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about this town that no one can find?”
    A cloud crossed the sky and the dining room windows darkened, and a shadow fell across his face. There were two truths to tell, but he could tell only one.
    â€œThat it’s a lovely town,” he said, lamely. “The kind that doesn’t exist anymore. That people should remember and celebrate. But how did you know I was coming?”
    â€œI woke at dawn,” she said. “I heard your train from a long way off. By noon the train was just beyond the mountains, and I heard its whistle.”
    â€œAnd did you expect someone named Cardiff?”
    â€œCardiff?” she wondered. “There was a giant, once—”
    â€œIn all the newspapers. A fraud.”
    â€œAnd,” she said. “Are you a fraud?”
    He could not meet her gaze.

CHAPTER 9
    When he looked up, Nef’s chair was empty. The other diners, too, had all left the table, gone back to their rocking chairs or, perhaps, to summer afternoon naps.
    â€œLord,” he murmured. “That woman, young, but how young? Old, but how old?”
    Suddenly Elias Culpepper touched his elbow.
    â€œYou want a real tour of our town? Claude needs to deliver some more fresh-baked bread. On your feet!”
    Â 
    The wagon was loaded with a redolent harvest. The warm loaves had been neatly stacked row on row within the oven-smelling wagon, thirty or forty loaves in all, with names lettered on the wax-paper wrappings. Beside these were waxed boxes of muffins and cakes, carefully tied with string.
    Cardiff took three immense inhalations and almost fell with the overconsumption.
    Culpepper handed him a small packet and a knife.
    â€œWhat’s this?” said Cardiff.
    â€œYou won’t be a block away before the bread overcomes you. This is a butter knife. This here is a full loaf. Don’t bring it back.”
    â€œIt’ll ruin my supper.”
    â€œNo. Enhance. Summer outside. Summer inside.”
    He handed over a pad with names and addresses.
    â€œJust in case,” said Culpepper.
    â€œYou’re sending me out on my own? How do I know where to go?”
    â€œDon’t you worry. Claude knows the way. Never got lost yet. Right, Claude?”
    Claude looked back, neither amused nor serious, just ready.
    â€œJust go easy on the reins. Claude’s got his own system. You just tag along. It’s the only way to see the town without any jabber from me. Giddap.”
    Cardiff jumped aboard. Claude tugged, the wagon lurched forward.
    â€œHell.” He fumbled with the notebook, scanning the names and addresses. “What’s the first stop?”
    â€œGit!”
    The bread wagon drifted away, warming the air with the heady scents of yeast and grain.
    Claude trotted as if he could hardly wait to be right.

CHAPTER 10
    Claude jogged at a goodly pace for two blocks and turned sweetly to the right.
    His eyes twitched toward a front yard mailbox: Abercrombie.
    Cardiff checked his list.
    Abercrombie!
    â€œDamn!”
    He jumped from the wagon, loaf in hand, when a woman’s voice called, “Thank you, Claude.”
    A woman of some forty years stood at the gate to take the bread. “You, too, of course,” she said. “Mister … ?”
    â€œCardiff, ma’m.”
    â€œClaude,” she called, “take good care of Mr. Cardiff. And Mr. Cardiff, you take good care of Claude. Morning!”
    And the wagon jounced along the bricks under a congress of trees that laced themselves to lattice out the sun.
    â€œFillmore’s next.” Cardiff eyed the list, ready to pull on the reins when the horse stopped at a second gate.
    Cardiff popped the bread in the Fillmore mailbox and raced to catch up with Claude, who had resumed his route without waiting for his driver.
    So it went. Bramble. Jones. Williams. Isaacson. Meredith. Bread. Cake. Bread. Muffins. Bread. Cake. Bread.
    Claude turned a final corner.
    And there was a school.
    â€œHold