The City Baker's Guide to Country Living (13 page)

“How old were you?” he asked.

“Sixteen.”

Henry looked as if he was deciding among a hundred questions, but he settled on a simple one. “What brought you here to Guthrie?”

“Oh.” The room suddenly felt warm. “I was just looking for a change of scenery.”

“Well, this must be quite a change.”

“You could say that,” I said, smiling.

“You had to have left a lot of friends behind.”

“Not really.” I picked at a patch of pills on my sweater. “So, I thought Martin was here to help on the farm, but it sounds like Ethan took over.”

Henry tilted his head. “Yes, well.”

I kept picking.

“So no friends?”

“I didn't really have time for them. Just coworkers. I worked all the time.”

“Any special coworker?”

“Nope.” The cider had warmed a little, but it still went down easy.

Henry leaned forward. “Not even a special coworker with plaid pants?”

“Aha!” I shouted, pointing my finger. “Henry McCracken, have you been gossiping?”

“Young lady, all town gossip gets filtered through this sitting room. I couldn't avoid it if I tried.”

“I'll keep that in mind,” I mumbled into the jelly jar.

“Well?”

“Well, what?”

“The special coworker?”

“Nope.” I stood up and walked across the room to the fireplace. My head spun for a moment, and I grabbed the edge of the mantel to steady myself. “No special anything. It makes it easier to leave that way.” I walked over to the window and peeked out.

Salty stood up on the couch, circled three times, and lay back down, this time with his head in Henry's lap. Henry stroked the velvety fur behind his ears. “Sit down, dear. You're making me nervous.”

My head felt thick with cider. “I kinda had to leave,” I mumbled.

Henry looked into my eyes, waiting.

“My last night at the Emerson—my old job—there was a big
gala, and I had been asked to present a baked Alaska in the traditional way, which means on fire. I was standing in this banquet room, with hundreds of guests—people whose birthdays and weddings and christenings and anniversaries I had helped celebrate—and it just hit me.” I placed my head in my hands, leaning forward. “Standing there all I could think was
This isn't my life.
And Jamie—that's Mr. Plaid Pants—was there with his . . .” My voice trailed off. I looked down at the ground.

“With his family?” Henry offered.

I looked out the window, avoiding Henry's gaze. “I felt like such an idiot. Like, of course, this was
his
real life, and I was just some foreign country he visited from time to time.” I pressed my palms into my eyes. “Everything became clear to me all of a sudden.” I looked up at him. “Do you know that scene from Dickens, where the kid has got his face plastered to a bakery shop window, looking in?”

“
Oliver Twist
.”

“Exactly. And he's just burning to eat one of those cakes. He'd do anything. That's how I've felt since my dad died.”

“Like you wanted cake?” Henry asked. “Is that why you became a baker?”

“Like I'm on the outside—of everything. Being at the Emerson just made me feel more like that. I wanted out.”

“Sounds like a good reason to leave.”

“Yeah, well. Tell that to the fire department.”

Henry tugged at the afghan on his lap, pulling it higher. “Do you think you belong in Guthrie?”

I blew out my breath. “I don't know. You'll have to ask Margaret. Seems like she's the one who will be deciding that one.”

“You have a say, young lady. Don't you forget it. And don't wait too long to decide. Not making a decision
is
making a decision. Besides, you'll be surprised at how much can happen once you settle down.”

The front door opened, startling us both.

“Hey, Dad,” Martin called. He walked in, carrying a tall wooden pole that was marked with faded painted stripes—one green, one yellow, one blue, and one red. “I finished tagging all the trees.” He eyed Salty, who was still resting his head in Henry's lap. “Dad, did you find him with the goats?”

“Were there enough twelve-footers?”

“At least four dozen. That dog—”

“You're sure you measured them right? You're out of practice. We don't want people saying we're overpriced.”

“I used the stick, Dad. It's not—”

“I've been giving Olivia here a dulcimer lesson.”

