The City Baker's Guide to Country Living (2 page)

My cell phone, which I had jammed in my back pocket out of habit, vibrated. Here in the mountains my cell service was spotty at best—six missed calls. I felt like I had swallowed a biscuit whole.

“Livvy,” Jamie shout-whispered on my voice mail, “Where are you? I'm worried. Call me.”

“Olivia, it's Glen. Just making sure you're okay. The club is going to be closed for a couple days at least while they assess the damage. The fire marshal has a few questions. Call me on my cell.”

“We're having trouble lighting the grill, chef.” It was one of the prep cooks. “We thought you could help us start the fire
.
” Howls of laughter in the background before the message clicked off.

Hannah's perfectly French-manicured toes appeared in my line of vision. I pressed the off button and threw the phone into my bag. When I looked up, a cinnamon roll the size of a hubcap had replaced Hannah's face. Creamy white glaze glistened on the curls of pastry.

“Here you go,” Hannah said, handing me the sticky bun.

I tore off a hunk and popped it into my mouth, chewing gratefully.

Hannah took a dainty bite. “Hmmmm, I haven't had this much sugar in months.” She slipped the pastry into a waxed bag, then licked her fingers. Hannah will tell you that she counts carbs, but I know the depth of her sweet tooth. She reached into her purse, pulled out a cloth napkin and wiped her fingers, then drew her skirt around her legs and sat down next to me. “So, how long were you planning on staying?”

I eyed her sideways. “Not sure. Are you worried I'll still be here when Jonathan comes back from the conference?” Hannah's husband and I have agreed to disagree on just about everything. It upsets her sense of equilibrium to have us both in the same room.

“No, no. You can stay as long as you like, you know that. Besides, he isn't due back for a few more days. No, I was just wondering if you could stay until at least Monday night.”

“Well, sure. Believe me, I'm in no hurry to get back to Boston.”

“Good. I just need to see when she's available.” Hannah reached into her purse and pulled out the wax pastry bag. She twisted off a large chunk of roll and shoved it in her mouth.

“See when who is available?”

“The woman I was talking to in the sticky-bun line, Margaret Hurley. She's the owner of this fantastic inn. She told me that she had to let her baker go, and I mentioned you, about your experience and the awards you've won, and she seemed really interested.”

“Hannah,” I said, trying to come up with the most polite way to say,
There's no way in hell.
“I can't really see myself—”

“Listen, I know it sounds like a big step, but I think you would love the place. It's called the Sugar Maple.”

I looked out over the rows of tents. Vermont. Full time. “Don't get me wrong, you know I like visiting you and all, but . . . I'm not sure exactly what I would do here.”

“You'd do exactly what you do in Boston—bake. Only when you get off work it will be pretty, peaceful Vermont instead of loud, ugly Boston.”

I narrowed my eyes at her. Sure, I complained about living in the city all the time, but it felt like she was making fun of my little brother.

“What I mean is, what do you really have in Boston? No house, no family, no boyfriend—not really, I mean . . .”

“Jeez, Hann, don't hold anything back.” I lifted my hands in surrender. At the mention of Jamie, my mind had flashed to the night before, the way he'd looked through me before I started the fire, like I was just another one of the help. “Besides—where would I live? God knows I can't live under the same roof as your husband.”

Hannah snorted. “I'm pretty sure the position comes with housing—the last baker lived at the inn.” She glanced at me hopefully. “I'd be right down the road. We could hang out all the time. It would be like college all over again.” Hannah was referring to the one semester I had gone to state school, before dropping out to go on tour with the Dead Darlings.

I thought about my rejected debit card at the F&G. If the Emerson did indeed decide to have me “take a break,” I would be out of a job and, with all the back rent I already owed my landlord, a place to live. Salty wouldn't be too happy about living in the station wagon. “I might consider it.”

“I'll call her when we get back. Just go look at the place.” She beamed at me, looking satisfied, as though she had done her good deed for the day. Off the hook. “You're gonna love it.”

