The City Baker's Guide to Country Living (14 page)

Martin's mouth tightened, and he turned his face away.

“Oh, gosh. I'm so sorry.” I stopped and reached for his arm to stop him. “Here I am going on about my dad and—”

“It's okay.”

“It's not okay.” I tried to catch his eye but failed. “I was young, and it was sudden. He had a heart attack. It's really different. Your dad is getting treatment.”

“Yeah.” Martin turned back to face the hill, and we started to climb. “So you didn't graduate from high school?”

“It was a little hard to stay motivated.”

“How did your mom deal with that?”

I stuffed my hands into my jacket pockets. “She didn't.”

Martin stopped for a moment, looking puzzled. “She didn't come back after your dad died?”

I shook my head.

“Then who took care of you?”

“I was sixteen. I could drive a car and make my own snacks. Mom said it would be good for me—a ‘growth experience' I think is how she put it. She was living somewhere at the time where the girls had their first baby by thirteen.”

“I couldn't ditch a class without someone seeing me and telling my folks.” Martin looked over at me, his face full of questions. “How did you get by? I mean, did you have to work?”

“My dad had life insurance. And besides, I was much too busy to hold onto a job.”

“Doing what?”

“What every teenage girl would do with an apartment in the city and no parents.”

I walked ahead for a minute and then turned to face him. “So tell me what you do with that big stick of yours,” I said, wanting to change the subject.

Martin coughed. “I'm sorry?”

“The one you carried into the house, with the stripes.”

“Oh.” Martin looked relieved. “It's for measuring the Christmas trees.” He pushed his hair out of his face. “When we were kids, my dad would measure us boys with the stick, then assign us the color that was closest to our height. We had a contest to see who had the most trees our size.” He smiled. “I think that stick was his father's before him.”

“I know this will shock a farmer like you,” I said, “but we had a
fake tree growing up. I remember sitting at the top of the staircase watching my father smoke and curse while he screwed the branches into the trunk. That was always the first sign of Christmas.”

Martin laughed. “My dad used to hang strings of lights on the hut where we sold the trees. Every year, the day after Thanksgiving, drinking cider and cursing while he twisted and untwisted all the bulbs.”

When we reached the top of the hill, Martin sat down on the ground, arms around his knees, his face toward the farm. Salty came bounding out of the woods and lay down next to him. The shadows of the Christmas trees stretched long over the field in the afternoon sun. A host of barn swallows swooped through the sky as if they were stitched together with an invisible thread.

“This is where I first heard you play, you know.”

Martin's face glowed in the orange light. “What do you mean?”

“The weekend I moved in, Salty and I walked through the woods up to this spot. I heard the fiddle playing. It's where I picked up that tune.”

“Oh.” Martin lay down, one arm folded underneath his head. He stretched out his legs. “That must have been my dad playing, not me.”

“Really?” Their bowing was as similar as their sharp noses.

“It's his tune. That's why it was odd to hear you playing it. He wrote it for my mom.”

“It's beautiful.” My eyes teared up suddenly, thinking of Henry carving the hearts into the dulcimer's soundboard and sanding the wood until it was soft and smooth. I might have escaped the pressures of growing up in a large family, but I suspected that there
were some things you could learn only from living with parents whose love was an active, living thing.

“You know how, growing up, your family's house always smells the same?” Martin asked.

“Newsprint, pipe tobacco, and egg rolls. We lived upstairs from a Chinese take-out place.”

“That's what hearing that tune is like for me.”

My hand worked through Salty's fur, worrying out stickers. “It must have been strange hearing it from my porch.”

Martin rolled over onto his side. From the corner of my eye I could see that he was studying my face. “We better get going or we won't make it out of the woods before the sun sets.”

The forest floor was thick with a golden carpet of spent leaves. We shuffled ankle deep through them as they crunched under our feet, the damp, earthy scent of fresh soil wafting up with every step. The orange light raked across the ground, making it glow as if on fire, and the black trunks stood stark in contrast. There was a peacefulness to being in the woods that made talking unnecessary. Even as it grew darker I felt safe trailing Martin, who looked even more comfortable here than behind his fiddle. Halfway up the carriage path Martin's steps slowed and then stopped. He reached over and grabbed my hand, squeezing it gently as he whispered, “Shhh.”