Martin scanned the room, and found me sitting in the corner. I gave him a weak wave. “Hey.”

Having Martin in the room woke me up to the fact that I had just been spilling my secrets to his father. And that maybe his father wouldn't be thrilled with his—friendship?—with a pyromaniac adulteress, no matter how many stringed instruments I played.

Martin's gaze fell on the empty jelly jars and the thermos that sat on the floor beside my feet. “Dulcimer lesson. Right. I can see that.” He turned to his father. “How'd it go?”

Henry smiled at me. “She's a natural. Livvy, take her home and practice. Next time we can work on the strumming.” He stretched his back a bit and turned to Martin. “I think I'm ready to lie down for a spell before supper. Would you see Olivia back?”

“Of course.” Martin reached down for the jelly jars.

“Let me do that,” I said, jumping up. I bent down and gave Henry a small kiss on the cheek. “Thanks so much for the lesson.”

“Thanks for the good company.” He grasped my arm and squeezed. “Come by anytime.”

“I will,” I promised.

“And bring the dog.”

 • • • 

Dotty arrived as I was rinsing out the glasses. She sat me down at the kitchen table, peppering me with questions. By the time Martin came back downstairs, I was drinking my third cup of coffee and eating my second piece of apple pie.

“So, Livvy, is your mother down in Boston?” Dotty asked.

“No,” I said. “She died a couple of years ago.”

Martin poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down next to me at the kitchen table.

“The thermos?” he whispered.

“Back in the barn.”

Dotty cut a thick slab of pie and placed it in front of Martin. “I'm sorry about your parents,” she said. “Any relatives?”

I watched Martin carefully as he took his first bite. His eyes closed as he chewed, and a small sigh of pleasure escaped his lips as he swallowed.

“Nope, it's just me.”

“Well, that settles it. You'll spend Thanksgiving with us.”

“Um . . . ” I said as I watched Martin take another large forkful. “I'm not really a family holiday kind of person.” I had spent last Thanksgiving sitting on a bench next to Plymouth Rock, eating a turkey sandwich.

Martin pierced a piece of apple that had slipped off his fork.

“Too much nutmeg?”

His eyes met mine for a brief moment. “No.”

“Nonsense,” Dotty said over her shoulder as she walked out of the kitchen.

The corners of my lips lifted. “How's the crust?”

Martin rubbed at his lip with the back of his hand. “You people are crazy. You know that, don't you?”

“What people?”

“Bakers,” he said as he forked the last piece of pie into his mouth. “I can drive you home after we're finished.”

“You don't have to.”

“Are you sure you should drive?”

“My car's at the inn anyway. I was thinking I'd walk. Salty needs the exercise.”

“I'll walk with you.”

I brought my coffee cup and plate to the sink, trying to hide the grin I couldn't keep from spreading across my face.

 • • • 

Salty ran ahead of us through the open field as we walked toward the sugar bush that separated the inn from the McCracken farm. Patches of Queen Anne's lace had dried into tight fists. Their stiff edges tickled as I ran my palms gently over their frozen faces. Martin's hands were jammed into his jacket pockets. We walked beside each other as the afternoon sun warmed the backs of our necks. Martin shortened his stride to keep in time with mine. We walked in silence, listening to the sound of crows cawing to one another as they flew overhead.

“So how was the lesson?” Martin asked.

“Great. I can't believe your dad made that dulcimer. It has a beautiful tone.”

“I didn't know he made it until he mentioned it to you.”

“Seriously? That's crazy. It's amazing. Have you played it?” I stole a sideways glance. His hair was in his eyes, as always, and he looked like he hadn't shaved in a couple of days.

“I fooled around with it when I was a kid, before I took up the fiddle.” He picked a stalk of Queen Anne's lace as we walked by, tracing the edge of its dried face with his thumb. “So when did he break out the cider?”

“Right after your mom left to go shopping with Margaret.”

“What did you two talk about?” Martin's voice was so low I almost didn't hear him.

