The City Baker's Guide to Country Living (12 page)

Martin scuffed at the ground, making a circle in the dirt with his toe. “We'll see,” he said, and stood. He bent to pick the jug up off the floor and poured some of the cider into a red plaid thermos that was stationed on a shelf. “I think the chores are done.”

“We don't have to milk the goats?” I asked.

“Mabel stopped giving milk a long time ago. And Crabapple is a billy goat. They're just pets now.”

 • • • 

Margaret met us on the porch in her coat. “Your folks have already gone up to bed, dear,” she said to Martin. Turning to me, she said, “Grab that potato sack you call a purse and let's get going.”

Margaret walked past us. I heard the car engine ignite and begin to hum.

“Thanks for the invitation,” I said, looking up at him. I tried to read his expression, but in the darkness I couldn't see his eyes behind his thick glasses. “It was great to meet Henry, and Dotty is amazing.”

“They like you.”

“It's mutual.”

I stood awkwardly for a minute, fighting the urge to hug him. “Night.”

“Get in the car, young lady. Are you trying to freeze me to death?” Margaret scolded from the open car window. I rolled my eyes and climbed in.

 • • • 

I dipped the end of a French fry into my chocolate frappe and swirled it around while watching the waitress glide from table to table as if she were on roller skates: pouring coffee, taking orders, wiping spills, all the while keeping up a flirty conversation with a logger sitting on one of the stools at the counter.

“That's so disgusting,” Hannah said as she slid into the booth.

“The fries or the waitress pinching butts?” I popped the fry into my mouth and reached down for another.

“Both.”

I pointed a French fry at Hannah. “What makes a complex dessert,” I said in my best French accent, “ees contrast. Say it with me, chefs. Contrast. Salty and sweet, hot and cold, soft and crunchy, light and dark. Your desserts must balance all of zee senses.” I popped the fry into my mouth and grinned. “It's much better with pommes frites. These steak fries have a little too much
potato and not enough fry for my liking, but they're better than nothing.”

Hannah shook her head and scanned the menu.

The waitress glided over. “Can I get you anything, Hannah?” Even her voice was smooth.

“Just a decaf, thanks, Liz.” Hannah smiled up at her and placed the menu back behind the napkin dispenser.

“It still boggles my mind that you know everyone,” I whispered. “Don't you ever miss being . . . nobody?”

Hannah shrugged. “Sometimes I drive a couple towns over to go to a matinee, just so I don't have to hear from the woman at the concession stand how surprised she is that a doctor's wife would take butter on her popcorn.”

“Or what they think of the movie you're seeing,” I said, thinking about Hannah's weird obsession with horror films.

“Exactly.” She nodded toward my French fries. “You know, for a chef you really eat like crap.”

“A chef's favorite meal is the one cooked by someone else.”

Liz placed a cup of coffee in front of Hannah. I bit my straw.

“Excellent, excellent job at the festival dinner.” Hannah beamed. “The head of the board of directors at the hospital has already asked if you would make the dessert for their next fund-raising dinner.”

I rolled my eyes. Ever since Hannah had become Mrs. Doyle, it'd been one fund-raiser after the next.

“What? It's for a good cause . . .”

“We'll see, Hann.” After the contest and the dinner, I felt superstitious about making any future commitments in Guthrie. For all I knew, Margaret had already placed an ad for a new baker in the
PennySaver
.

Hannah leaned back, her hands neatly folded in front of her. “Everyone's talking about you, you know.”

“You know I had nothing to do with Jamie coming up here.”

“I meant about your food, Livvy. The desserts. Everyone's raving about them. Molly over at the pharmacy asked if you would be willing to share the chocolate tartlet recipe.”

I let out a long breath.

“But since you brought it up,” Hannah leaned forward. “So . . . that was Jamie.”

“Yup, in the flesh.” I unwrapped a fresh straw and jammed it into the frappe.

