Tuula agreed. “And a loyal friend.”
“That’s good—we all need friends.”
She peered in through the glass door of the oven.
Nils cleared his throat. “I wanted to say that if you ever need my help again—if anyone is unkind to you or your children—just tell me. I’ll do whatever I can.”
“Thank you,” Tuula replied, although she knew she would find it hard to ask.
“Are you okay?” Nils asked after a while, looking searchingly at her. She hadn’t realized she’d gone quiet.
“I’m fine. I was just lost in my thoughts.” She checked the oven again. “I think it’s ready, judging by the color.” She opened the door, Nils handed her a glove, and she took out the tray. The loaf smelled amazing, rich and tempting. That was what she loved most about her rye bread—the richness. It was best enjoyed when it was freshly baked, with plenty of butter on it. After the butter shortages during the war, it would be pure joy to taste this bread with real butter.
“It should be eaten fresh,” she said, tapping the crust.
“Can I show you something while it cools?”
“Of course.” Tuula was puzzled, but Nils had a cunning smile on his face.
“I’ve been experimenting with a new wheat dough for our buns. I’ve changed the filling too.” He went over to the shelves where the buns were proofing, and picked up a tray of large, unbaked cinnamon buns. “What do you think?”
“They look fantastic.”
He nodded. “I hope they’ll turn out well. I wanted to make them a little fluffier.” He replaced the tray. “I’m going to leave them to proof until first thing tomorrow morning, then bake them.” He glanced over at the loaf. “Do you think we could try your bread now?”
“Perfect timing.”
He fetched a knife, cut two slices, took a packet of butter from the refrigerator, and spread a generous amount on each slice.
Tuula took a bite. It was heavenly. The crust had turned out thick and crisp, while the inside was silky soft—these ovens were phenomenal. And then there was the delicious taste of rye.
“This is amazing.” Nils looked at Tuula. “Absolutely amazing.”
“The heat definitely did the trick.”
“We could sell this bread, you know.”
She smiled hesitantly, unsure if he was serious.
“Sorry, don’t take that the wrong way—I’m not talking about stealing your recipe or anything, but this could be a real hit. Finnish rye bread.”
Her smile broadened. “Do you think so?”
“I’m sure of it.”
“My fellow countrymen would certainly love genuine Finnish rye bread.”
He gazed at her for a long time. “If I can persuade my father to add this to our selection, would you be able to bake it for us?”
“Of course.”
“As a baker?”
“You mean you’d employ me as a baker? Here?” She couldn’t hide her astonishment.
“Exactly. Naturally you’d be paid more.”
She didn’t know what to say. “But that’s ... It’s too much.”
