Page 5 of Bride in Blue
Every morning he engaged in the same routine.
Once he left the house, he made sure the door was locked. Not once, not twice but three times, before proceeding down the path to the main street. He would walk up W 10 1/2 Street to S Main and turn towards the bakery.
He would spend 30 seconds looking at the display before selecting the same type of pastry every morning. He would spend a few minutes chatting with Maybelle, who owned the bake shop, before taking his pastry and wandering over to the tea shop. One of the sisters, either Mrs. Thurgood or Mrs. Honeycutt, would have his travel jug filled with hot tea waiting for him as soon as he walked through the door. He would leave an empty one for the following morning and take the full one in its place.
Max would then continue his walk to the haberdashery. There he would spend 24 minutes enjoying his pastry and tea before opening for business.
This morning, however, Mr. Gladstone, his beloved cat managed to escape out the door and into the shrubbery. He spent valuable moments looking for the kitty without success.
After locking the door, he realized he was 7 minutes behind schedule. He picked up his pace, grimacing as small clouds of dust appeared beneath his feet. He quickly walked around a rut where a wagon had been digging into the soft soil.
The bell on the bakery door rang as he entered the small shop. The yeasty smell of bread baking and fresh cakes reached his nostrils. He inhaled, as he did every morning. It was heavenly.
There was no one inside the shop, but he heard movement from behind a curtain in the back.
“Miss Maybelle?” he called. He only had a few moments and didn’t want to waste any of them. The curtain flipped to the side and a small blonde woman appeared, wearing an apron and covered in flour.
“Good morning, Mr. Blue. I noticed you were late, so I put your pastries in a box already.” She lifted a small box tied with string and handed it to him. “That will be three cents.”
“Have you created anything new recently?” he inquired.
Maybelle raised her eyebrow at him. “Would it matter? You get the same thing every morning.”
“I know,” he said sheepishly. “It is just that your jelly pastries are so good.”
Maybelle laughed. “I am working on a new chocolate cake recipe as we speak.”
“Perhaps I’ll try it,” he said, even though he knew he never would. He was a man that didn’t like change. Two small jelly pastries were just fine for him.
He pulled coins out of his pockets, turning each one over in the palm of his hand so they all faced upwards. He then counted out the pennies, placing each one individually in Maybelle’s hand.
“See you tomorrow,” she said, placing the pennies in her cash box. Max nodded and took the box, exiting backwards from the store. He pulled the door shut, checking it three times before he left.
He checked his watch. Four minutes longer than he intended at the bakery. He’d have to be sure to spend no more than a minute at the tea shop.
Mrs. Honeycutt was in the tea shop, fixing a display of muffins on a china plate. She smiled when she saw him. “Mr. Blue, I wasn’t sure if you were going to be by this morning.” The shop wasn’t open for business, but he had established a routine with them to stop by before business hours to pick up a pot of tea.
It wasn’t actually a pot, but more of a glazed terracotta jug that he brought from New York when he moved west. He had three such jars, which allowed him to leave one at the store and rotate the other two on alternating days.
“I am running a bit late, if you please, Mrs. Honeycutt.” He placed the empty jug and cover on the counter. He turned it so the handle was placed away from the door.
“Of course,” she said, placing the muffins down. She walked behind her display and returned with a duplicate jug which was warm to the touch. “It is still brewing, so it will be piping hot when you get to the store.”
Max handed her a nickel and picked up the jug. The pot would last most of the day and the terracotta would keep it warm until at least afternoon.
He was on his way out when an elderly woman wearing a dark bombazine frock with a crepe hood entered the shop. He had never seen her before, and he knew most of the folks in Creede.
The frock appeared a little dusty and definitely out of fashion. He thought it might be from 1837 if memory served him correctly. Why would she be wearing a mourning dress that was in style over 30 years ago?
She looked at him for a moment and grinned a big toothless grin.
He estimated her to be at least eighty. He didn’t recall seeing many people that elderly, and certainly not in Creede. Most he knew, died around sixty years of age, at most.
Max returned her smile with a half one of his own and scooted past her. “I don’t believe they have opened for business this morning,” he said, pushing his way out into the morning air. The smell of roses lingered, mixed with something else. It reminded him of the factories back east. He quickly dismissed the thought.
“That is a shame,” she said, adjusting her hat. “I did so fancy a cup of tea.”
“You’re British?” he asked.
