Copyright Elizabeth Bevarly
All rights reserved.
“It has to be here somewhere.”
Claire Reidling shoved aside an industrial-sized bag of powdered sugar, a white-enameled basket of Bing cherries, a bowl of milk and a half dozen eggs nestled on a linen napkin, catching the last just before they careened off the counter and onto the floor. When the object of her frantic search continued to elude her, she straightened, settling one hand impatiently on her hip while she knifed the other through the dark bangs poking out from beneath her battered chef’s hat. Too late, she remembered her fingers were covered with flour, and now the few threads of silver that had dared to brave appearance in the shoulder-length tresses would be punctuated by premature white, as well.
“I know I was wearing it when I came in this morning,” she continued.