“He was quite . . . talkative.”

“He was quite drunk.”

Hannah sat a little straighter in her seat. “Are you okay?”

“I'm fine. It was . . . surprising. He just showed up. There wasn't anything I could do about it.”

“You never mentioned he was married.”

I sucked on my frappe. Loudly. “It's not something I'm super proud of.”

Hannah smoothed out a paper napkin and folded it into a perfect square. “Did you see him over the weekend?”

“He stopped by the cabin that night, but no, I think they might have left the next day. So, what can you tell me about the pecan sandy queen?”

“Jane White?”

“Yeah. She ‘won' the bake sale. If I don't up my game, I'm going to be out of a job
and
homeless. I tried asking about her at the McCrackens', but . . .”

“When were you at the McCrackens'?”

“Sunday. For dinner.”

I watched several unrecognizable thoughts pass across Hannah's face. “Do you want the facts or the gossip?”

“Both, in that order.”

“Well, Jane grew up a few towns over, in the next county. She married John White, whose family owns a small chain of grocery stores, including the one here in Guthrie. They had four children who all live in the area and manage the stores.”

I made a rolling gesture in the air. “Get to the good stuff.”

“Well, Jane's husband passed away four years ago. Had a stroke, right in the middle of the produce aisle.”

“That's not gossip.”

“It's what happened afterward. A couple of months after Mr. White died, Margaret's husband had a heart attack. It was shortly after that that Jane took an interest in baking. Margaret lost her first contest a month later.”

“There is a disturbing amount of heart disease in this town.”

Hannah eyed the three stray fries left on my plate. “Smoking and a poor diet, both of them, but you didn't hear that from me.”

“So Jane poured her grief into a new hobby. What's the problem?”

Hannah stole a quick glance around the diner and leaned in close. “Well, there's talk that there had been something between Jane White and Margaret's husband, Mr. Hurley.”

“No way.”

Hannah shrugged. “It's probably just a rumor. But it might explain why Margaret started losing and Jane started winning. Was Margaret upset about the fund-raiser?”

“Let's see, at first she just stared straight ahead like she was
in a coma. Back at the inn she was cold. She warmed up at the McCrackens', but—”

“Margaret was at the McCrackens'?”

“Yes.”

“So it wasn't a date?” Hannah looked oddly relieved.

“I don't know. It was just, like, family dinner.” I raised my hands so they would cover my face. “I wore a dress.”

Hannah snorted. “Which one?”

“The polka-dot one.” I leaned forward and rested my face on the Formica.

Hannah peeled back the paper lid off a creamer and poured it into her cup. “So what was he like?”

“Martin?” I shrugged. “Shy. But nice. He seems younger at home.” I realized I was twisting my napkin into a tight ball. “I don't know. He smelled good. Like a campfire.”

“You were close enough to smell him.” It wasn't a question.

“Just for a moment.” I had thought about the feeling of his arm pressed against mine more than once that day already. “I wish you had seen him play fiddle at the dance. He's incredible. I could watch him play all night.”

“You like him,” Hannah said, her voice incredulous, as if she had just discovered that aliens were real. I ground the last cold fry into a pile of salt on my plate and shoved it into my mouth.

“Did you meet Henry?”

“Yes.” I smiled. “He's amazing.”

“You know I can't reveal anything,” Hannah whispered, “but did Martin tell you about Henry's condition?”

“I know it's colon cancer, that they couldn't remove it all, which sounds bad. Martin says he's doing chemo now.”

Hannah nodded and looked down. “Well, I'm glad he told you. It wouldn't be good to get too attached.”

I frowned. “To Henry or to Martin?”

“Either.” Hannah twisted around and waved at the waitress. “Just a refill, when you get a chance, Liz.”

“Why?” I tried to keep my voice even. “I mean, it's obvious Henry isn't doing well. I could carry him and a fifty-pound bag of flour up a flight of stairs, but—”

“He probably won't stick around. I heard he left the day after he graduated from high school and went as far away as he could. I'd just hate to see you get hurt, Liv.”

