"Tell you why we did it," the man said. "Everybody told us we were half-baked to open a whole-grain bakery in Potato Cove, but we're doing all right. Overhead's low, and we wholesale to a food market and a couple of restaurants in the valley, so we have a little cash flow we can count on."
"Do you supply the golf club?" Qwilleran asked slyly.
"Hell no! But you see that tray of bread? It's going to an Italian restaurant. They pick it up every day at four o'clock." He looked at Qwilleran's moustache. "Are you the fella that bought Vance's big candlestick?"
"Yes, I'm the proud possessor of fifty pounds of iron." Qwilleran looked around the shop. The unifying note in the bakery was paint; everything paintable had been painted orchid: walls, ceiling, shelving, tables, student chairs, even the floorboards. "Unusual paint job you have here," was Qwilleran's comment.
"Thrift, man! Thrift! Lumpton Hardware advertised a sale of paint, and all those fakes had was pink and blue. It was my wife's idea to mix 'em."
Qwilleran carried his purchase to an orchid student chair and bit into a six-inch square of puffy, chewy pastry heaped with large apple slices in thick and spicy juices. It was still warm.
"I'm forced to tell you," he said, "that this is absolutely the best Danish I've ever eaten in half a century of pastry connoisseurship."
The baker turned to the woman. "Hear that, sugar? Take a bow." To Qwilleran he said, "My wife does the gooey stuff. Wait till you taste the sticky buns! Everything we use is whole grain and fresh. Apples come from Tater orchards—no sprays, no chemicals. We stone-grind our flour right from the wheat berries. Bread's kneaded and shaped by hand. Crackers are rolled the same way."
"That's my job," said his wife. "I like handling dough."
"Bread untouched by human hands may be cheaper, but nobody says it's as good," the baker said. "You're new around here."
"I'm here for the summer. My name's Jim Qwilleran. What's your name?"
"Yates. Yates Penney. That's my wife, Kate. How do you like the Potatoes, Mr. . . . ?"
"Qwilleran. I'm not sure I like what's happening to Big Potato."
"You said it! The inside of Big Potato looks like a mangy cat, and the outside looks like a war zone. City people come up here because they like country living, and then they drag the city along with 'em. The Taters have the right idea; they build themselves a rustic shack and let everything grow wild, the way Nature intended. We're from Akron, but we know how to fit in. Right, sugar?"
Qwilleran said, "What is this waterfall I've heard about?"
"You mean Purgatory?"
"Is that what it's called? I'd like to see it."
The baker turned to his wife. "He wants to go to Purgatory." They communicated silently for a few moments until she nodded, and then he explained, "We don't encourage sightseers because they throw beer cans and food wrappers in the falls, but you don't look like the average tourist."
"I take that as a compliment. Is the trail well-marked? I'd like a quiet, leisurely walk without getting lost."
"It's quiet, all right," said Kate. "Nobody goes back there on a Tuesday afternoon. Only on weekends."
"You can't get lost either," Yates assured him. "Just follow the creek upstream. It's about half a mile, but all uphill."
"That's okay. I've been practicing. Where did Purgatory get its name?"
"Some old-time Taters named it, I think. It's not an Indian name, I know that. Anyway, the water drops off a high cliff and down into a bottomless pit, and the mist rises like steam. Quite a sight!"
"Good! I'll take a little ramble. I have some time to kill while Vance works on my car."
"What's wrong with it?"
"Nothing serious. Mountain-itis, I guess you'd call it. While I'm standing here I'd like to pay for some Danish and sticky buns. I can. pick them up when I finish with the falls."
"We close at four," Kate warned him.
"If it's only half a mile, I'll be back well before that," Qwilleran said.
"Take care!"
"Don't fall in," the baker said with a grin.
Behind the bakery Qwilleran could hear the creek before he could see it. Swollen by heavy rain, the waters were rushing tumultuously over boulders in the creek bed. An irregular path on the edge of the stream had been worn down by generations of Taters and perhaps by Indians before them, who made the pilgrimage without benefit of handrails, curbs, steps, or warning signs. This was raw nature, and the footing was muddy and treacherous. Sharp rocks and wayward roots protruded from the walkway, camouflaged by pine needles and oak leaves that were wet and slippery. Tufts of coarse wet grasses grew over the edge, dripping and ready to chute an unwary wanderer into the stream.
