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A Different
Kind of Honesty
- excerpts
All the proceeds from A Different Kind of Honesty
go to the
Juvenile Diabetes Research Foundation.
'Maggie made the grocery
store in ten minutes, bought three packs of her
teabag fix and headed back to the hotel. But within
eight or nine steps, a tangled scent of bread, hot
sugar, and meat sauce reached out of a doorway and
embraced her like a siren song.
She wondered how she’d missed the little
delicatessen before. Left behind from another era,
its window framed with green, white, and red twists
of crepe paper, it had the name Luciani’s
acid-etched in belle-époque script across the glass.
Cartons of panettone hung from ribbon handles along
the length of the window, between more tricolour
strips of crepe that twirled one way then another in
the warmth of the shop. Below those, a row of
assorted salamis ranging from
Schiaparelli shocking pink to ox-blood red, studded
with sequins of glistening white fat. On either
side, a mile-high stack of nougat stuffed with
almonds and candied fruits snuggled in cellophane
wrappers. She sighed at the temptation of forbidden
riches.
Inside, a pretty, black-haired girl in a starched
white apron emerged from what Maggie supposed was a
kitchen. She carried a platter piled with tiny
golden nuggets; fried rice balls that would be
stuffed with a mouthful of minced beef in ragu
sauce, or melting, full-flavoured cheese. She placed
the dish in the centre of the window display with
the sort of reverence accorded to the relics of a
saint.
Maggie yielded to sweet temptation and went in.
She knew the pressure Tony was under with the case,
the long hours, arriving at the courthouse early and
leaving late to avoid the press. He hated every
minute of it; simply doing his job, all the media
attention was anathema to him. Right now, they
didn’t exactly have romantic candlelight dinners,
but perhaps a little indulgence would relax him,
take some of the stress away for a while.
She chose a couple of dimpled focaccia breads, their
tops crusted with sea salt and olives, and some
prosciutto ham sliced so thin you could read a
newspaper through it. A pot of glossy black olives
stuffed with salty anchovies and twists of lemon
zest. And cookies...ricciarelli flavoured with honey
and vanilla went in a box along with hard cantucci
for dipping in coffee, and a pile of almond
biscuits, crumbly and golden, topped with creamy
white pine kernels.
Treats selected and paid for, Maggie decided to warm
herself with a frothy cappuccino. As she waited she
thought of the small hours a few nights back when
she’d lain in the dark with Tony. Unable to sleep,
he’d spoken about his very Italian childhood right
here in New York City and his couple of visits to
the home country when he was younger. He’d talked
about the girl he had a teenage crush on, and he’d
laughed, telling her he hadn’t even begun to know
what love was then; hadn’t really known until now.
His words filled her with something way beyond
happiness, an entirely new emotion. Being with him
was coming home.....'
©
Jane Richardson 2007
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