Read Online Destined by Gail Cleare - Free Book Online

as many believe, but an attempt to blend scientific observation of the
natural world with intuitive analyses of the patterns of life. You’ll see,
you’ll see…” He chuckled and flapped his hand at me as he shuffled out of the
kitchen to head up the back stairs to his lair.
    The shop opened at ten and I puttered
around there by myself during the mornings. When Siri came in at about
twelve-thirty, I talked her ear off for half an hour or so before taking my
lunch break. Then I usually headed over to Sorrentino’s to get something to eat
and sometimes walked to the little park down the street to sit in the sun and
relax.
    Other days I ended up spending my
lunch break socializing. The second time I went into Sorrentino’s, a tiny woman
with curly white hair stood behind the deli counter. Mr. Sorrentino introduced
me to his wife. As I returned day after day, she and I grew better acquainted
and I realized what a hub the place was for local information.
    Josephina Sorrentino, or “Josie” as
her husband called her, was the secret power behind their business. Her
traditional southern Italian cooking was renowned, not just in the neighborhood
but across the state. Her “Mama Sorrentino’s” brand of packaged dinners and
tomato sauce was a raving success, sold out by noon on the weekends. On
holidays, her special sausages were so popular they had to be ordered in
advance. Many people stockpiled her food in their freezers.
    Early every morning, Anthony
Sorrentino (who she called “T”) started a huge pot of onions, green peppers,
garlic, herbs, spices and canned Italian tomatoes. It sat simmering on the back
burner. He mashed up a few anchovies and stirred them in, for extra flavor. The
sauce cooked all day at a very low temperature, uncovered, until it had reduced
down to a thick, luscious consistency that clung to the pasta with no need for
added tomato paste. One day’s sauce went into the dishes Josie made for the next
day’s sale.
    In the small kitchen at the back of
the store was a work-scarred wooden table where Josephina dispensed wisdom and
philosophy while she cooked. I knew I had reached a certain level of acceptance
in the neighborhood the day she beckoned to me and brought me back behind the
deli counter.
    “Sit,” she commanded, clearing a spot
at the table. I obeyed, looking around curiously.
    Her brown eyes sparkled behind thick
black-framed glasses. She was so small that the big white chef’s apron wrapped
all the way around her twice. A little step stool next to the stove raised her
up high enough to reach inside the tall stainless steel cooking pots.
    Taking a small bowl from a cabinet,
she opened the oven and fished inside with a long-handled spoon. Amazing scents
wafted out of the oven. Scooping out a dripping spoonful of something covered
with melted cheese, she deposited it into the bowl. She set the bowl in front
of me on the table, and pointed to a glass jar of spoons and forks.
    “Eat,” she commanded, crossing her
arms and waiting. I chose a fork, and dug in.
    It was a green pepper stuffed with
spicy sausage and mushrooms, oozing with tomato sauce and covered with a thick
coating of melted mozzarella.
    I chewed, swallowed and sighed
blissfully. Josie smiled and nodded in satisfaction.
    “It’s good,” she agreed. I thanked her
and took another heavenly bite.
    She poured two cups of coffee and put
them on the table, then settled herself into the chair opposite me. The sleeves
of her black cardigan sweater were pushed up above the elbows. She regarded me
steadily as I ate, accepting my praise for her cooking in a placid manner, as
one who has heard it many times before.
    When I finished the stuffed pepper and
raised my coffee cup, the real conversation began. Over the next half hour, she
skillfully extracted my entire life story, from birthplace and family history
to my most recent romance, to the saga of my previous job and its ignominious
finale.
    Being quizzed by Josie was