The City Baker's Guide to Country Living Read Online Free PDF Page A

talk about some drug he had never tried. For Hannah’s sake, I tried to keep the words
conflict of interest
and
evil power of the pharmaceutical industry
from tumbling out of my mouth, but it wasn’t easy. Just when I had decided I was better off returning to Boston, Glen had called to tell me not to rush back, since the club would be closed for a few weeks while they replaced the carpet and repainted, and that “we should talk” when I got back into town.
    That’s when I got Margaret’s call. She informed me that the pie had been “fine” and that if I was interested, I could start my trial run after I had given proper notice to my current employer. Not wanting to explain that my current place of employment was closed for business due to my having set it on fire, I agreed that two weeks from Monday would be doable. I made one trip back down to Boston to pack up the few personal belongings I kept in my little furnished apartment. Then I slipped the keys into my landlord’s mailbox so he would know that I wasn’t coming back.
    Â â€¢Â â€¢Â â€¢Â 
    I stood by the sink, running the tap marked “hot” over the tender underside of my wrist, waiting for the temperature to rise.Out the window two fawns gently nibbled crab apples in the fog. Fawns! At the Emerson the view from my window had been of another building, where a lawyer spent most of his day leaning out the window so he could smoke without leaving his office. When the water was warm enough for a baby to bathe in, I measured out a quart and poured it into a large earthenware bowl. The fresh yeast dissolved as I stirred it in with my fingers. I added flour, one cup at a time, until the mixture turned from liquid to solid, from shapeless batter into something I could grasp, hold onto, push and mold into form. I had just scraped the last bit of dough out of the bowl and onto the cool enameled surface of my workbench when a clean-cut man walked into the kitchen, two stacked milk crates in his gray-work-gloved hands.
    â€œMorning,” he said as he walked by me and into the walk-in. “You must be the new girl,” he said, pulling off his gloves and removing his baseball cap to reveal dark brown hair cut like a fifties TV show dad’s. “I’m Tom.” He offered me his hand. I smiled and stuck out mine. We both looked at my hand, thick and sticky with dough. It looked like I was wearing a mitten.
    â€œYes. Olivia Rawlings.” I began to rub my hands together, trying to find skin. “But please, call me Livvy.”
    Tom toyed with the zipper of his woolen red and black plaid jacket and looked around the kitchen. “Milk, heavy cream, and buttermilk.”
    â€œThat’s great, thank you.” I stood, waiting. “Do you have anything you need me to sign?”
    â€œNope.” Tom looked around the kitchen. “She usually leaves a check.”
    â€œOh.” The timer on the stove buzzed like an angry wasp. “Shedidn’t mention anything about it.” Flipping the switch, I made a quick study of the kitchen. No bulletin board, no clipboard near the telephone. Not even a scrap of paper. The scent of browning butter began to fill my nostrils. I pulled on quilted elbow-length oven mitts and opened the oven door, saying a silent prayer to Saint Honoré. The muffins
looked
cooked. I stuck a wooden skewer into one in the center of the pan. It came out clean. “Thank you,” I sighed.
    â€œFor what?” Tom looked confused.
    â€œOh. For being so patient.” I had almost forgotten he was there. “So,” I said, not sure what to do next. He didn’t appear to be in a hurry. “Would you like a cup of coffee while I look for it?” I asked, waving my hand in display model fashion. “I have fresh muffins.”
    Tom pulled up a stool. “I take it black.”
    Town or country, coffee and something sweet could usually smooth out