Chapter 7: Flour and Wrists

On Sunday, Craig took Eli to his mother's for dinner, and Britt went along to help with the car seat.

"You're sure you don't want to come?" Craig asked.

"I'm sure," I said. "I'd like a quiet afternoon."

"Dorothea will check on you."

"I know she will."

When their car left, I locked the front door, went into the kitchen and started making bread.

I had not cooked anything in four months.

Craig said it wasn't safe for me to stand at the stove, and I had believed him.

Now I made my own dough and I wanted to eat only what I made.

Dorothea's church had a Sunday afternoon choir. She left at one with her hymnal under her arm.

At ten past one, Erik knocked softly at the back door.

He had two paper bags of groceries on his hip and a sack of flour on his shoulder.

"You said bread," he said. "I thought you'd run out."

"I've got flour."

"Now you've got more."

He set everything down on my counter and looked around my kitchen.

"Where's the staff?" he said.

"Church."

"All of them?"

"Britt's at his mother's. Dorothea's at choir. We have about two hours."

I went to the pantry.

Behind the top shelf, I had a clean jam jar wrapped in a dish towel.

I had poured Saturday night's tea into it instead of the fern and screwed on the lid.

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