The City Baker's Guide to Country Living (22 page)

“Settle down, Olivia. You're making a scene.” Margaret stood stiffly, her hands tightly clutching her purse.

“Apparently I've been
making a scene
for some time now, so everyone should be used to it.” I threw my arms down. “What's wrong with you people? Why is everything such a big secret around here? I mean, look at
you
. Are you selling the inn or aren't you? And what the hell is the thing between you and Jane White?”

Margaret's face grew pale in the moonlight. “That's enough,” she said through clenched teeth.

“You know what, you're right. That
is
enough.
I've
had enough. You don't have to worry about me or my making a scene any longer.” I turned and marched toward my car, the tears hot against my cold cheeks, each step fueled by adrenaline and shame.

 • • • 

I made it as far as Concord, New Hampshire, driving as fast as my station wagon would go without shaking, not knowing where I was headed. Then I remembered Salty, who was alone in my dark
and chilly cabin, waiting for his supper.
This is precisely why I never wanted a dog
, I groused to myself as I turned onto an exit ramp. I didn't want to go back. I didn't want to see Margaret or risk seeing Martin, although I was sure he was busy with Sylvie and his family. Somewhere along the Connecticut River my anger turned back into tears, and I had to pull over when my vision became too blurred to drive. When I could take a deep breath without choking, I pulled out my cell phone and made a quick call.

“I need a favor. Can you help me?” I asked.

 • • • 

Alfred was standing in the open doorway when I pulled into his driveway, Salty by his side.

“I can't thank you enough. I would have called Hannah, but things have been . . . difficult between us. And I didn't want to make her trudge out to the cabin.”

“I'm glad you called. You had a lot of folks worried about you.”

I glanced up at him, my eyebrows raised. “I find that hard to believe.”

“Hannah called, and Margaret. Sarah was worried.” Al led me into his house. It was what is affectionately known as a double-wide, but it had been added onto so many times that it had lost its trailer shape. I flopped down on one end of a well-worn couch and reached for the beer that he set in front of me.

Al handed me a large canvas bag. “Jeans, gray cardigan sweater, yoga pants, a bunch of T-shirts, fleece jacket, rubber boots, Salty's leash. I added a bunch of socks and underwear, in case you forgot.” Al sat cross-legged at the other end of the couch. “And I found the stuff you asked for, although I'm not sure if it'll work. It's from the eighties.”

“I don't think those chemicals go bad,” I said, turning the package of hair dye in my hands. Chestnut brown. “Thanks, Alfred.”

Alfred looked down at the canvas bag. “So, are you going to tell me where you're going?”

“Just away,” I said, avoiding his gaze. “I've got to get out of here.”

Alfred sat back, taking a long draw off his bottle. “And what will you do for Christmas?”

“Anything but watch Martin and Sylvie exchange stocking stuffers.”

Alfred stretched his leg out, poking my thigh with a gray-wool-covered toe. “You want to talk about it?” he asked gently.

“Can we not?”

“It might make you feel better.”

“Or it might make solid this feeling of total humiliation and I'll be scarred for life.” I drained the bottle. “More alcohol, please.” Alfred shook his head but came back from the kitchen with a bottle of Maker's Mark and two glasses full of ice.

“You are a true friend,” I said, pouring the whiskey. “To Henry,” I said with my glass raised.

“To Henry,” Alfred said, and clinked his glass against mine.

After a few drinks, my curiosity got the best of me. “So, did you know? About Syllllviiiiie?” I drew the word out. I was trying to get used to saying it without feeling like someone had sucker-punched me.

“I knew that Martin had a girlfriend awhile back. I knew that Henry wasn't crazy about the match—I think because she grew up on the West Coast. Henry kept hoping Martin would come home.” Alfred took a drink. “I only know all of that because Dotty and Margaret would talk in the kitchen. You know how those two are.”

I nodded, thinking about them, sitting in the rockers. It had been a long time since Dotty had paid us a visit.

