Goddess of Spring (6 page)

“This is it. The perfect special place,” Lina told Edith Anne, who was snuffling around an azalea bush. “Stay there, this won't take long.”

She dropped the bulldog's leash. Obediently, Edith planted her wide bottom on the ground, then seemed to reconsider and, with a doggy sigh, relaxed into a full, stretched-out recline, her half-closed eyes watching Lina with sleepy semi-interest.

The nearest oak was also the biggest. Lina approached it carefully in the buttermilk moonlight, careful not to trip over the intricate knots of exposed roots that proliferated the area around the base of the tree. Unexpectedly, they seemed ominous, calling to life visions of grasping tentacles and writhing snakes.

“Stop being ridiculous,” Lina said in the tone she reserved for generic perfume solicitors. The sound of her voice dispelled the disturbing vision, and the oak shifted back to its familiar, solid self.

Lina extracted the small lump of dough from her pocket. She looked around the courtyard. No one was stirring; even Edith Anne had stopped watching her and was snoring softly. Lina crouched down and placed the dough ball in the vertex of two especially thick roots that intersected at the base of the tree.

Lina looked around her again. Certain that except for the snoring bulldog she was alone, she dipped her fingers into the glass of wine and flicked red drops over the dough.

It felt good. Lina smiled. It felt right. Still smiling, she wet her fingers again and playfully rained the excellent Chianti Classico all over the base of the ancient tree. Stifling girlish giggles, she continued splattering wine on the gnarled roots until the crystal goblet was empty. Then she squared her shoulders and cleared her throat.

“I would like to say something before closing this remarkable recipe ritual.”

Lina grinned at her intentional alliteration, but she quickly schooled her features to appear more sober. She certainly hadn't meant any disrespect, but grinning and giggling at the end of a goddess invocation ritual would probably be considered a faux pas. Lina began her speech again.

“Demeter!” The word came from Lina's mouth with such power that the sound of the goddess's name carried across the courtyard, making Edith stir and flutter her eyes before resituating her stocky body and continuing her nap. Lina swallowed hard and softened her voice. “My name is Carolina Francesca Santoro, and I want you to know that I have enjoyed your ritual very much. I think the dough will make excellent pizza, and I'm looking forward to trying it.”

Her impromptu speech reminded her of the reason why she had felt the need to experiment with the recipe, and while remembering Lina was amazed that she had ever forgotten. The lines on her forehead deepened and her shoulders slumped.

“I hope it's good. No, I more than hope it's good—I
need
it to be good. I can't lose my bakery. It's my responsibility; too many people depend on me. Demeter, if you're listening, please send me some help. In return I'll . . . I'll . . .” Lina stuttered and then blurted, “well, damnit, I don't know what the hell I could possibly do for you in return.” She shrugged her shoulders. “And I apologize for my use of common English swear words. How about if I just say, one mature woman to another, that I would really appreciate your help and I would return the favor if I could.”

Satisfied, Lina closed her eyes, visualizing the final words of the ritual.

“O goddess of the plentiful harvest, of strength and power and wisdom, I give You greeting, and honor, and thanks. Blessed Be!”

At the words,
blessed be
, Lina felt an overwhelming sense of release, as if—Lina's lips twitched—as if her prayer had been heard and answered. Logically, she knew that wasn't really possible, but she did believe in the power of positive thinking . . . self-fulfilling prophecies . . . feng shui. Her lips tilted upward. She believed in the power of
la magia dell ' Italia.

Lina drew in a deep, cleansing breath, and her eyes sprang open in surprise. Enticing sweetness filled her nose. What was that smell? Lina took another deep breath. It was wonderful! Scenting the soft wind like a wary deer, she sniffed her way around the oak. And came to an abrupt halt. In between a tangle of roots halfway around the tree grew one perfect flower. Its stem was thick and long, the width of a garden hose, and it stretched up almost two feet until it morphed into a huge bell-shaped cup with scalloped edges.