“Since when do we worry about my getting attached?” I asked, even though my stomach was churning. Martin made living in Guthrie feel possible. I didn't want to think about his leaving when we had only just met. “I'm the queen of casual. Right?”

I
took the back roads to the Sugar Maple. The inn was closed, dinner service long past. The kitchen was dark except for the small table lamp. Margaret was sitting in one of the rocking chairs, her feet firmly planted on the ground, looking out into the darkness.

“Oh,” I said. “I didn't think anyone would be here.”

Margaret reached for her wine and leaned back. Finding the open bottle on my workbench, I poured myself a glass and sat down in the other rocker.

“I hope you don't mind. Quiet night?”

“As expected.”

“I just came in to pull out my cinnamon roll dough so it can rise overnight.”

“Hmm.”

The joints squeaked as I rocked back.

“I'm sorry about the cookies,” I said quietly. “Honestly, they've never let me down before.”

Margaret nodded her head a fraction.

“I won't be so cocky next time.”

She leaned back in her chair and began to rock, her feet just leaving the ground.

“They tasted good.”

“What's that?”

“The macaroons. They were good cookies. I thought they were the best.”

“Really?”

“They were certainly better than any pecan sandy,” Margaret mumbled into her wineglass.

“I know, right?” My shoulders dropped down an inch or two away from my ears. Without the hum of the exhaust fan and the rhythmic beating of the mixer, it felt like we were sitting in any farmhouse kitchen. Warm and safe.

Margaret drained her glass. She stood, tucking the red ribbon she'd been winding between her fingers into the pocket of her skirt, pulled out a folded piece of stationery, and handed it to me. “Dotty was by earlier to drop off some plates. She left you this.”

“Olivia” was written across the page in a scratchy cursive.

I raised my eyebrows.

“I didn't read it. Turn the light out when you're done,” Margaret said as she walked toward the parlor. “And don't stay too late; you have to be in by six tomorrow. The Rotary Club breakfast meeting is at seven thirty sharp.”

I leaned toward the table lamp and unfolded the letter.

Dear Olivia,

Marty has restrung the dulcimer and she is waiting for your first lesson. Are you free Saturday afternoon around one? Bring the dog.

Sincerely,
Henry McCracken

A wave of warmth washed over me, like I had just opened the door to a bread oven. I tucked the note into the pocket of my fleece and went in search of my cinnamon roll dough.

 • • • 

The apple pie in my lap felt toasty against my legs on the short drive from the inn to the McCracken farm. Margaret had insisted that I bring along one of the new test pies for Dotty to try. I had spent the week after the fund-raiser channeling all of my frustration into perfecting my apple pie. Nutmeg, allspice, and cardamom were added and subtracted by the eighth of a teaspoon. Crates of apples from the McCracken farm were peeled, cored, and sliced into several pies, each with a different combination of fruit. Chef Al and I spent an afternoon discussing the benefits and drawbacks of cornstarch versus arrowroot. By the end of the week I was left feeling like a deranged mix of Sherlock Holmes and Christopher Kimball, my palate completely numb.

Salty sat up straight in the back and looked out the window that I had cracked open for him. Margaret glared at me from the driver's seat.

“Henry requested that he come along.”

“He's getting slobber all over my clean window.”

“You didn't have to drive.” Margaret had insisted we take one car to the McCrackens'. Hers.

Salty hopped over the seat onto my lap, his tail brushing Margaret's face, his paws just barely missing the pie box, and leaped out of the car as soon as I opened the door. He trotted over to the empty goat pen. I held the untrampled pie up in the air in triumph.

The scent of roasting chicken and pearl onions greeted us in the foyer. “We're here,” Margaret called.

