Read Online The Baker's Daughter by Sarah McCoy - Free Book Online Page B

it with a smile and wiped melted chocolate from his lips.
    Reba set the table. Steno pad, pen, recorder. While she waited, she tried to imagine the young girl from the photograph over sixty years later.
    Then, through the door frame came Elsie. Her snowy hair was bobbed short, the sides pinned back with brown bobby pins. She was cozy plump through the hips but narrow in the waist and wore a contemporary pair of khaki pants with a cream blouse rolled up at the sleeves. Even at seventy-nine, she was stylish and determined in her gait. She carried a plate with two slices of cinnamon raisin bread and set it in the middle of the table.
    â€œHallo.” She stuck out her hand. “I am Elsie Meriwether.”
    Reba shook. “Reba Adams.”
    Elsie’s grip was firm but warm. “Nice to meet you. I apologize for not being able to speak the last time you visited.” She spoke clearly despite the German clip.
    Elsie sat and nudged the plate closer to Reba. “Jane says you do not eat milk, so I made this without. It is good.”
    Reba didn’t want to start the interview on the wrong foot. “Thank you.” She picked up a slice and ate. “Yes,” she mumbled. “It’s very tasty.” And she wasn’t lying.
    â€œGut,” said Elsie. She broke off a piece and popped it in her mouth. “So you would like to talk to me about being old.”
    Reba swallowed too fast and choked a little. “No, no. I’m doing a Christmas story.” She composed herself. “A cultural profile on holiday celebrations around town.”
    â€œGermans celebrate like everyone else. Christmas Eve we eat and drink. Christmas Day we do it again. I think this is how the Mexicans and Americans do as well, correct?” Elsie arched her eyebrow at Reba, challenging her.
    Reba tapped her pen on the steno. It wasn’t exactly a quotable statement. At least not for the angle she wanted. “Do you mind if I turn this on?” she asked and thumbed the recorder button.
    Elsie shrugged. “As long as you promise not to put it on the Internet. I’m not so old that I have not seen the horse manure they put there. Nothing but naked bosoms and foul language. I was looking for sticky buns, and you would not believe what came onto my computer screen.”
    Reba coughed.
    â€œIn all my years, I have
never
seen such a thing.”
    â€œMom,” said Jane from behind the register. “Reba doesn’t want to hear about that.”
    â€œI won’t mention what happened when I tried to find a chocolate jelly-roll recipe.”
    Reba turned her face to the steno pad to hide her smile.
    â€œMom!”
    â€œI’m just telling Missus Adams, I don’t want anything to do with such things.”
    Reba cleared her throat. “I promise. No Internet. And, please, call me Reba.”
    Reba pushed the button on the recorder. It was time to get answers. “So you’re from Garmisch, Germany, correct? Jane talked to me a little about that photograph over there.” Reba pointed across the room. “The one of you on Christmas Eve.”
    Elsie broke off a raisin-laden corner of the bread. “That old thing. I’m surprised the sun has not faded it to nothing. Probably best if so. That was a lifetime ago. I left Germany soon after.”
    â€œDid you ever go back?” asked Reba. “Didn’t you miss home?”
    Elsie met her gaze and held it. “People often miss things that don’t exist—miss things that
were
but are not anymore. So there or here, I’d still miss home because my home is gone.”
    â€œDo you consider the United States your new home?”
    â€œDoch! Texas is where I am, where my daughter is and my husband is buried, but it is not home. I won’t find home again—not on this earth. That is the truth.”
    Reba inhaled deep and licked her lips. She needed a new approach. This was not coming easily. “Could