Chapter 15 - The Bread and the Mountain
Two days later, the sun came out over Laurel Creek, burning the grey mist off the ridges until the whole valley looked like a bowl of green glass and wet slate.
The bakery was closed for the afternoon. Thomas was sitting out on the front bench with a woolen blanket over his knees, smoking a pipe that smelled of sweet cherry tobacco and old memories.
Inside, Clara was flouring the zinc table, her hands moving through the grey dough with a smooth, rhythmic certainty.
Enzo stood by the open window, watching the creek run clear over the stones. He had a pencil behind his ear and a small paper bag of dried yeast in his hand.
"You're not going back to Boston, are you?" Clara asked, not looking up from her kneading.
"There's nothing left in Boston," Enzo said. "The glass towers are empty. The syndicate is arguing over who gets to sell the scrap iron."
"And here?"
Enzo walked over to the table, set the yeast down beside the flour scraper, and rested his hands on the zinc right next to hers. The copper wire on the old wheelchair in the corner didn't make a sound.
"Here," Enzo said, looking straight into her eyes, "the bread takes too long to bake, and the winter never really leaves the hills."
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Clara smiled—that same small, private smile she’d given him the first day in the slush—and shoved a handful of flour right across his nose.
"Good," she said. "We're going to need a bigger oven."