“Come on in,” came a muffled cry from the kitchen. Dotty emerged, gingham apron wrapped around her thick waist. “The bird is just about done,” she said to Margaret. “I wanted to get everything ready for supper so we wouldn't have to rush back.” She turned her attention to me. “Hello, Olivia. How thoughtful,” she said, taking the pie out of my hands. “Henry's been looking forward to your visit all week. He's in the sitting room.” She and Margaret disappeared into the kitchen.

A wave of shyness washed over me as I stood alone in the hallway. I knocked lightly on the door before poking my head in.

“Hello,” I called.

“Come in, come in,” Henry said. He sat on the coach, wearing a robin's-egg blue sweater that made his shock of white hair glow. A bright red afghan lay across his lap. Underneath, two shearling-slippered feet poked out. “Sorry not to get up. Not as easy as it used to be.”

“No need.”

Henry tilted to the side to look behind me. “So, no dog?”

“Crap!” I ran back to the front door. I returned with Salty at my heels. “Here he is. Where would you like us?”

Henry patted the couch. “Come sit beside me. It'll be easier to show you what to do.”

Salty walked straight to Henry and wagged his tail, sniffing Henry's outstretched hand. He gave it one lick, then lay down on the braided rug beside him.

The dulcimer sat on the coffee table in front of us. It was a beautiful instrument, its hourglass shape cut from pale polished maple, with four tiny hearts carved out in pairs at either end.

“You made this for Dotty?”

“Back when we were courting.”

“May I?” I reached for the dulcimer.

“Of course.”

I placed it on my thighs. The wood on the bottom was worn, and it rested on my lap like it belonged there.

Henry leaned over and spun it around. “Now, the tuning pegs are always on the left, and the area where you strum the strings is on the right. Just like a banjo, really, except on your lap.”

“How old were you when you made it?”

“Sixteen, I'd guess.”

My index finger tugged at the first string. “She must have been thrilled.”

“More like irritated. She was a feisty girl.” He grunted. “Dotty had been insisting that she didn't have a musical note in her body, and I was determined to prove her wrong. Now,” he held up a small wooden dowel, “this is your noter.” He leaned toward me and took my left hand in his. He smelled like bay rum and those soft pastel wintergreen candies. “Hold it like this. Now press down on the third fret.” Henry slipped his hand into the pocket of his sweater and produced a brown plastic guitar pick. With a quick flick of his wrist, he strummed all four of the strings. The room filled with a satisfying chord. “See, the reason I chose the dulcimer for her was because it's so easy to learn. You only use the noter on the first string, the one closest to you—all the other strings are drones. Let me show you.” Henry pulled the instrument onto his lap and with knotted fingers he began to play “Go Tell Aunt Rhodie.”

“Did she?”

“What's that?”

“Have a musical note in her body?”

“No.” The corners of Henry's mouth twitched upward at the memory. “Not a single one. Now you give it a try.”

He slid the instrument back onto my lap.

Following Henry's gentle instructions, I took a deep breath and plunged in, finding the notes with ease and allowing myself to get lost in the melody. The sound of clapping broke in from across the room. Dotty stood in the doorway, beaming, Margaret a shadow behind her, buttoning her coat.

“That's lovely, Livvy! I'm so pleased to hear my dulcimer being played again.”

“She's a natural,” Henry said.

I looked down at the dulcimer, trying to hide the fact that Henry's compliment made me feel like I was eight and had just been given a gold star.

“We'll be expecting a concert this afternoon,” Dotty said. “We're just going out shopping for a bit. We'll be back soon.” She blew Henry a kiss and ducked into the hallway.

When the front door clicked shut, Henry sat back, leaning into the couch. He pressed his palms to his face, covering his eyes. When he removed his hands, his face looked older, weathered, worn. We sat and listened to the growl of the car engine coming to life and the crunch of pebbles beneath the tires. When the room finally fell silent, Henry turned to me.

“Would you mind doing me a favor?”