“There was a little gossip around the farmer's market last fall. Martin had missed a few holidays, and folks were speculating that some girl had finally pinned him down. It was big news until the owner of the feed store got arrested for selling pot. When Martin showed up here last summer without her, I think everyone assumed she was out of the picture.”

“But there she was, in charge of the guest book.” I poured myself another glass and pulled the blanket Al had draped over my legs up higher.

“That must have come as quite a shock.” Al pulled my foot into his lap and gave it a little squeeze.

I held up the whiskey bottle. “This is helping.”

Alfred bowed his head. “Anything you need, Liv. So, how long are you going to be gone?”

“Don't know.”

“But you're coming back.”

I drained the last drops of bourbon from my glass, reached down into my purse and pulled out a white envelope. “Can you give this to Margaret after the funeral?”

“What is it?”

“It's just a quick note.” It was actually instructions on how to dip the chocolate truffles and garnish the petits fours for New Year's Eve, and where to find the cranberry loaves and date nut bread I had made for the New Year's Day brunch baskets. Someone else would have to make the muffins. I felt sick about abandoning her during the holidays. I needed her to know that at least she wouldn't have to start from scratch.

Alfred gave me a long, appraising look. “Make me a promise. Don't make any sudden moves.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, hiding my face behind the glass.

“You've got the energy of a fawn about to leap into the woods.”

I laughed. “With my fluffy white tail.”

“And your big, brown eyes, yes.” Alfred stood up. He tucked the blanket around my legs. “Are you going to be warm enough?”

I waved my hand. “I'll be fine.”

“I'll bring you coffee by seven thirty. The funeral's at nine.” Alfred leaned down and kissed my cheek. He smelled like whiskey and Old Spice. It was comforting.

“Livvy, there are a lot of folks around here who care about you, not just the McCrackens,” he said from the doorway.

Eternal rest give to thee, O Lord: and let perpetual light shine upon them.

I slipped through the side door and into the back of the church while the priest sprinkled the casket with holy water. He swung the censer in the sign of the cross, filling the air with frankincense and myrrh. The pews were tightly packed; the mourners huddled together in their winter coats, as if to protect themselves from death. I stood in the back, leaning against the wall. The casket—
Henry
, I reminded myself—was in the center, close to the sanctuary. I could see the straight back and dark brown hair of Martin seated in the front row, Sylvie's blond head beside him. I wondered if they were holding hands.

Mark and Ethan gave the readings. When the priest finished reciting the Gospel passage, he invited the brothers up to say a few words about their father.

Mark stood at the podium, flanked by Ethan and Martin. Martin held his fiddle, the bow swinging off his pinkie. My heart ached when I saw his face. He looked stunned and sad. I wrestled with my longing to be up there with him, and the fact that it wasn't my place.

“One of the many gifts that Dad gave us was the love of music, and all the old songs.” Mark nodded to his brothers. “This was one of his favorites.”

Martin pressed the fiddle into that spot under his collarbone, and Ethan began to sing.

I'm just a poor wayfaring stranger

I'm traveling through this world alone

Yet there's no sickness, toil nor danger

In that bright land to which I go.

I pulled the handkerchief from my coat pocket and wiped at my cheeks. I hadn't bothered with makeup. Ethan's voice was rich, like a cello, and held as much grief as the notes pouring from Martin's fiddle. Martin leaned over the fiddle, his waist bowed, hair swept over his glasses. He looked broken.

I'm going home to see my Savior

I'm going home, no more to roam

I am just going over Jordan

I am just going over home.

When the last note of the fiddle rang through the silent church, Martin followed his brother back to the pew.

The priest continued the Mass, preparing the Host for the parishioners.

The family knelt and bowed their heads in prayer. They filled up eight pews on both sides of the church. Four generations at least, stitched together like a sweater knit in the round, with Henry's casket in the center. I let my gaze settle on Martin, the sandy brown hair that tapered into a
V
at the back of his neck. My mind drifted to how soft it had felt against my cheek, how sweet it had smelled.
Not for you
, I reminded myself. I pushed my back against the church door, taking one last look before I slipped out quietly and into the bright morning sunlight.

