The City Baker's Guide to Country Living (20 page)

Alfred scratched his beard. “I'm off to go skiing with a bunch of buddies. You headed down to Boston, Liv?”

“God, no. I hadn't actually thought of it. I'll probably end up—”

“You're expected at the McCrackens',” Margaret interrupted. She leaned toward me. “I saw Dotty embroider your name on a stocking.” My heart swelled.

“Well, I'm off to bed,” Margaret said firmly. “I'm not planning to be in until after breakfast. Enjoy your evening.” Margaret patted Alfred on the shoulder as she walked out of the kitchen.

Alfred pulled another bottle of prosecco out of his reach-in refrigerator. “Another drink?”

I took off my chef's coat and pulled on the old purple cashmere sweater I kept under my station. “Not me. I'm dying to curl up under the covers and drift off
not
making a prep list in my head.”

Sarah laughed. “I had nightmares about missing tablecloths all month. I'll stay for one more.”

Alfred got to work on the cork. I kissed them each on the cheek and said good night.

 • • • 

It had snowed every third night since Martin had taken me on the sleigh ride. The woods between the inn and the sugarhouse were knee deep in snow, but the sleigh had packed down a path to travel on. I loved to walk the path in the mornings with Salty, who bounded through the fresh snow face-first, leaping like a deer through the high banks.

The moon was hidden behind a thick blanket of clouds, and as I approached the cabin, a layer of tiny flakes covered my shoulders. The snowdrifts that hugged my cabin were bathed in an unusually rosy glow. Salty came to meet me as I opened the door, wagging his tail in greeting. The cabin was warm, a fire in the woodstove blazing. “Oh my God,” I gasped. Standing tall and full in the corner of the cabin was a giant tree, its outstretched branches draped with chunky colored lights, each bulb as big as an egg and glimmering softly. The tree shook from side to side as Martin emerged from underneath and brushed his hair out of his eyes.

“The season's winding down, and we had a good number of trees left. It seemed a shame that you didn't have one,” he explained, looking at his boots. He glanced over at my bed. “You can see it from anywhere in the cabin,” he offered.

“You can,” I said, looking around the tiny space, “even the bathtub.”

“I didn't know what to do for ornaments.” He shrugged, looking lost. “Do you like it?”

“It's perfect. I love it,” I said, and without thinking I kissed him.

It was a light kiss. Just a soft brush of my lips against his.

My first thought was
His lips are chapped
.

Then I looked up at his face. He looked wide-eyed and nervous, like an owl.

His back went rigid. My heart sank. My hands slid down his arms and back to my sides.

“Olivia,” he breathed quietly, “We should . . .”

“I'm so sorry,” I said, feeling lost. “I shouldn't have.”

Martin took a step forward, closing the gap between us. I raised my gaze, daring to look into his eyes. They still held a nervous spark, but his expression had softened. He leaned forward and pressed his forehead into mine. I closed my eyes and breathed him in. He smelled green and new, like the tender grass that sprouts on a muddy riverbank in earliest spring. His hands traveled to my shoulders, and I felt his lips press against my temple. His rough cheek glided against my own, and his lips brushed the tender spot in front of my ear, his nose grazing the delicate outer shell. Then his mouth found mine. A tiny sigh escaped from the back of my throat as his lips moved against mine. He moved slowly, each kiss deliberate. I wrapped my arms around his waist. I could feel the muscles in his back work as he wove his fingers into my hair. One hand moved down to my shoulder blade as his tongue parted my lips. He tasted like cinnamon Tic Tacs and tobacco. I rose up onto my tiptoes, wanting him closer. Martin made a sound like a harmonium and moved his hand down to my lower back, pressing us together.

Someone knocked on the cabin door. Martin drew back and nestled his face into the crook of my neck. I could feel heat
radiating from his cheek. I pressed my face to his chest, listening to his heart pound a steady, quick beat.

“One minute,” I called.

