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

any problem with a deliveryman. I poured coffee into a mug, placed a blueberry muffin on a plate, and set them in front of him. As he ate, I opened drawers and cabinets and looked in the pie safe, over by the coffee pot near the door to the dining room. Like I said, first date.
    â€œI’m so sorry. Margaret must have forgotten. I’ll have her give you a call when she gets in.”
    Tom took another sip of his coffee.
    Why wouldn’t he leave? I took the ball of bread dough back into my hands and began to knead feverishly, pushing the dough away, then folding it back. “So,” I said, trying to look both professional and busy. “Dairy farmer?”
    â€œMmm-hmm.”
    I peeked up at him. He was picking the bits of muffin stuck to the paper liner. I nodded toward the tray. “Help yourself.”
    He studied the pan for a long moment before choosing the muffin with the most blueberries. “That’s some outfit you’re wearing.”
    I was dressed in my usual work attire—white, boxy chef’s coat, black and gray pinstriped pants, black clogs. I looked up to give him my best raised eyebrow. “It’s just a chef’s coat.” I don’t know why I felt the need to explain this to him.
    â€œFrom Boston, I hear.”
    â€œThat’s right,” I said, working the dough into a soft, round ball and placing it gently in a buttered bowl.
    â€œAll the chefs in Boston have purple hair?”
    â€œOnly the best ones.”
    Tom grunted. “Seems like a long way to come for a little job like this one.”
    â€œIt’s not that far, really,” I said, running a tea towel under the faucet to dampen it and draping it over the bowl. “And besides, it’s not like I’m commuting.”
    Tom stood. I thought he was leaving, but he plodded across the kitchen to refill his coffee cup.
    â€œPlan on staying long?” he asked as he settled himself back onto the stool. I had to stop myself from asking him the same question.
    â€œThat will be up to Margaret, I suppose.”
    Tom popped the bottom of the muffin into his mouth.
    â€œIt true you’re the reason Jeff Rutland over in Lyndonville left his wife?”
    My hand knocked over a measuring cup of water, causing a small wave. Streams of water ran toward the edge of the table, mixing with the flour, creating a pasty mess. “I’m sorry?”
    â€œI heard you and Jeff Rutland were a thing.”
    â€œWell, I did stop in Lyndonville for gas. Was he the tall one? With the beard? Or the stout one who wears a trucker hat?”
    Tom coughed out a couple of muffin crumbs.
    I squatted down to mop the floor. “Of course, there was also that man at the feed store, where I stopped by, you know, to
browse
.”
    Tom crossed his arms across his belly, like he had just finished a large meal. “That’s where he works. He owns the feed store, in fact. A good catch if he weren’t . . .”
    I leaned my forehead against the leg of the table and studied the Nancy Drew under the foot.
The Message in the Hollow Oak
. “Okay,” I said, standing, “for one thing, I’ve been here officially for how long? Maybe thirty-six hours, tops. How on earth would I have time to have a . . .
thing
with Jeff Rutland? And who did you hear this from, anyway?”
    Tom shrugged. “Around. At White’s?” The White Market was the only supermarket for thirty miles.
    At least now I knew where to get the local gossip. It’s always good to stay informed. “I’m afraid the mystery behind the break-up of Jeff Rutland’s marriage remains a mystery. It wasn’t me. I’m not sleeping with anyone’s husband, by the way.”
At least not anymore,
I thought to myself. “Do me a huge favor and go tell that to the cashier girl at White’s. And the butcher. And all the stock boys. Whoever you think will make the news travel