“Oh! Aren't you lovely. It's too early for a daffodil.” Lina shook her head and automatically corrected herself. “I mean narcissus.” She could hear her grandmother scolding her,
not by their common name,
bambina,
call the
bei fiora—
beautiful flowers—by their formal name, narcissus.

But by whatever name she called it, the flower was certainly unusual, and for more reasons than just its early blooming. Transfixed, Lina squatted in front of it. The blossom was a luminous, creamy yellow color, as if a piece of the moon had fallen to earth and bloomed that night. She couldn't remember ever seeing a narcissus of that size. If she balled up her fist it would fit neatly inside the cupped bloom. And its perfume! Lina leaned forward and took a long sniff. She hadn't remembered any of her grandmother's flowers smelling like this one. What was that scent? It was illusively familiar, but she couldn't quite name it. Lina took another deep breath. The fragrance made her heart beat and the blood rush through her body. There was something about that fanciful aroma that filled her with a youthful yearning, and suddenly she remembered her first kiss. It had been many years, but she easily recalled that the kiss had contained this same sweetness. She sighed. The blossom smelled like what would happen if moonlight and the innocence of spring had mated to create a flower.

Lina blinked in surprise and huffed through her nose, sounding a little like her dog. She was certainly waxing poetic and romantic. How bizarre and unlike herself—well, unlike herself at forty-three anyway. She used to be romantic and dewy-eyed and blah, blah, love, blah, blah. Until life and experience and men had cured her naïveté. Lina narrowed her eyes at the flower. Romance? Why was she thinking about
that
? She'd sworn off romance on her fortieth birthday. Finished. Through. Ka-put. And she hadn't regretted her decision.

A vision of her last date flashed back through her mind—Mr. Fifty-Something Successful Businessman: divorced twice, four dysfunctional kids—two from each marriage. The best thing that she could say about him was that he was consistent. During their entire very expensive dinner at one of Lina's favorite restaurants he had whined and complained about how much child support and alimony he had to pay his two hateful, money-grubbing ex-wives, who had never understood or appreciated him. Before the main course had been served Lina had found herself empathizing with the ex-wives.

And that experience summed up men in her age range. It was a cliché that was, unfortunately, true. The good ones were taken—or gay. The rest of them were balding has-beens who spent their dates complaining about past choices. Or, like her ex-husband, had chosen newer, more perfect women as their mates. Women who were able to nurture more than stray pets. Women who were able to bear children . . .

Stop it!
Lina scolded herself. Why was she thinking about
that
? Her ex-husband was ancient history, as was her desire to date and play the game. Quite frankly Lina would rather stay home and bake a cake. Or walk her dog. Or pet her cat (if he decided he was in the mood for petting).

No, she hadn't regretted giving up on romance. Her eyes refocused on the unusual narcissus. It was just a flower, just a beautiful, early-blooming flower. And she had just had a very long, weird day, which explained why she was feeling odd. Maybe she was hormonal. She made a mental note to ask her mom about
the change
next time they talked.

A teasing breeze stirred the narcissus, bringing another wave of its sweet aroma to Lina. Just one more little sniff. She'd take one more smell, then she'd collect Edith Anne and take herself off to bed where she belonged. Balancing on the balls of her feet, she leaned forward, cupping the heavy blossom in her hands. As she brought her face closer to the flower, the area within the bell-shaped bloom rippled.

Lina blinked. What the hell? She leaned closer and peered into the open cup.

Like water down a sluiceway, shock caused all feeling to drain from her body. She was staring, not into the center of the narcissus, but straight into the face of an amazingly beautiful young woman. The woman's large violet-colored eyes were opened wide, her hair was in wild disarray, and her lovely lips were rounded as if she had been caught in the middle of uttering a terrified
Oh!

Lina tried to move, but her body refused to obey her. She was frozen, transformed into a living statue. Fear pulsed through her and she felt her heart leap painfully in response, and then it was as if she was being pulled from her body by a giant vacuum cleaner. For a moment she was actually able to look back at the immobile shell that was her physical self before she was yanked forward and into the blindingly brilliant light that pulsed at the center of the expanding narcissus blossom. Lina's mind rebelled as her consciousness whirled down the circular shaft.