I smiled up at him. “He told me about him and Dotty courting. I can't believe how long they've known each other.”

“They all have—Margaret was her maid of honor.”

“I saw a picture of the wedding party in your hallway. God, she was gorgeous.”

Martin nodded. “John White is also in that picture—you'd know his kids, they run the grocery store. He married Jane White.”

“Jane White, Margaret's nemesis?”

Martin laughed. “The one and only. Bonnie's grandfather Burt was my dad's best man. And Tom's uncle was the priest who married them.”

“I've never stayed anywhere longer than three years. I can't imagine spending my entire life with the same people.”

“Yeah. I couldn't either.”

“Is that why you left?” I asked.

“You sound like my dad.”

“Why
did
you leave Guthrie?”

Martin tossed the flower onto the ground. “One of my brothers
got his girlfriend pregnant when they were in high school. He skipped college and went straight to work for my dad. Then my buddy Frank—from the bar—got into the same situation with Bonnie. It just seemed like everyone around me got stuck somehow. Wife, kids, animals, house, farm. I didn't want to get saddled with a bunch of responsibilities before I had a chance to travel, play music, you know.”

“That makes sense,” I said, feeling a confusing mix of relating to his not wanting to feel trapped and at the same time burning to know how he felt on all the same subjects now. I stopped walking for a moment and pulled a tattered purple knit cap over my curls. “Henry talked about you. And your brothers. But mostly about you.”

Martin turned to face me, his lips slightly parted. He looked so vulnerable.

“He's worried about you. He wants you to be happy.”

“He wants me to be here.”

“Could you be happy here?” I had been asking myself the very same question.

Martin reached down to pick up a handful of rocks and pitched them one by one into the tree line.

“My dad is a stubborn old man. He decided how my life should be when I was eleven and hasn't changed his mind since, no matter what I say or do.”

“Well, he did tell me he thought you didn't fit in the city. That you belonged someplace else.”

“Exactly. Here.”

I shrugged. “If it makes you feel any better, he also gave me a good talking to. That man doesn't hold back, does he?”

Martin laughed, his expression softening. “No, when he wants to say something, he says it. I hope he didn't give you too hard a time.”

“Oh, no. Just wanted to know what I was doing here and when was I going to settle down.”

“Then you do know what I mean.”

I laughed. “You came in the nick of time. I'm not used to having anyone that interested in my future.”

“That can't be true.” Martin wound a piece of hay that he had plucked around two fingers.

“Um. My dad was a day-to-day kind of guy. Not very future oriented. And my mom . . . didn't exactly take to motherhood. She took off when I was around nine months old. I was raised by my father.”

“Was that tough?”

“For him—I can't imagine being on my own and having a toddler. I mean, I'm thirty-two, and I can barely take care of myself.”

“Around here you'd be a grandmother by now,” Martin muttered.

“He was a really good dad. And I had Judy Blume to fill in the gaps.”

“
Deenie
?” he asked.

“Of course, and
Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret
. And don't forget
Forever
.”

Martin blushed. “I grew up with a lot of cousins.”

“That must have been nice.”

“How about you?”

Until this moment I had never felt so acutely alone. “Nope—both my folks were only children.”

Martin's smile slipped, and he was quiet for a minute before asking, “Can I ask how old he was? Your dad?”

“Only fifty-three.”

Martin kicked a rock, sending it flying into the tall grass. “And how old were you?”

“Sixteen. As of September I've officially been on the planet without him longer than I was with him.”

Martin blew out a breath. “That sucks.”

“It does. For the first couple of years, all I could think about was how he wouldn't be there for all of the big life things. He wouldn't see me graduate from high school, wouldn't walk me down the aisle. Wouldn't hold his grandchild.” I shrugged. “I didn't end up doing any of those things, so I guess it didn't really matter in the end.”

“Do you think you didn't do them because he died?” Martin asked.

“I don't know. Maybe. For a long time nothing really seemed worth doing if he wasn't going to be there to share it with.”