I grab the hot baking sheet and set it on the cooling rack. The strudel doesn’t look burnt on top, but juice leaked from holes in the pasty and is burnt onto the metal sheet.
The alarm continues screeching like a chicken that’s been sat on. I open the kitchen door to the patio, snatch the tea towel from the counter, and wave it at the alarm. Charlie howls at it, but alas, the alarm doesn’t turn off.
After some frantic arm actions on my part, the kitchen becomes less smoky and the alarm decides enough is enough. It finally goes silent—as does Charlie.
“Well, it’s about time,” I tell it, my tone a little snootier than planned. To Charlie I say, “Okay, so I need a little more practice when it comes to cooking. It just means I won’t be throwing any parties while I’m here.”
I turn my attention to the strudel. “Other than the gaping holes in it and all the burned juice, it doesn’t look too bad.” I locate a knife and cut a piece.
Or attempt to.
“Must be the recipe,” I tell Charlie. “If I had used Olga’s, it wouldn’t be so hard. Hers is puff pastry. The recipe I used must be for something else. But it should still be good. It’s just a little crunchy.”
Charlie eyes me with a doubtful expression.
It takes a little effort, but eventually a tattered slice sits proudly on my plate. With a fork, I break off a piece and pop it into my mouth.
Nodding thoughtfully, I chew on it for several seconds, make a face, then spit the half-chewed mouthful into the trash. “Oh, that’s not good at all,” I say around the bitter taste.
I hastily grab a glass from the cupboard, fill it with tap water, and chug down the contents. Normally tap water is a big no-no for me, but desperate times call for very desperate measures.
Surprisingly, the water tastes good. A definite improvement over the apple strudel.
Note to self: once I return home, sign up for cooking lessons.
It definitely can’t hurt.
For all I know, I have a master chef inside me, waiting to be released. I just need to find the key to unlock her.
After the less-than-delightful experience with my attempt at cooking, you would expect my apple craving to run away screaming. But unfortunately, that’s not the case. Now I crave a sweet apple dessert even more.
We can blame my stressful morning for that.
“How about we go into town for a bit?” I ask Charlie. “I can try out the bakery”—where I should have gone to begin with—“and then we can visit the library.”
Tilly had phoned me yesterday after Noah left, to tell me that Sarah the librarian was excited to have Charlie and me volunteer with their program. She’d asked if I could drop by to discuss our availability while we’re in Copper Creek.
Charlie barks his reply. I change into a red-and-white strapless sundress with a hem that twirls when I spin around. On my way out the door, I slip on a strappy pair of ballet flats and drive us to the park near the town hall.
Like yesterday, the sidewalk along Main Street isn’t busy. Nothing compared to what I’m used to back home. We stroll toward the bakery I saw when I drove through town yesterday. Several heads turn my way as if I’m an alien from another planet.
As always, I’m limping. But I suspect that’s not why people are staring. In my designer dress and shoes, I stick out like the Queen of England at a rock concert.
The atmosphere inside the bakery is bright and cheery. I join the line and check out the desserts in the display case while Charlie waits for me outside.
I’m practically drooling at the array of treats. Apple strudel is sadly missing, but the other apple desserts look equally yummy.
While I wait my turn, I watch the woman behind the counter serve the customers. She’s tall. Very tall. Maybe six foot. And she has an Adam’s apple. She’s also smiling and chatting with the customers, asking about their day so far. Asking about the grandkids. Normally when a cashier or salesperson asks you how your day is, it’s mechanical, insincere. Not so with this woman. It’s warm and welcoming—like the delicious-smelling air.
The lady in front of me leaves, and I approach the counter. The smile from the woman behind it is infectious, and I can’t help but grin back.
“Welcome to Copper Creek,” she says. “I’m Roxy, and you must be Kate, Charlotte’s great-niece.”
I feel my eyes widen. “How did you know?”
Roxy laughs, the sound deep and soothing. “Tilly manages the town’s Facebook page. Which means everyone in town now knows you’re here while you deal with Charlotte’s estate. So which dessert would you like?”
It’s my turn to laugh. “What makes you so sure I’m getting a dessert? I might be getting a meat pie or a sandwich.”