 • • • 

Following Hannah's directions, I arrived at the Sugar Maple Inn shortly before ten a.m. on Monday. It was a beautiful drive from Hannah's house in town, up a long winding dirt road. The landscape changed from tidy painted ladies to sprawling farmhouses to abandoned trailers covered so thickly with bittersweet vine that only the rusted cars in the front yard would tell you someone once lived there. Then, as the houses dropped away altogether, leaving only the dirt road canopied with oaks and maples, I thought I must be lost. Who would want to stay at an inn so far from town? But as I reached the crest of the mountain road, the trees opened up and, as if I were passing from night into day, the world became all green grass against the bluest sky. To my left was the Sugar Maple itself, a bright yellow farmhouse with attached barn, surrounded by huge clumps of zinnias in pinks and reds, faces turned toward the sun. Morning glories, now dozing for the day, climbed up the side of the barn. Rocking chairs were lined up on the porch. The front yard was scattered with garden benches and sleeping cats. To my right was a wooden rail fence, and beyond it a ridge of mountains with the steeple-dotted valley below.

I walked up the flagstone path and hesitated at the front door, nervously picking Salty's dog hair off my chef's coat. Hannah had offered to lend me something, but since I am a size twelve to her six, I had politely declined. I reached for the brass maple leaf on the green door and gave a knock. Margaret swung the door open, eyed me, and then looked at her watch.

“You're five minutes late,” she said, blocking my view.

“Are you sure?” I had checked my cell phone before I left the car.

Margaret made a little huffing sound. “Well, you might as well come in.” She stepped aside slightly as I entered the foyer. I followed her slender frame, trim in a navy jacket, down the hallway. I tried to glance at the pictures that lined the walls, but she moved too quickly. Despite her pace, her silver bun stayed perfectly in place. We entered a sitting room, couches and chairs in mismatched florals arranged casually for easy conversation. Margaret led me to a small table by a window and gestured for me to sit down.

“So, Mrs. Doyle tells me you're a baker.” Her papery hands sat neatly folded in her lap.

“Yes. My name is Olivia Rawlings. I'm the pastry chef at the Emerson Club. . . .”

“Yes, I can read that on your coat.”

I looked down at my left breast. Stupid coat.

Margaret cleared her throat. “Now, how long have you been baking?”

“For twelve years. Since I graduated from the CIA.”

“You learned to bake from the government?” She scowled.

“No, no, it's a culinary school in New York.”

Margaret looked out the window. “Yes, well then. Tell me, what's your specialty?”

“My specialty?”

“What do you make best?” She said this louder and more slowly, as if she thought I was hard of hearing or from a foreign country.

I thought for a moment. “Well,
Chocolate Gourmand
magazine requested my recipe for a blood orange and sour cherry napoleon last year. And I was nominated for a James Beard Award for—”

“We're a simple place, Miss Rawlings. Nothing too fancy here.” She leaned forward, hands on the table. “Can you bake a good pie?”

“Pie?” I lifted my eyebrows.

“Yes, you know, a flaky crust with filling inside.”

I suppressed the urge to roll my eyes. “Well, of course I can bake a pie. An excellent one.” I leaned back in my chair.

“How's your apple?” She leaned back as well. The hands went back into her lap.

“I've received many compliments on my apple pie.” I felt like we were playing high-stakes poker.

“Would you be willing to bake one now?” she asked calmly.

“
Right now?
” I did not succeed in hiding my irritation.

“Yes. Why not? Don't need a recipe, do you?”

“You want me to bake an apple pie right now.” Being asked to test-bake in a kitchen was a normal part of the hiring process for a chef's position, but not on the day of the interview.

“Well, not this very second.” Margaret stood. “I have to make a few calls first. I'll have one of the girls bring you a cup of coffee.” She walked away at her fast clip, calling out, “Sarah . . .”

“Don't you want to see my résumé?” I called after her, waving the sheet of paper. She had already turned the corner and was gone.

A young woman with straight blond hair appeared with a tray. She placed in front of me a dainty teacup and saucer, filled to the brim with steaming black coffee.

“Thanks.” I glanced up at her. “Hey, is she always like this?”

Sarah looked over her shoulder. “Pretty much. But she's decent to work for.” She shrugged. “I've been here for over two years. The tips are good. And the rest of the staff is more laid back.” She gave me a quick smile and walked back toward the kitchen.

