From Chapter Eight
Every one of
her senses became engaged the moment she crossed the threshold of the bakery. A
lively Louis Prima Christmas swing song played overhead, which seemed to cause
the baker’s assistant to move in swift rhythm as she filled orders, boxing
cookies and dolcini. Familiar faces,
neighbors, and old friends, chatted patiently while waiting for their number to
be called.
Against the
wall, to Elizabeth’s right, towered a four-shelf metal display lined with
Panettone and boxed Perugina chocolate. A table of cellophane wrapped gift sets
and cookie trays looked as though it was about to topple over onto the crush of
patrons. The aroma within the bakery was intoxicating—sweet icing and fresh
bread. Her father once referred to this delicious scent as the perfection of
the holy trinity – flour, butter, and sugar. He’d always had such a sweet tooth
for Italian cheesecake, and this Little Italy was known to have the best.
Behind the
counter, above the shelves of cakes and pies, one particular item caught her
eye: the image of St. Elizabeth of Hungary, the patron saint of bakers, holding
a basket of bread, offering a smiling welcome to pastry heaven. Beside the
saintly image hung a 1962 ceramic plate depicting Pope John XXIII and President
Kennedy, side by side blessing the elderly patrons with a Pace Nel Mondo. Elizabeth grinned remembering how her grandfather
Vincenzo Clemente revered President Kennedy. Italians probably loved him more
than the Irish. Hell, they probably loved him more than the Pope.
It seemed as
though all heads had turned upon her entrance. She heard hushed whispers and a
few gasps. The door’s jingle bell followed by a momentary hush caused the
diminutive Mr. Primo to exit the back room, coming around the display cases.
His white baker’s apron was layered with flour and streaked with red jam, most
likely from the inside of the cookies and crostata pie. He wore a white
hairnet, a beaming smile and, strangely, a colorful woolen scarf wrapped about
his neck. She determined that his being “hit by the air” caused some sort of
neck ailment or paranoia. He didn’t look anywhere near as frazzled as Gina’s
neighbors conveyed, and she wondered if the whole thing had been a set up from
that very first pinch. She considered her sister’s new Machiavellian streak and
thought … hmm with a twist to her
lips.
As Primo
approached, Josie grabbed her shoulders turning her to face Mrs. Genovese, who
unbuttoned her coat, then slid it from her shoulders. Josie placed it over the
luggage and quickly rolled it to a corner summarily shutting out any expected
argument.
“Bene. Welcome, Lizzy, welcome!” he
greeted, hugging her tightly followed by a kiss to both of her cheeks. “You’re
going to work with Rosa behind the counter.”
“Hi Mr. Primo.
I’m happy to help but I’m afraid I don’t know anything about a bakery. Well,
apart from satisfying my terrible sweet tooth.”
She snorted a laugh, and he replied without
batting an eye. “Then you know cannoli, cookies, pignoli, cream puffs,
cheese-a-cake, and pizzelle. You put em’ in a box and take the money. Badda
bing, badda boom!” He dropped the apron strings over her neck and Josie tied
the back one around her waist. His happy smile warmed Elizabeth’s cool,
apprehensive demeanor and she thought for a second that this might not be so
bad after all. She did want to help; already he felt like family.
Both ladies
turned with a wave and a dismissive Ciao
bella before departing. Elizabeth thought she heard one of them say
something about a wolf’s mouth in Italian and the other laughed raucously at
the wish for luck. Yeah, she’d been played and instinctively knew who had
orchestrated the game.
She rested her
hand on the baker’s surprisingly firm bicep. “Mr. Primo, are you feeling well?
Do you have a fever or feel weak? Does your back hurt?”
“Such an angelo to be worried.” He pinched her
cheek. “I’m fine, just baking in the kitchen, and-a my son did not show up for
work. Besides, Gina tells me that you would like to move back to the
neighborhood. This is your homecoming!” He deviously winked at her and took her
hand, leading her behind the counter where an introduction to the standoffish
Rosa took place. The ancient woman continued to work, halting in her path for a
split second to push a white hairnet down upon her apprentice’s chestnut locks.
Elizabeth felt
all eyes upon her as Primo walked her through the process of filling orders.
She tried not to focus on the fact that she remembered many of the spectators
awaiting service. Feeling nervous, she pulled the cord to the ticket dispenser
and announced, “Thirty-six. Who is next? Thirty-six?”
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