wished to speak, then seemed to change her mind and instead drank deeply of her wine.

I sighed. “You know you may speak your mind to me.”

“I was just thinking that it would not be a matter of Persephone obeying your command, but rather . . .” She hesitated.

“Oh, come! Tell me your thoughts.”

Eirene looked decidedly uncomfortable. “Demeter, you know that I love Persephone as if she were my own child.” l nodded impatiently. “Yes, yes. Of course.”

“She is delightful and full of life, but she has little depth. I do not think she has enough maturity to be Goddess of the Underworld.”

A hot retort came to my mind, but wisdom held my tongue. Eirene was correct. Persephone was a lovely young goddess, but her life had been too easy, too filled with cosseted pleasures. And I was at fault. My frivolous daughter was proof that even a goddess could make mistakes as a parent.

“I agree, my old friend. Before Persephone can become Goddess of the Underworld, she must mature.”

“Perhaps she should spend some time with Athena,” Eirene said.

“No, that would only teach her to pry into the affairs of others.”

“Diana?” Eirene offered.

I scowled. “I think not. I would someday like to be blessed with grandchildren.” I narrowed my eyes. “No, my daughter must grow up and see that life is not always filled with Olympian pleasures and luxury. She needs to learn responsibility, but as long as she can draw upon the power of a goddess, as long as she can be recognized as my daughter, she will never learn—” Suddenly I knew what I must do.

“My Lady?”

“There is only one place where Persephone will truly learn to be a goddess. It is a place where she must first learn to be a woman.”

Eirene drew back, her face taking on a horrified expression as she began to understand.

“You will not send her there!”

“Oh, yes.
There
is exactly where I shall send her.”

“But they will not know her; they do not even know you.” Eirene's deeply lined brow furrowed in agitation.

I felt my lips turning up in one of my rare smiles. “Exactly, my friend. Exactly.”

CHAPTER ONE

 

“NO, it's not that I don't ‘get it,' it's that I don't understand how you could have let it happen.” Lina spoke slowly and distinctly through clenched teeth.

“Ms. Santoro, I have already explained that we had no idea until the IRS contacted us yesterday that there had been any error at all.”

“Did you not have any checks and balances? The reason I pay you to manage the taxes for my business is because I need an expert.” She glanced down at the obscene number typed in neat, no-nonsense black and white across the bottom of the government form. “I understand accidents and mistakes, but I don't understand how something this
large
could have escaped your notice.”

Frank Rayburn cleared his throat before answering. Lina had always thought he looked a little like a gangster-wannabe. Today his black pinstriped suit and his slippery demeanor did nothing to dispel the image.

“Your bakery did very well last year, Ms. Santoro. Actually, you more than doubled your income from the previous year. When we're talking about a major increase in figures, it is easy for mistakes to happen. I think that what would be more productive for us now is to focus on how you can pay what you owe the government instead of casting blame.” Before she could speak he hurried on, “I have drawn up several suggestions.” He pulled out another sheet of paper filled with bulleted columns and numbers and handed it to her. “Suggestion number one is to borrow the money. Interest rates are very reasonable right now.”

Lina felt her jaw clench. She hated the idea of borrowing money, especially that much money. She knew it would make her feel exposed and vulnerable until the loan was repaid.
If
the loan could be repaid. Yes, she had been doing well, but a bakery wasn't exactly a necessity to a community, and times were hard.

“What are your other suggestions?”

“Well, you could introduce a newer, more glitzy line of foods. Maybe add a little something for the lunch crowd, more than those . . .” He hesitated, making little circles in the air with one thick forefinger. “Baby pizza things.”

“Pizette Fiorentine.” She bit the words at him. “They are mini-pizzas that originated in Florence, and they are not meant to be a meal, they are meant to be a mid-afternoon snack served with cheese and wine.”

He shrugged. “Whatever. All I'm saying is that it doesn't draw you a very big lunch crowd.”

“You mean like a fried chicken buffet would? Or maybe I could even crank up the grill and churn out some burgers and fries?”

“Now there's an idea,” he said, totally missing the sarcasm in her tone. “Suggestion number three would be to cut your staff.”