 • • • 

The ring of the bell at King's Chapel woke me from my nap with a start. I had been sleeping almost nonstop since I had arrived in Boston the day before. Jamie had put me up at the Parker House, saying it would be “safer” than staying at the Emerson during the holidays. I knew that meant that Mrs
.
Whitaker was probably hosting the Christmas Eve dinner or Christmas Day brunch and would be spending a lot of time at the club. To assuage his guilt, he booked me the Harvey Parker Suite. It had its own dining room, along with a butler's pantry and kitchen. I should have refused, but it was on the fourteenth floor and had the prettiest view of the white steeple of Park Street Church. The Hancock Buildings, both old and new, shined brightly in the distance.

Promptly at three there was a knock on the door. Jamie was standing in a three-piece tuxedo, complete with black silk bow tie, holding a bottle of chilled champagne.

“Merry Christmas, darling,” he said as I stepped aside to let him in. He bent down and placed a lingering kiss on my cheek before making his way into the pantry. I felt underdressed in my
yoga pants and white T-shirt. I followed him, hugging my gray cardigan to my chest.

Jamie popped the cork and filled two champagne glasses.

“It's so good to see you,” he said warmly. “I'm sorry I couldn't get away last night. It's a difficult time of year.”

I took a long swallow of champagne and walked toward the seating area.

“I have to admit, I'm surprised you're here. Christmas in Vermont sounds lovely.” Jamie put his glass down and slipped out of his coat, laying it carefully across the back of an armchair. “Aren't you happy there?” he asked as he sat down.

I ignored his question and climbed onto his lap, straddling his legs. I undid his cuff links. They clinked against the glass tabletop. I pulled at the end of the bow tie, unknotting it and sliding it slowly from around his neck.

Jamie fumbled with the buttons of his vest. “Because if you're unhappy, Livvy . . .”

I unbuttoned the top two buttons of his starched white shirt and licked his neck.

“Oh dear God,” he gasped. “My offer still stands.”

I popped the last button open and slid my hands across his chest, against his white undershirt. With Jameson it always took a long time to get to skin. “Not happy with the new chef?” I asked, breathing into his ear.

“I missed this,” he said, cupping my breasts. He moved to kiss me, but I turned my face away, offering him my neck instead. His hair smelled expensive.

“So you want me back in your kitchen?” I teased, as I sucked at the skin where his neck met his shoulder.

“Their bûche de Noël has nothing on yours.”

“So how long was she at the Emerson before you tasted her bûche?” I asked innocently as I took his hand and pressed it between my thighs.

“It's a he,” he moaned, wrapping his free hand around me and clutching my butt. “The bedroom?”

“About four miles from here, to the left.”

Jamie took my hand and I grabbed the bottle of champagne on the way, drinking from the bottle, the bubbles harsh against my throat. “I don't have much time,” he breathed, a cool, smooth hand snaking under my shirt and stroking my belly.

I leaned into him, trying to block out the memory of Martin's hands. I reached down and pulled off my own shirt. Jameson unzipped the fly of his tuxedo pants. I crawled onto the bed so I didn't have to watch him take off his shoes and socks.

Jameson lay down, his face hovering over mine, and kissed me.

I started to cry. I rolled him onto his back and a fat teardrop landed on his throat.

Jamie stroked my hair. “Darling, what's wrong?”

“It's nothing,” I choked, burying my face in his shoulder, unable to stop the flow of tears once they had started.

Jamie rolled me off of him. “Sweetheart?”

I faced the window. The lights on a building across the way blinked red.

Jamie turned me around to face him, his expression full of concern.

“I'm so sorry,” I said, rubbing my nose with my bare forearm. “I shouldn't have called you.”

Jamie looked at me, his pleasant club-president smile almost
masking the disappointment in his eyes. “I was glad you called. You can call on me for anything. You know that, right? Now talk to me.”

I sat up, my arms crossed over my breasts. Jamie retreated into the bathroom, emerging with a cream-colored bathrobe. He handed it to me and stepped into his tuxedo pants. Grabbing his discarded clothes, he led me to the other room.