This was surely the strangest interview I had ever been on. I was used to being courted, not trying to convince someone I could do the simplest of tasks. It looked like Hannah was wrong
about Margaret's interest. A wave of relief washed over me. It would be easier not to get the job than it would have been to explain to Hannah why I couldn't move this far away from . . . everything, without hurting her feelings.

I waited for what felt like hours, making a mental list of chefs who might hire me, before abandoning my teacup and wandering around the inn in search of Mrs. Hurley. I found Sarah toward the back of the house, folding napkins in the dining room. The room was small, dressed in cream tablecloths and tarnished silver candlesticks, elegant in a Miss Havisham kind of way.

“I think I may have been abandoned,” I said lightly.

“Sorry. There was a problem with one of the guest rooms. She should be back soon.”

“Mind if I look around the kitchen?”

“Not at all. It's through that door.”

I pushed through a swinging door at the far side of the dining room. It opened onto a room that broke all the rules of kitchendom. It looked just like a farmhouse kitchen, with a yellow tin ceiling and wide maple plank floors, but it appeared to have been stretched and pulled like taffy to accommodate the eight-burner stove top and the walk-in refrigerator.

I set my bag down on an enamel-topped wooden table. It was a regular kitchen table, sitting on stacks of Nancy Drew mysteries to make it a respectable height for chopping. I wondered how this place ever passed inspection. The table sat in the middle of the room, close to the cast-iron range. I crept about, grabbing tools that I would need for pie baking as I went. Even they seemed odd, like something you would find at a church sale, not in a restaurant supply catalog. The rolling pin was the heavy kind with ball bearings—the type I pictured cartoon housewives using on the
heads of their husbands. The measuring cups were glass with painted pictures of roosters on them. I found a beautiful old pair of copper scissors and a set of tin measuring spoons so worn the fractions were unreadable. The pantry still served as a pantry, although the shelves were dwarfed by industrial-sized cans of baking powder and cling peaches. In there I found an old stand mixer, complete with its original bowl of iridescent glass, which I hauled out and placed on the table. The one thing I couldn't find was flour. I kept searching, opening drawers and bins.

Next to the pantry there was a small door. I pushed it open, hoping it was another storage area, and was greeted by darkness. I waved my hand in the air, searching for a cord. My fingers touched something silky and soft as I walked deeper into the stuffy room. A tickle of fabric brushed against my skin like feathers. When my hand found the light cord, I pulled on it and blinked. From the ceiling hung ribbons. Hundreds of them, all blue, their pointed tips swaying gently. They extended the entire length of the ceiling, each one emblazoned in gold with the same words:
Coventry County Fair—First Place
. In a large wooden display case hung larger ribbons, the heads fat with extra loops of fabric like the petals of a sunflower. These ribbons were all blue as well, with the exception of the last three. Those ribbons were red. From somewhere in the inn I heard Margaret's voice, followed by another, this one more cheerful. I clicked off the light and slipped out of the room, easing the door closed behind me.

 • • • 

The kitchen door swung open, and a plump, snowy-haired woman bounded into the room.

“Hello, dear. You must be Olivia!” She grabbed my hand and
shook it firmly. “I'm Maggie's friend Dorothy. You can call me Dotty.”

Dotty was the opposite of Margaret in every way but age. She was rounded in the shoulders, with thin wavy hair that hung down her back in a loose braid. Everything about her seemed fluid.

Margaret marched in behind her, carrying a crate of apples, and eyed the collection of tools on the enameled-topped table. “Making yourself at home?”

“Just thought I would get familiar with the kitchen, you know,
while I waited
.”

Margaret ignored me and started digging through the crate of apples.

“So, what do we have here, Dotty?”

“Let's see. McIntosh, Cortland, Spartan, Northern Spy, Crispin, and Golden Delicious.”

Margaret turned to me. “Will that do?”

Suddenly all eyes were on me. “Sure, thank you.” I felt self-conscious and began to rifle through the crate, sniffing at the apples in what I hoped was a gesture of appreciation.