“Sure,” I said, standing.

“In the barn, underneath a wooden bench, there is—”

“The cider?”

Henry laughed. “Marty gave away my secret to you already, did he?”

“We shared some of your secret last Sunday night,” I said, smiling down at him. “It's delicious. I'll be right back.”

The crisp air was a surprise in the abundant sunlight. Salty found his goat friends and gave them an affectionate sniff. I took down the red plaid thermos from the shelf and poured the cider in.

Henry was sleeping when I returned. I tiptoed out of the sitting room and made my way down the hall to the kitchen in search of glasses. The walls were covered with photographs hung randomly and with no regard for chronology. A black-and-white picture of Henry and Dotty dancing in the grange hall sat next to a faded color Instamatic of three skinny boys, shirtless and grinning, each holding up a fish the length of his arm. I recognized the smallest one. Even as a young boy, Martin's face had had a look of seriousness and determination. I had known that Martin had brothers, and there was no denying the family resemblance, although the older two took more after Dotty than their father. At the center of the wall was a formal wedding picture of Henry and Dotty, with the wedding party lined up on a staircase. Behind Dotty stood her maid of honor. It took me a moment to realize it was Margaret. She looked like
Gilda
-era Rita Hayworth's brunette twin, her long locks falling down her back in a loose wave, a short string of pearls around her neck. How she had remained unmarried until she was older I couldn't fathom.

I grabbed two jelly jars that were drying on the enameled counter next to the sink and walked back into the sitting room. Henry blinked up at me, looking confused for a moment before jutting his chin toward me in greeting. Salty had taken my spot on the couch, and Henry reached over to rub his belly. I sat in a chair across from him, placed the two glasses on the table, and poured them half full from the thermos.

“No need to be polite.”

I hesitated, then unscrewed the cap of the thermos, topped off both glasses, and handed one to him.

“That's better.”

The cider was cool and tart. “Martin told me you make it?”

“Marty made this batch. Not bad. But yes, I taught all my sons. My father taught me. Makes good use of the bad apples.”

“Very good use,” I said, taking another long sip.

Henry drained his glass and placed it on the coffee table. I reached down for the thermos and refilled them both.

“Dotty didn't like it. The boys would get into it from time to time when they were growing up, but they were just being boys. I always said it was better for them to get into trouble here than out in the town.”

“Well, at least now the boys are old enough for her to worry less about them.”

“You must not have children.” Henry tapped a fingernail on the side of the jelly jar. “Marty may be on his way to forty, but that doesn't mean we don't worry about him, Dotty and me both.”

“Martin? Why?” I asked. I drained my glass and busied myself with the thermos lid, not wanting to seem too curious. I leaned over to refresh Henry's glass, hoping to distract him from my nosiness.

“I have no idea what that boy is doing in the city.”

“He's teaching, right? What's wrong with that?” I offered.

“When Marty was a boy we couldn't keep him indoors long enough to bathe and feed him. He spent more hours in the woods or in the fields than he ever did in the house.”

I leaned forward, wanting more.

“All my sons work well with their hands, mind you. Mark has a small dairy over in Shelburne.” Henry tilted his glass back. “Ethan
took over the apples and the Christmas trees and grows vegetables for some sort of co-op—what do they call it now? Folks give him money up front and collect vegetables every week? But Marty”—he wiped his lips with the sleeve of his sweater—“he was a natural. Gentle with the horses. Could make anything grow in any weather.” Henry looked out the window through the lace curtains. “I thought he'd be the one.”

I looked down at my glass. “The one?” I asked gently.

“Don't be shy, girl. Have another. I would but they've got me on all sorts of medication.”

I emptied the thermos into my glass.

“So, why did
you
leave?” Henry asked.

“Leave?” I asked, confused. “Home? It was just me and my dad. When he died I was the only one left. And we didn't have a house or anything, we just rented an apartment, so it didn't really feel like leaving.”