Martin gently raised our clasped hands to shoulder height and pointed his index finger up into the trees. “Look,” he whispered into my ear. I followed his gaze, distracted by the warmth of his hand and the scent of balsam and woodsmoke that clung to his jacket. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I caught a flash of white stripe. A plump shape emerged against the night
sky. A pair of yellow eyes blinked. I gasped. Martin lowered our arms, keeping my hand in his.

“It's a great horned owl,” he whispered. “Look at his ears.” Two pointed tufts poked up into the night. We watched the owl until the last lingering light dissolved, leaving us in darkness. The whoosh of wings pushing against the air announced that the owl had moved on to more interesting pursuits.

Martin squeezed my hand. “We're not far from your cabin,” he said, his breath soft against my ear, and he tugged me forward. Our footsteps seemed louder in the dark, but I was grateful, hoping the sound was drowning out my racing heartbeat. The carriage path bent in a familiar curve, and the woods opened up to the clearing where my little cabin stood, bathed in light. Salty was waiting on top of the woodpile, tail wagging. Martin led me to the porch but stopped at the bottom step.

“I could give you a ride,” I offered.

Martin laughed. “I was taking
you
home.”

“It's dark.” I pointed toward the clearing. A lone star sparkled low in the sky above the tree line.

“I'll be fine. I've been stomping around these woods since I was a kid.”

I looked toward the trees. I stood beside him for a moment, not wanting to go inside.

“Would you like some coffee?” I asked his chest, not daring to look into his face.

Martin hesitated. “I better not.”

In the soft porch light I could see his breath escape in a small frosty stream from his rosy lips. I longed to touch his stubble with my fingertips.

Salty let out a soft woof.

Martin tightened his grip for a moment before letting go, shoving his hand into his jacket pocket. “Night, Olivia.”

“Night.” I walked up the porch steps, wondering how I had never noticed how empty a hand could feel by itself. Hugging myself, I turned and watched him melt into the darkness.

Miss Rawlings. I'll need you to make several additional desserts to be served at lunch this afternoon. I will be in early this morning to discuss.—M

I
stuck my finger into the croissant dough to see if it was soft enough to roll. It bounced back, releasing a yeasty scent that lingered in the air. Perfect. Taking my rolling pin, I pounded the dough until it covered the entire surface of the workbench.

“Hey, missy,” Tom said as he walked in carrying a case of buttermilk.

“Hey, yourself,” I said, pressing the rolling pin into the dough to thin one of the edges. “There's fresh coffee.”

I handed him a pear and ginger scone and got back to work, slicing the dough into long strips with the help of a rotary cutter and a yardstick.

“It's freezing out there,” he said, holding the cup up to his face to let the steam warm his pink cheeks.

“I know. I woke up with Salty under the covers with me. I forgot to build the fire up before bed.”

“You should get an electric heater for that cabin.”

“I like the woodstove. It smells good.” My mind conjured the woodsy scent of Martin's jacket.

“Well, tell me how much you like it in the middle of a February ice storm.” Tom bit into the scone, dropping crumbs onto his quilted flannel shirt. “So, the boys were thinking of getting together next week to go over some new tunes. You in?”

I rolled my cutter crosswise, making perfect little rectangles. “Is there another dance coming up?”

“New Year's Eve.”

The door to the dining room swung open. “Good morning, folks.” Chef Al's warm, booming voice filled the kitchen.

“Ha,” I said. “This is a sight I never thought I'd see—I didn't think you were familiar with this side of seven o'clock.”

Al wrapped his arms around my shoulders in a sideways hug, leaving behind the faint scent of Old Spice. He was letting his beard come in. It was stark white and threatened to make him look like Santa. “It's true—if I'm up this early it's usually because I haven't gone to bed yet. But Margaret asked me to come in—something about a lunch?” Al pulled off his wool hat and made his way over to the coffee pot.

“Mystery. Who do you think is coming in? The pope? The president of Talbots? Ooh, maybe it's that silver fox she waltzed with at the dance.” I squished two batons of dark chocolate into the edge of one of the rectangles of dough and gently rolled it into a tiny loaf.

Al reached into the box of chocolate.

“Hands off,” I said, giving him a light slap. “It's imported and costs a fortune. I'm afraid Margaret won't reorder when she sees the invoice.”

“Hear you're getting into some cheese making,” said Tom to Al. I handed them each a cranberry muffin.

“Livvy here inspired me. She insists on making everything from scratch.”

