Caught Bread Handed Read Online Free

and community gatherings these days. I passed the outdoor Elizabethan theater and crossed the street to the Black Swan.
    It looked like the entire town was inside. The theater had been set up with rows of chairs facing the stage. Rosalind had done a good job of recruiting business owners. Almost every chair was taken. I found a seat near the back. Hopefully, that way I could duck out early without anyone noticing.
    â€œJuliet, darling, I thought that was you. Not trying to hide, are we?” I heard a voice behind me. It was Lance. Lance is the artistic director for OSF. He and I had become friends since I’d returned to Ashland.
    He strolled toward me. Everyone took notice of his catlike walk and signature fashion of a three-piece ivory suit with a scarlet ascot. No one else in Ashland wears an ascot.
    Kissing me on both cheeks, he slunk into the empty seat next to me. “Darling, you look terrible. Bags under the eyes. A frazzled ponytail. Do tell, was it a ghastly day at the bakeshop?”
    â€œThanks a lot, Lance. You sure know how to make a girl feel good.” I glanced at my jeans, which were dusted with flour and splattered with chocolate.
    He tapped my chin. “Chin up, darling. I know what you need—a stiff drink.”
    â€œRight. At the town meeting?”
    Lance gave me a devilish grin. He patted his breast pocket. “I always bring a little something to these events. It’s better than community theater.” He reached in and pulled out a silver flask. “Shall we imbibe?”
    I declined. “No, thanks.”
    He shrugged and drank from the flask. “Suit yourself.”
    â€œWhat’s in there?” I asked. The smell was so strong it burned my nostrils.
    â€œGin, darling. What else?”
    â€œIt smells like grain alcohol.”
    He sniffed it and waved his hand over the flask. “Maybe it is. Oh, dear.”
    â€œLance, you’re terrible.”
    â€œI am, aren’t I?” He winked. “Is there another reason you’re looking haggard? Could it be that saucy husband of yours has been keeping our pastry starlet up too late?”
    I elbowed him in the ribs.
    â€œFeisty.” He pointed to the stage. “Now, shush. The fun is starting.”
    Rosalind Gates walked with a pronounced limp to the stage and positioned the microphone stand. She could have passed for one of Lance’s actors. Her silvery-gray hair fell just above her shoulders. Her features were quite striking. She had enhanced her narrow cheekbones with blush and rimmed her eyes with a charcoal liner.
    â€œShe’s aging well,” Lance whispered.
    â€œHow old is she?”
    â€œA lady never reveals her age, Juliet.” Lance studied Rosalind’s appearance. Then he whispered, “I would bet she’s pushing eighty.”
    â€œReally?”
    Lance nodded. “Look at her hands. They are a dead giveaway.”
    Rosalind’s hands were marked with age spots and wrinkled.
    â€œYou should ask her where she got her shirt,” Lance said.
    I returned my gaze to the stage. She wore a pair of khaki slacks, white tennis shoes, and the black long-sleeved T-shirt that read: SOS—SAVE OUR SHAKESPEARE . I had forgotten to ask her about it earlier.
    â€œWhat do you think it’s supposed to mean? A reference to saving downtown?”
    Lance took another swig from the flask. “No idea, darling.”
    Rosalind tapped on the mic. It cracked, sending a piercing screech through the room. She cleared her throat. “Sorry about that. I guess it’s working. Thanks for coming tonight on such short notice. I appreciate your commitment and willingness to support our town during this critical time.”
    The door to the theater creaked open and slammed shut. Mindy Nolan, the owner of ShakesBurgers, along with two other men, entered the room. They all wore matching eye-shattering-green T-shirts. Mindy wore hers with a simple black skirt. One of the