Lina drummed her fingers on the top of the conference table. “Go on,” she said, keeping her voice deceptively pleasant.

“Number four would be to consider bankruptcy.” He held up a hand to stop her from speaking, even though she hadn't uttered a sound. “I know it sounds drastic, but after those expensive renovations you just completed, you really don't have any reserves left to fall back on.”

“I only commissioned those expensive renovations because you assured me that Pani Del Goddess could afford them.” Lina's hands twitched with the desire to wrap themselves around his neck.

“Be that as it may, your reserves are gone.” He said condescendingly. “But bankruptcy is only one option, and not the one I would recommend. Actually, I would recommend option number five—sell to that big chain that offered to buy you out a couple months ago. They just want your name and your location. Give it to 'em. You'll have enough money to pay your debt and start over with a new name and place.”

“But I've spent twenty years building up the Pani Del Goddess name, and I have no desire to move.” If Frank Rayburn had been the least bit intuitive, he would have recognized the storm that brewed in Lina's expressive eyes, even though it had not yet reached her mouth.

Frank Rayburn was not intuitive.

“Well, I just tell ya the options.” Frank leaned back in the plush chair and crossed his arms while he gave Lina what he liked to think of as his stern, fatherly look. “You're the boss. It's your job to decide from there.”

“No, you're wrong.” Lina's voice was still calm and soft, but it was edged with steel. “You see, I am not your boss anymore. You are fired. You have proven yourself to be as incompetent with my business as you are with your choice of attire. My lawyer will be in contact with you. I'll make sure that she has several
options
drawn up for you to consider. Maybe one of them will keep you out of court. Now, good day, Mr. Rayburn, and as my dear, sainted grandmother would say, ‘
Tu sei un pezzo di merda. Fongule e tuo capra!'
” Lina stood, smoothed her skirt and snapped shut her leather briefcase. “Oh, how rude of me. You don't speak Italian. Allow me to translate my grandmother's sage words: ‘You are a piece of shit. Fuck you and your goat!' Arrivederci.”

Lina turned and strode through the professionally decorated office grinning wickedly at the well-rouged receptionist.

CHAPTER TWO

GUT instinct, she reminded herself as she gunned her BMW and almost flew over the Highway 51 overpass, heading away from Tulsa's downtown business area to the trendy Cherry Street location of her bakery. Next time she was going to listen to her gut, and when it told her to run screaming in the opposite direction she wouldn't be stupid enough to hire another jerk. What in the hell had she been thinking?

Lina sighed. She knew what she'd been thinking. She'd needed help. The money management end of her business had never been one of her strengths. Her father had always taken care of that for her, but three years ago he and her mother had joined her grandmother in a Florida retirement community. Dad had been so sure she could handle her business finances herself that she hadn't wanted to admit it to him last year when she had finally given up and hired an accountant. So instead of asking for his advice in who she should hire, she'd bumbled ahead and, in a stressed-out rush, chosen Frank Rayburn, Mr. Sleazy Non-Personality.

“It's what you deserve for allowing your pride to get the best of you,” Lina muttered to herself as she turned east onto 15th Street—the street that would, within a couple of blocks, morph into the area known as Cherry Street, and lead her to the door of her wonderful, incredible, beautiful, and now completely broke, bakery.

The pit of her stomach ached. There must be a way to pay her debt and keep her two long-time employees as well as her name and location. She gripped the steering wheel with one hand and twirled a short strand of hair around and around her finger. She would not sell her name. She couldn't.

Pani Del Goddess,
or Breads of the Goddess—the name sang like magic. It was indelibly tied to all the most wonderful memories of her childhood.
Pani del goddess
is what she and her beloved grandmother used to create on long winter afternoons as they watched old black-and-white movies and drank fragrant, honey-sweetened tea.

“Carolina Francesca, you bake like a little goddess!”

Lina could still hear the echo of her grandmother's voice from her childhood, encouraging her to experiment with classic recipes from the Old Country, her beloved Italia.

“Si,
bambina,
first learn the recipe as it was written, test it and try it, then begin to add
un poco
—a little here, and a little there. That is how to make the breads your own.”