I smiled at him. “Well, we're chefs, aren't we? I think everything should be handmade if we have the time.”

“If you want to get away from the goat's milk, we could do a trade,” Tom offered. “Fresh cow's milk for a few wheels of cheddar?” Tom took a long sip of coffee. “Oh, hey, Marty.”

I spun around. Martin stood in the door of the kitchen, his cheeks flushed from the cold. He was holding a black cardboard instrument case.

“Hey,” I said.

“Hey.” Martin placed the case on the floor, took off his fogged glasses, and wiped the lenses with a white handkerchief. I had never seen him without his glasses on. His face looked unprotected.

“Can I get you anything, Martin?” Al offered, a bit formally I thought.

The croissant dough on my table had begun to rise, the rectangles puffed and billowy. I wanted to take Martin's hand in mine, pick up where we had left off last night, and see what would happen next. I felt heat creep up my neck like someone had turned the flame up under a simmering pot. I turned my attention back to the croissant dough and chocolate batons.

“I was just telling Livvy about practice next week, for the New Year's dance. You up for it?” Tom asked.

Martin was watching my fingers. “I brought the dulcimer,” he said, his voice low in a way that made me want to lean in toward him. “My dad said he expects you to practice every day before your next lesson.”

“Well, I had better, then,” I said, my voice just as low. “I wouldn't want another lecture from Henry.”

The dining room door opened and Margaret marched in. “I pay you to work, not stand in my kitchen, flirting with every man in town, Miss Rawlings.” She glared at me as she walked straight into her office and slammed the door.

Mortified, I bit my bottom lip to hold back the tears that were threatening to spill. Al placed a big pot under the faucet and turned on the water. Tom stood, brushing the crumbs off of his shirtfront. “Well, that's a sign to get going if I ever saw one. See you kids at my place next Wednesday?”

“Sure,” Martin and I said in unison.

I wiped the flour from my hands with the edge of my apron. Martin cradled the dulcimer in both hands, as if it were a child. “Where should I put this?”

I walked with Martin to the rocking chair at the other end of the kitchen, where he placed it gently. Frost still trimmed the grass across the field and into the apple orchard, making everything sparkle.

“Thanks for coming by,” I said. “With the dulcimer, I mean.”

“I thought you'd want to practice.”

“Yes, definitely. Did Henry mention when our next lesson will be?”

Martin leaned against the doorjamb. “He said you should come around every Monday afternoon.” He looked out across the field. “Does Salty stay in the cabin all day?” he asked.

“Usually.”

Martin rested his hand on the doorknob. He hesitated, glancing back over his shoulder at Alfred before opening the door. A gust of cold air rushed in. “Guess I'll see you soon.”

“Yes,” I said, clasping my arms behind my back to keep from touching him.

I lingered by the back door and watched as Martin walked through the apple orchard.

“So what was that about?” asked Al, startling me back into the present.

“What?”

He nodded toward the closed office door. “That.”

“I guess one of us should find out.”

“It's too early in the day for that much negative energy. She's all yours.”

I straightened my apron and knocked on the office door.

“Come in.”

Margaret sat at her desk, head down, a stack of invoices piled high beside her. “What was Martin McCracken doing here so early?”

“Martin?” I asked, surprised at the question.

“You can do what you want in that cabin, but I'd appreciate it if you didn't bring your personal life to work. It's a small town. People talk.”

“He was just dropping something off.”

“At seven in the morning.” It was a statement, not a question.

“Yes, at seven in the morning.” I ripped my ponytail holder out and began twisting my hair into a knot at the back of my head. “Not that it's any of your business.”

“Martin McCracken is the son of my best friend and certainly is my business.”

“Then you'd know that he was dropping off Dotty's dulcimer so I can practice between lessons.”

Margaret leafed through the pile of invoices, uncovering a legal pad at the bottom of the pile. I sat down in the chair opposite her desk. “So what's up?” I asked.

Margaret adjusted her eyeglasses and leaned back. “It looks like we might have a wedding booked for June. The clients are coming today to walk through the inn and to talk about the menu. I want you and Alfred to make them lunch—something summery. It's not an official tasting—I just want you to give them some ideas.”

June. One of a baker's favorite months. Strawberries would be available, and sour cherries. Rhubarb, of course. And lavender would be blooming. I could feel the sun on my cheeks and smell the green scent of cut grass.

