Judith Ryan Hendricks, who Booklist has said "calls to mind Barbara Kingsolver in her affinity for wise women and the power of close female friendships," continues the saga of the Queen Street Bakery in The Baker's Apprentice.

Wynter Morrison -- first introduced in the bestselling Bread Alone -- has found contentment in a life very different from anything she ever imagined: making bread on the night shift, learning the fine points of running a bakery, and exploring the possibilities of a relationship with Mac, her on-again, off-again love interest.

But Mac's failure to deal with issues in his past creates friction, Wyn's soon-to-be-ex husband is turning their divorce into guerrilla warfare, and she is reminded of how quickly life can reverse direction without warning.

Mac's abrupt departure is a shock, but conflicts at the bakery and her friend Tyler's tragic loss afford Wyn little time for brooding. Then letters from Mac begin to arrive, casual and distant at first, but gradually becoming more personal and revealing.

In his absence, Wyn finds she not only learns more about Mac but also about herself, as she becomes Tyler's mentor, passing on the wisdom and healing power of bread making. Her new self-awareness and resiliency will be tested when the Queen Street Bakery's existence is threatened, as well as when Mac returns and she must decide whether there is still a place for him in her life.

From critically acclaimed author Judith Ryan Hendricks comes the next chapter of the Queen Street Bakery, where questions are answered and old friends are revisited.

The Baker's Apprentice

By Hendricks, Judith Ryan

William Morrow & Company

ISBN: 0060726172

Chapter One

Seattle, September 1989

Linda LaGardia is about the most annoying human being I've ever met. Irascible, embittered, humorless, devoid of common courtesy -- and that's on a good day. Fortunately, she's also totally lacking in imagination, one of those people who seems to go through life with her head down, watching her feet take each plodding step. Fortunately, because that means she's generally tooself-absorbed to really get in anyone's way. Much as she can't standme, most of the time she simply acts like I don't exist.

All through our shift tonight, she's been singing little tuneless songs under her breath, muttering to herself about her kids, Paige and Ed Jr., and her no-good scumbag of an ex-husband, Ed Sr., who's been dead now for over six months.

I'm standing, she's sitting at the worktable shaping loaves of cheese bread and dropping them into oiled pans. "Yeah, I went to the doctor yesterday," she says from out of the blue. Caught off guard, I can't suppress a chuckle. It's so totally out of character for her to start a conversation.

"Somethin' funny about that?"

"Not about going to the doctor. I just think it's funny that you want to talk to me about it. I've been working here for over a year now, and we've never had any kind of meaningful dialogue before. That I recall."

"That's because you're always runnin' your mouth or playin' thatgod-awful screechin' music."

I close my eyes. "Oh, right. Now I remember."

"Last time he said my blood pressure's too high."

"How high?"

She waves her hand dismissively. "A hundred and eighty."

"Over what?"

"What d'ya mean over what? A hundred-eighty's what he said."

"Blood pressure is usually two numbers, like one-eighty over one-tenor something like that."

"Ahh, who knows. He was throwin' all kinds of numbers around." A few minutes later she says, "He wants me to take some tests."

"What kind?" I keep my eyes on the bread in front of me.

"Stress test or somethin'." She detaches the dough hook from oneof the Hobarts, carries it to the sink, then hesitates, lost in some internaldebate. She turns on the water, then abruptly turns it off. "Idon't guess you'd know what it is?"

The tone of voice is so unlike her that I turn around. "Whatwhat is?"

"Stress test," she mumbles. She scrubs the dough hook furiously."Didn't the doctor tell you?"

" 'Course he didn't tell me. They never tell ya nothin' if they canhelp it."

"They just hook you up to these electrodes -- "

"Electr -- ?" She makes a little sputter of alarm. "Does it shock ya?"

"No, no. It doesn't hurt. You just walk on this treadmill and theyread your heart rate. It's not a big deal."

"I figured as much." She sniffs, embarrassed. "I gotta be thereearly. Guess you'll have to handle cleanup yourself. Too bad."

I reach over and turn up the boom box with my knuckles.

At five-thirty a.m. the sun is a faint pinkish glow filtered through fog.Linda's out front, loading banana-cinnamon-swirl bread onto therack behind the register. The street is still quiet enough that I hearthe engine before I see the headlights. The sound is unmistakable,as individual as a fingerprint. A truck. A 1971 Chevy El Camino inneed of a tune-up. Mac.

My heart and my stomach decide to switch places.

I turn, just in time to see the Elky roll up in front of the bakery,unsavory looking as ever, its paint oxidized to a soft ivory that suggeststhat once upon a time it was white. Only the newly paintedright-rear fender gleams like an anchorman's smile.

I thought he wouldn't be back till the end of the month. Ithought . . . well, I thought a lot of things. Two weeks ago in the SanJuan Islands, we wrecked a perfectly good friendship by making lovefor the first time. I sort of thought he'd call me, but he hasn't. Is hesorry it happened? Am I? What should I say? Should I run out andthrow myself on him? Should I be cool? Let him know he can't takeanything for granted? Act like it never happened?

I push my hair back and take a deep breath. Be casual. Hi. Howare you? I didn't think you'd be back so soon. Then I remember that myhands are covered with wet dough. I wipe them on the towel thathangs from my apron strings and force myself to walk slowly aroundthe end of the counter and out the door. He's on the curb, reachinginside the truck for something, and when he hears the door, he turnsaround. Before I have a chance to launch my carefully noncommittalgreeting, he picks me up in his arms and crushes me against himtill I can't breathe and don't particularly care to.

After we've tried kissing from a number of different angles, hesets me down on the sidewalk. I rearrange my apron and mybunched-up T-shirt, and he laughs as he extricates a few little globsof dough from my hair.

"I thought you weren't coming back till ... later." I wish I didn'tsound so breathless.

The look he turns on me makes my knees feel jointed at theback, like flamingo legs. "I couldn't wait that long," he says. "Whattime are you off?"

"Seven, but -- "

"I'll be back then."

"Where are you going?"

"Kenny said I could stay with him for a few days till I find a place.I'm going to drop my stuff off there." He leans over to kiss meagain. "And take a cold shower."

Gone again.

Linda rolls her eyes ceilingward when I come back inside, rubbingmy bare arms from the chilly mist.

"Looks like one divorce didn't learn you nothin'."

"Teach," I say absently. "It didn't teach me anything."

Continues...

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