about her posture, her failure to meet his eyes or smile, her single-mindedness about the contents of the satchels told Jeremiah that he should simply close the door of the bakery and go back to his own shop. Instead, he followed her into the large and spotless kitchen that held the lingering scent of yeast.
“Did you have the opportunity to look at the recipe I left with you on Saturday?”
“I did,” she replied as she bustled around the kitchen putting things away.
Jeremiah decided to make himself useful by unpacking the satchels for her and handing her items such as cans of baking powder and bottles of vanilla. He did not miss the way she hesitated at first to take the items he held out to her. And then to his surprise she almost snatched them from him as if he might decide to run off with them. And not once did she look directly at him.
“We could go over it now if you have a few minutes,” he said. “The recipe,” he added when she glanced back at him over one shoulder.
“I have shown it to my father. He’ll be here later. You can discuss it with him then.”
“But you are the baker, are you not?”
“Yes, but …”
“Then I would like to discuss it directly with you.” He had removed his straw hat and laid it on the long worktable that dominated the center of the room.
Still not looking directly at him she folded the cloth satchels and stored them in a basket under the table then began transferring a series of large flat pans, each covered with a cloth, to the table. The string ties of her kapp swung to and fro with the motion of her actions. She handed him his hat and went back to the side counter for another tray. It was clear that this was a process she had repeated hundreds—perhaps even thousands—of times. When she removed the cloths he saw that they held unbaked loaves of bread—rye from the looks of them.
“Frau Obermeier?”
“When my father returns, then we can discuss your order, Herr Troyer. Until then, I have bread to bake.”
Jeremiah saw a series of hooks on the wall near the doorway that led to the front of the bakery and made use of one of them to hang his hat. Then he rolled back the long sleeves of his shirt.
Her eyes—definitely one of her best features—went wide with what Jeremiah could only interpret as shock. “What are you doing?” she demanded.
“I thought that as long as you wish me to wait until your father arrives that I could help you.”
“Oh, so now you are a baker as well?”
Out of any other woman’s mouth the words might have sounded teasing, even flirtatious. After all, Jeremiah was not blind to the fact that from the time he reached eighteen years and suddenly filled out the gaunt body that his earlier illness had left behind, he had attracted female admiration. His easy smile and determination to be everything his uncle was not had always resonated with females of all ages. But when Pleasant Obermeier spoke these words, they were no less than a condemnation.
Hoping to disarm her, he chuckled. “I’m afraid you would need to teach me that, Frau Obermeier. I had only thought I might move the trays to the ovens when you are ready.”
“Thank you, but no. I can manage.” She turned her back to him as she checked the heat coming from the large wood-fired ovens. “I’ll let my father know that you wish to speak with him,” she said.
“And you,” he added as he retrieved his hat. “As the baker, you must have an opinion.”
Her back still to him, he saw her shoulders slump slightly as if he had finally defeated her—or perhaps simply tried her patience beyond her ability to be polite. “Herr Troyer …”
“Jeremiah,” he interrupted.
She turned to face him. “Herr Troyer,” she repeated emphatically. “This is my father’s business. If he asks me to be at this meeting, then I will be there. Until he makes that decision, I bid you a good day.”
He had been dismissed. With nothing more to say, Jeremiah put his hat on and left the shop. But then the streak of impishness that had gotten him in trouble numerous times throughout his youth blossomed. He waited until a count of ten and then re-entered the shop, the bell announcing the arrival of a customer. He filled the time it took Pleasant to clatter a tray of breads into the oven and call out, “Coming,” by considering the sparse but luscious selection of baked goods displayed in the shop’s cases.
There were apple dumplings, whoopee pies that leaked their vanilla cream filling from between the chocolate cake sandwich like mortar from a freshly set brick wall, and the most mouthwatering-looking lemon squares that Jeremiah had ever seen.
The woman he assumed was responsible for all this temptation emerged from the back room with a welcoming smile that faded the moment she saw him. “Did you forget something, Herr Troyer?”
“I’d like a dozen of these, half dozen of those, and if you could add in a loaf of that rye bread you’re baking.”
“It won’t be ready for …”
“I realize that. I thought perhaps you might be so kind as to drop it off on your way home later today. I’m right next door.”
Pressing her lips together in a thin line of disapproval that did nothing to add to her appearance, Pleasant started filling his order. She packed two boxes, tied them with string and set them on top of the bakery case. When she had finished, he noticed that the small display of pastries he’d admired was almost completely gone.
“Will that be all?” she asked.
“I seem to have wiped out most of your …”
“I can always bake more,” she said. “Would you like anything else?”
Jeremiah pretended to consider that question by looking around the shop. He plucked a bag of day-old rolls from a small table near the door and added it to the pile. “How much do I owe?”
When she punched in the amounts on the heavy brass cash register he thought she might actually bend the keys with the force of her strokes. He watched the numbers tally in the small window on top of the register and just before she hit the total key, he reached across the counter and stopped her by touching the back of her hand. “Did you add in the rye bread?”
“You can pay my father for that when he delivers it later today. At Goodloe’s Bakery we make it a habit not to take payment until we are certain we can deliver what has been ordered.”
“Meaning?”
“I might burn the bread,” she said. “Or it might not have risen properly.” She hit the key to total the sale and the cash register drawer sprang open. “Anything is possible,” she added. “I might drop it on the floor or …”
The color that flooded her cheeks suddenly told him that they were sharing the memory of when she had dropped the doughnuts. He smiled and handed her the money. Without meeting his look she made change, slammed the cash drawer shut and dropped the coins into his outstretched hand. “Good day, sir,” she said as she presented him with his parcels.
“And a pleasant