She tried to cry out. She tried to stop. She tried to breathe, but there was nothing except the sense of motion and a wrenching feeling of displacement. Just as she was sure she would go mad, Lina felt an enormous tug and she popped from the shaft and slammed into something. Tears swamped her eyes, making it impossible for her to see more than vague, blurred images.

Automatically, she gasped for air. Drenched in vertigo, her arms flailed around until they collided with the grassy earth against which her butt was resting. Struggling to anchor herself, she let her body collapse, arms spread wide as if she was embracing the ground. Lina pressed her face into the grass. She was shaking and panting, and she seemed to be trapped in some kind of silken netting.

“Get it off me! Get it off!” Still panicking she tore at what was entrapping her. “Ouch!
Merda!
”

The distinctive pain of roughly pulled hair penetrated her frenzy at the same instant her vision cleared. She was, indeed, lying against the grass-covered ground. Her hands were tangled in a thick mass of rich mahogany-colored hair that was so long that it fell to her waist.

Her waist. Blinking away tears, Lina gazed down at “herself.”

Sucking in a deep breath Lina opened her mouth and screamed her best slasher-horror-movie-girl scream.

CHAPTER FIVE

“CALM yourself! There is nothing here for you to fear.”

Lina tore her eyes from the body that was decidedly
not
hers. A few feet from where she lay were two women. The one who had spoken was tall, thin and had gray hair that was pulled back into a severe knot. She stood beside the silent one. The silent one sat on—Lina blinked rapidly, her mind not wanting to believe what her eyes reported—an enormous throne. She was draped in cream-colored linen. Her blond hair was wrapped around her head in a series of complicated braids, and an intricate crown of delicately carved golden—Lina blinked again, but the image remained the same—golden ears of corn rested regally atop her head. In one hand she held a long scepter, in the other she had a gilded goblet. The seated woman was beautiful, but her beauty was fierce and serious, what history described as a “handsome” woman. She was watching Lina intently.

“Welcome to my realm, Carolina Francesca Santoro, daughter of man.”

Questions warred in Lina's brain and she struggled to shift through the teeming confusion and the lingering sense of physical displacement. She was breathing in short, panicked gulps. Lina glanced down. Through the silky shift she was wearing she could clearly see the mauve-colored nipples of her perfectly shaped breasts thrusting against the thin material barrier.

Even twenty years ago her breasts had never looked like those. Those breasts looked like they belonged on the pages of an airbrushed magazine. Real flesh couldn't be that perfect.

“Oh, God! I think I'm going to throw up,” Lina said. Then she pressed her hand against her mouth. That wasn't her voice. Where was the soft mixture of Oklahoma twang and her grandmother's Italian influence? “What has happened to me?” she gasped.

“As Eirene has said, there is nothing here for you to fear.”

The queenly woman's voice was deep and comforting. Lina clung to it and willed herself to slow her breathing. Puking wouldn't help things. As her hyperventilation ceased, her mind began working again, and the woman's words registered.

“You said your ‘realm.' What did you mean? Where am I?”

Demeter took her time before answering the human. Already she mourned the absence of her daughter's soul. She wanted nothing so much as to call Persephone back and know her child was close to her, protected and safe. But that was the problem. She had kept her daughter too protected. It was time Demeter allowed, or in this case, insisted, that she grow. And the goddess had made a decision; she was bound by her word—even if it had only been given to herself.

“My realm is never-ending—from the smallest garden plot to the vastness of the great fields as they grow ready for the harvest, there you will find what is mine. As to where you are . . .” She hesitated, considering. “Is Olympus a name you recognize?”

In short, jerky movements Lina nodded. “Yes. In mythology it's where the gods lived.”

“Why is it that mortal daughters always say gods and leave out goddesses?” The woman who stood beside the throne asked the other.

“That I cannot answer.” She shrugged her broad shoulders. “Mortals do not always make sense, especially mortals from Forgotten Earth.”