Miles unscrewed the top of the thermos, the lid doubling as a big cup which he poured a still-hot, creamy soup into. He passed it over and then pulled out a thick slice of bread, unwrapped it, and carefully tore it into two pieces.
I thanked him again, taking the offering. The bread was warm from being kept next to the thermos, had a golden crust, and a soft center. I took a small bite to taste. It was a simple white bread.
Or rather, adeliciouswhite bread, I should say, bursting with flavor and tasting of everything precious and beautiful about the countryside. It reminded me of autumn leaves and crisp air. Of woodsmoke from log cabins and snowshoeing in winter. Of rustic home cooking and country fairs.
“Oh my God,” I said before taking another bite.
Miles paused, holding a chunk of bread in his soup to sop up. “Is it no good?” he asked with concern.
“This… did you make this?” I asked, waving the bread.
“Yes,” he said with clear hesitation.
“This is the best damn bread I’ve ever tasted!”
Miles looked relieved, smiled a little, and said, “Thank you.”
“My mom had a bread machine, but she never used it when I was growing up,” I continued, tearing another piece free. I was sure the soup was homemade and delicious too, but this bread wasinsane. I could eat it all totally plain.
“I don’t use a machine,” Miles stated.
“No? Then… how do you make it?”
He was starting to look more comfortable, like this topic was solid ground to stand on. I didn’t think he was a reclusive guy, just shy. “By putting yeast in water, kneading it, letting it rise, punching it—”
“You get violent with the bread?”
Miles grinned. “To get the air out. Rise it some more, bake it, let it cool….”
“Wow. I don’t think I’ve met someone who makes bread from scratch.”
“It’s relaxing.”
“How long does it take?”
“Three or four hours.”
“I’m eating four hours of effort?” I exclaimed.
Miles smiled.
“It’s really good,” I said again. “Do you make any other kinds?”
“Yes.”
“Like what?”
“Every kind. Oatmeal, wheat, raisin, cornmeal, sourdough, rye, herb—” Miles abruptly stopped. “You get the point.”
“So,” I said, dipping the bread into the soup and tasting the combination. “You bake and you fix broken things?”
Miles shrugged. “Pretty much. What about you?”
“I burn toast and once broke my finger with a hammer.”
I LIVEDin a little apartment on Water Street, above the local bank. One day I wanted to buy one of the Victorian houses that Lancaster was famous for, but considering I had only just become employed today, it’d probably be a while. I shut the door and flicked on the light switch before dropping my jacket and kicking off my shoes. I’d dragged home several of the heavy ledgers Beatrice kept records of every random bit of information in. I was going to spend the evening trying to glean some figures regarding spending, or inventory, or foot traffic—oranything, really.
I paused in the hall long enough to turn up the thermostat before going to the kitchen. I put the heavy books down on the table, then took a moment to make some hot chocolate.