I felt the cold air on my neck before I heard the door knock against a bookcase. Martin took a quick step away from me, as if we were teenagers caught necking on the couch. Margaret stood in the doorway and looked from me to Martin.

“It's your father.”

Martin's face lost all color. He walked past me and began tossing pillows off my couch, looking for his jacket.

“What happened?” he asked, his voice panicked.

“They took him to the hospital. Your mother is with him.” Margaret picked Martin's gloves up off the kitchen table. “I have the car running at the bottom of the hill. I'll drive.”

I stood in the corner by the Christmas tree, frozen.

“Get your coat, Olivia,” Margaret said quietly as Martin pushed past her. “Now.”

M
argaret and I sat in the waiting room outside of the ICU. It had been hours since Martin had disappeared behind the swinging doors through which only immediate family were allowed to pass. I sat feeling helpless as I watched Martin's brothers' wives breeze past us.

“What did Dr. Doyle say, again?” I asked Margaret, who was sitting quietly, her back straight.

“The home-visit nurse couldn't control his pain,” she said patiently for the fourth time. “So they brought him in to see if there was anything they could do for him here.”

“Have you talked to Dotty?”

“Not since she was trying to track down Martin.”

I tossed the catalog I was paging through onto the coffee table and paced around the small room. Memories of sitting in the ER waiting for news of my father flooded me. “It's driving me crazy not to know what's going on.”

“Sit down, Olivia.”

I sat, digging my fingernails into my palms.

Margaret reached over and took one of my hands in hers. “When the pain gets to be this hard to manage . . . It might not be long now.”

Fat tears spilled from my eyes.

Margaret squeezed my fingers. “You know,” she said, her voice sounding tight, “I went on a date or two with Henry before he and Dotty fell for each other.”

I looked over at her. She had a sweet smile on her face.

“He was so handsome. He used to play at all the dances, and Dotty and I would go to watch the band. She had a crush on the guitarist. Wouldn't give Henry the time of day. So he asked me out—and when I said yes, he asked if I had a friend who would want to double-date. Said his parents wouldn't let him step out alone with a girl, which was probably true—things were different back then. But I could tell from the moment we sat down at the diner that he only had eyes for her.”

“Were you mad?”

“Oh, Lord, no. He was never my type. Too full of mischief. And someone had already captured my heart.”

“Your husband?”

“Dotty and Henry were so sweet together.” Margaret took a deep breath. “I've been lucky to have such good friends.” She looked over at me. “I know you've grown very fond of Martin. You should—”

Dr. Doyle pushed his way through the swinging doors and headed down the corridor.

“Jonathan!” I called, hopping up to chase him. “How is he?” I asked when I reached him.

“Livvy, you know I can't—”

“Jonathan Doyle, you've known me long enough to know how close I am to the McCrackens,” Margaret said sternly, crossing her arms.

“Sit down,” Jonathan sighed, flipping his white coat out of the way. “Henry's in a coma. The medication put him under.” He reached out and took one of Margaret's hands. “I'd start preparing.”

Margaret stilled. “We should get going.”

“No,” I said. “Why?”

“I appreciate it, Jonathan. Have one of the nurses call me if anything changes.” Margaret folded her coat over her arm. “Come on, dear. Let's get home.”

 • • • 

After a long, silent drive, Margaret pulled into the back parking lot behind the inn. She turned off the ignition and sat back in her seat. I stared into what I knew was the orchard as it lay hidden in darkness.

“He's not going to come out of the coma. It's the pain medication. It will keep him under as his body slows down. We should get a good night's sleep. It could be days. And we need to get things ready for the funeral.” I wondered if she was saying this more for herself than for me, to try to make it feel a little more real. “I know tomorrow is supposed to be a day off, but could you come to the kitchen around nine? We can go over things then.”

I nodded, feeling the tide of grief rising inside me.

“Do you want to stay at the inn tonight?” she asked, placing her hand gently on my shoulder.