“Olivia.”

I opened my eyes. “Sorry. But wait—we aren't open for lunch.”

“Miss Rawlings.”

“How about an orange Chiboust with strawberry rhubarb compote? Or I could do my sour cherry napoleon. Ooh, or how about lavender honey Bavarian torte? With a blueberry coulis?”

“That sounds fine,” Margaret said.

“Fine? That sounds fabulous! But I'll have to stick to just the napoleon. I could have done more with, you know, some
notice
.”

“That will do,” Margaret said, distracted by the invoice in front of her. “Tell Alfred I'll be in to discuss the menu in a few minutes.”

“What's all this fuss about, anyway? We had a couple come in to check out the place last week and you had them order off the menu. At dinner.”

Margaret didn't say anything.

“Who's coming in?” I prodded.

“Jane White,” Margaret said to her pile of paperwork. “It's her granddaughter Emily who's getting married.”

I sat back down. “Seriously?”

“At one o'clock.”

“But—she's
Jane White
.”

“Yes, and?”

“You're the owner. You can do whatever you want. Just tell her—”

“That may be the way you did things down in Boston, Ms. Rawlings, but that's not how we conduct business here. You should keep that in mind. Now—”

“Is this like a ‘keep your friends close, your enemies closer' kind of thing?”

“You only have a couple of hours, Ms. Rawlings. Shouldn't you be getting to work?”

I kept my seat. I could hear the clang of a heavy metal pot being placed on the stovetop, Alfred's smooth cadence, and Sarah's laughter through the wall.

“Bring me to the meeting.”

Margaret eyed me over her reading glasses. “Excuse me?”

“Bring me to the meeting. Brides love me. I'll do the walk-through with you, sit down with them at lunch, talk menu. You can just say you're showing me the ropes, since I'm new, which would be true. I've got lots of experience with brides-to-be and their families, trust me. Besides.” My eyes fixed on the red ribbons in the case behind her head. “It will level the playing field. Two Sugar Maples against two Whites. No one should have to spend all afternoon with two Whites alone.”

Margaret eyed me with suspicion. “One o'clock. Be sure to give yourself some time to get cleaned up. They'll be prompt.”

“No problem. I'll tell Al you'll be right out.” I walked straight from the office into the walk-in freezer, praying the chef had frozen some of last year's cherries.

 • • • 

I stepped into the foyer, buttoning the chef's coat that Margaret had bought for me. Margaret was pacing around the sitting room with a clipboard clenched in her hand. The front door opened, and a young woman with loose blond curls walked in, followed by the thick form of Jane White swaddled in a red wool cape.

“Hi, Mrs. Hurley,” the young woman said.

“Hello, Emily.” Margaret walked into the foyer to greet them. “Jane.”

Jane regarded the sitting room, frowning. “The light in here isn't very good, is it?”

Margaret looked like she was ready to throw the first punch.

I stuck my hand out to the young woman. “Olivia Rawlings, the inn's pastry chef. Congratulations on your engagement.” The young girl beamed.

“You're supposed to congratulate the groom,” Jane said.

I smiled at her warmly. “May I take your coats?”

Jane and Emily peeled their coats off and handed them to me. I draped them over the edge of one of the love seats, not knowing what else to do with them.

Margaret cleared her throat. “You've been here plenty of times, Jane. What do you need to see?”

“Well, there are going to be at least seventy-five guests. All of Emily's cousins will be coming; she has dozens of cousins from the Bradford side of the family. And her friends from college.” Jane was puffed up with pride. “Did you know Emily graduated with honors from UVM? And of course, all of John's family will be there.” Jane turned to me. “John is my late husband. He came from a large family.”

“Our dining room only seats forty, so it looks like we won't be able to help you,” Margaret said, turning away from the group.

I grabbed her elbow. “Unless you were planning on having the reception outside, where we could set up tents. It's a June wedding, isn't it?”

“Yes,” Emily gushed. “That's what I've been picturing since I was a girl.”

“It will be lovely,” I said. “A warm breeze, fireflies blinking at the edges of the field.”

“Mosquitoes biting the grandmother of the bride,” Margaret murmured.

“The wedding is at noon,” Jane interjected.

“I'm sure the guests will be dancing until dawn. And before the fireflies light their tails in celebration, the guests will enjoy gazing down at the beautiful view of the valley.”