I wanted to say yes, to be safe in the inn—warm and comforted by the sound of Margaret's squeaky rocking chair and the scent of vanilla that always dominated the kitchen. But I thought of Martin. He wouldn't be able to find me if I wasn't in the cabin. “No, but thank you.”

“I'll come if there is any news.”

I didn't start crying until I saw the honeyed glow of the Christmas lights through the trees. Though it was cold when I came in, I flushed at the memory of my last moments there with Martin. Even the scent of the cabin reminded me of him: tree sap and cinnamon. Sitting down on the floor near the tree, I hugged Salty's soft body to mine and let my tears soak into his thick ruff.

 • • • 

Three long days had passed. Dotty called Margaret from the hospital every morning and again at suppertime. I wanted to go to the hospital, but Margaret said that with the extended McCracken family gathering there we would only be in the way. I spent the time baking restlessly. The inn was officially closed until New Year's Eve, so I had the kitchen to myself. I baked coffee cakes and tea rings, muffins, scones, and shortbread. I made a special batch of hermits, because Dotty loved molasses. I worked my worry into baguette dough. Margaret came and worked beside me most afternoons, baking casseroles, cutting them into small portions, and freezing them in tiny aluminum tins. Every time I looked at one of those containers I could only think about how alone Dotty would be without Henry.

I spent the evenings wrapped up in an afghan, trying to read, but I couldn't focus on anything more demanding than travel magazines. I went to bed early, snuggled up with Salty, and gazed at the Christmas lights, thinking about Martin—and sometimes, guiltily, about his kiss. But then my thoughts would turn to Henry and the fact that I would never see him again, and I would be lost in grief. I couldn't help but think back to my own father and the days that followed his death. The empty house after the funeral. Sitting in the living room, hugging one of his quilted flannel work
shirts. How even now, after so many years, I still felt like something was missing. I didn't want Martin to have to know that the pain never goes away, that it just becomes a part of who you are.

 • • • 

A blizzard was forecast for Thursday, and Margaret sent me home early, telling me she didn't want to have to worry about my getting blinded by the snow and lost in the woods. I walked to the cabin reluctantly, not wanting to spend another evening at the cabin alone, hoping that Martin would come by. But the sky was dim, the smoke from the chimneys at the inn white against the dark clouds, and I knew that even if I had wanted to go out, most of the town would be closing early.

The cabin was dark except for the blue glow of the television when I was awakened by the sound of sharp knocking. I had no idea what time it was. I didn't see anyone when I opened the door. Then I peeked out onto the porch. Martin was standing there, looking out into the orchard, snow clumped in his hair and on his shoulders, his fist wrapped tightly around the handle of his fiddle case.

He turned to face me. His eyes were wide, his mouth slightly open. He wasn't wearing a coat.

“Hey,” I said.

Martin held up the fiddle. “I thought you would play with me. Mark and Ethan wouldn't. They said . . .”

“Of course. Come in.”

His glasses fogged in the warmth. He placed the case on the coffee table and began to unhitch the latches.

“Martin, you're soaked through. How long have you been outside?”

“I don't know.” He began to tighten the horsehair of the bow. His hands were shaking.

“Let's get you warmed up first.” I turned toward the woodstove. It had cooled down as I slept. I grabbed a couple of towels off a shelf and handed them to him. “Take off those wet shoes. I'll get the fire going.”

Martin ignored my instructions and drew out a long, slow note on the fiddle, then a double stop, two strings droning together. From his spot by Martin's feet, Salty lifted his snout into the air and let out a low, lonesome howl. I sat down on the floor, biting at the inside of my cheek, and listened to Martin play Henry's tune for Dotty. My stomach hollowed, then filled with wave after wave of grief. When the bow hit the ground, I turned to look up at Martin. He was staring at it as if he had never seen it before, still holding the fiddle pressed into the soft skin below his collarbone. His face crumpled, his open hand trembling. I moved toward him. I took the fiddle out of his hand and gently placed it back in its case. Then I took his hands in mine. They were flaming red and felt like ice.

“It's okay,” I said quietly, rubbing his left hand between my palms. “We just need to get you warmed up.” I led him to the couch. He sat, his face held so carefully that I thought if I moved him the wrong way he would break. I bent down, carefully untied his laces, and slipped off his sneakers and socks one by one. I held his feet in my hands, drying them with a towel and holding them between my cupped palms. I stood and took off his glasses and rubbed the towel gently over his hair. “You need to take your shirt off, okay? Then we can sit by the fire.” Martin sat motionless. I reached behind him and slid the shirt, wet and
heavy, up his back and over his shoulders. I let it fall to the ground in a soggy heap. I wrapped the afghan around his back and then took his hand in mine.

He looked so young, and so vulnerable.
His dad is gone
. My mind flooded with images of my own father's passing—the principal standing in the doorway of my classroom. Being led down the hospital hallway by a nun. Not knowing what to say when she asked me about last rites. I tentatively reached up to smooth the hair out of Martin's eyes. My hands lingered on his cheeks. Martin stepped closer and pulled me to him, his coarse chest hair rough against my cheek. He pressed his lips onto my crown. “Olivia,” he choked.

I pulled back a fraction, confused, waiting.

His hands twisted in my hair, and he crushed his lips to mine, his tongue searching. My face flushed from the heat of the fire, his mouth on mine, and the feel of his naked chest beneath my palms. I felt his jagged breath in my ear as one hand fumbled with the zipper of my fleece. My mind raced. I had dreamed about this moment for weeks, but it had never been like this. I could feel Martin's despair in this kiss.

But any thoughts of Henry were pushed away as Martin slid the jacket off my shoulders, revealing the thin white camisole underneath. He locked his lips on mine as his hands worked up my back under my shirt. They were still cold. He stroked my shoulder blades and released me just long enough to pull the tank over my head. He held me tightly against him. The sensation of our bare skin pressed together and the need to be closer pushed past the overwhelming feeling of loss. We moved toward the bed. When we were at the foot of the futon, he slipped his
hand into the waistband of my pants, his fingers questioning. I reached for the zipper of his brown corduroys in answer, easing them over his narrow hips. On the bed, our bodies tangled. Urgently, we explored each other with hands and lips. Martin hesitated only when he rolled on top of me, pressing his hips, questioning. I reached between us and guided him in.

“Livvy,” he breathed into my ear. He nuzzled my hair before bringing his lips back to mine. We stayed like that, joined and kissing. Martin began to move, slowly at first, then pushing deeper and deeper inside me as if he couldn't get close enough. I wrapped my legs around his hips, and as his pace quickened, I felt myself stirring, slick. Martin tilted his hips, and as if he had turned the burner to high, it pushed me over the edge. Martin followed a moment later, and a sob choked out from someplace deep within him. He collapsed, his full weight on me, buried his face in my neck, and wept. I pulled the blankets over us, stroking his hair, finally letting my own tears stream down my cheeks.

I woke up once in the middle of the night. Martin was wrapped tightly around me, legs tangled with mine, one hand cupped around my breast, his breath warm and heavy on my neck.

When the sun beamed through the cabin window, Salty was in bed beside me. The woodstove was blazing, and Martin was gone.

 • • • 

The kettle had just whistled when I heard a knock at my door. Margaret stood on the porch. She looked exhausted, her eyelids heavy.

“Henry,” she said.

I nodded.

“Did Martin tell you?” She didn't look surprised.

“Do you want to come in for some tea?” I asked, tilting my head toward the kitchen table.

Margaret surprised me by coming in. Dressed in last night's yoga pants and fleece, I kicked my camisole under the futon.

“Don't bother.” Margaret sat down at the kitchen table, leaving her coat on. I threw another log onto the fire. “You did a nice job with the cabin. Brian never would have recognized it.”

“I remember you told me he used to hang out here—wood carving?”

“It's good for a man to have a hobby. Keeps him out of your hair.”

My laughter somehow brought back the tears, and I quickly brushed them away.