The City Baker's Guide to Country Living (26 page)

“Four hands round.”

“I'm sorry, I'm so sorry,” I shouted as I pushed through the crowd. The line broke and crumbled, the dancers squawking in confusion like disturbed hens. Alfred followed me as I marched to the coatroom.

“Livvy, what just happened?”

I rummaged through coats, aggressively pushing hanger after hanger to the side, looking for my own. “She's going to sell it.”

“What are you talking about?” Alfred stood in the doorway, looking nervous.

“Margaret—the inn. She's really going to do it. The people she met with today? They're from the Bradford Group—that's a hotel investment group.”

“Yes. Jane's cousins.”

“Seriously? Of course they are. Did you know that they love to buy up little mom-and-pop places and make them depressing corporate tourist traps?”

“It makes sense that she would want to sell.”

I whipped around. “What are you talking about? That doesn't make any sense at all. She can't sell it.”

“She's in her seventies, Livvy,” Alfred said gently. “She might be getting tired.”

“Margaret doesn't get tired. Besides, it's her home. Where is she going to go?”

“Someplace warm, maybe.”

“God, I can't believe you're being so philosophical about this.”

“And I'm a little surprised at how selfish you're being.”

It felt as if he had slapped me. “How am I being selfish? It's her. What are you going to do if she sells? And Sarah? And the rest of the waitstaff? It's not like this goddamned town is full of job opportunities.”

“Did you ever stop and think about what she has here?”

She has everything
, I wanted to say.

Alfred stepped closer until he stood behind me, and he placed his hands on my shoulders. “I'm sorry. I know you're upset. But you left. You can't expect to have a say in what happens here when you're two hundred miles south of us.”

I pulled on my coat, buttoning it up to the top button. “I need the Sugar Maple to stay the Sugar Maple
.
”

Alfred smiled at me kindly as he zipped up his parka. “Things change, Livvy. Sometimes for the better.”

I
snuck out of Alfred's trailer the next morning, partly because I wanted to go for a walk before I headed to Dotty's, partly because I didn't want to say good-bye. I pulled my car into a space at the far end of the inn's parking lot, not wanting to be caught by Margaret.

I traded my clogs for a pair of green rubber boots I had never removed from my trunk, zipped my purple fleece over my tunic, and trudged through the apple orchard. The sleigh path through the orchard was thick with mud under the slushy snow, and the walking was slow going. Off in the distance steam was rising out of the open windows of the sugarhouse. The front door was wide open, and the voices of men carried over the field.

Home
, I thought, my heart reaching toward the cabin.

I stomped the mud off my boots on the front porch and shouted hello. Tom's familiar red and black plaid back was leaning over the evaporating pan attached to the woodstove. He lifted up a ladleful of syrup and poured it back into the vat.

“It's not aproning yet,” he said to the young man beside him. Then he looked up at me and smiled.

“Sap's almost done with its run, Livvy. You'll have to wait a couple more days, but then the cabin is all yours.”

I hugged my waist, feeling the moisture on my skin. The cabin, with the exception of the evaporator, the steam, and all the young men, looked as I had left it. Someone had put clean linen on the futon and covered it with a pretty chenille bedspread the color of fresh egg yolks. The Christmas tree had been removed, the needles swept. I felt both grateful and sad that it was gone. I flopped onto the couch and smiled up at Tom. “So how did she rope you into sugaring this year?”

“No roping involved,” Tom said. “I offered to do the work and share the profit with her.” He tilted his head to the three teenage boys who were carrying in more logs for the fire. “I wanted the grandkids to know how to do more than play Xbox.”

The syrup in the pan began to boil vigorously and rise to the edge. Tom tossed in a pat of butter, and the syrup settled back down. “This is the end of the run. We're getting mostly grade B now. It doesn't get the best price, but it's the most delicious.” He ladled the syrup again, and it poured down in a thick sheet. Tom poured some of the syrup into a bucket and plopped in a glass tube. “All right, boys, we're ready to draw off. Bring me the buckets.”

The boys lined up with metal buckets. Tom filled each one from a spigot at the base of the pan. The boys poured the syrup through a sieve lined with cheesecloth into clean buckets. Tom filled the evaporator with a new batch of sap. He poured some of it into a Dixie cup and handed it to me. It tasted like spring—green, cold, and alive.

“Have a good time last night?” Tom joined me on the couch.

“I did. Not as fun as playing onstage, of course.”

“Next time.” Tom scratched at his whiskers. “I saw you broke out of one of the lines toward the end.”

“I did.” I watched two of the boys as they bottled the syrup on my kitchen counter. “She's really going to sell, huh?”

“It's looking that way. In the past she only entertained offers from locals, but I've seen a lot of out-of-state plates in the parking lot lately. Odd for this time of year.” Tom looked over at the boys. “Sean, pour some of that syrup into a pot and bring it to a boil.” He leaned over to me. “You've never had sugar on snow, I'm guessing?”

I shook my head.

“Well, you're in for a treat.”

I followed Tom out into the yard, where he mounded some fresh snow into a pile. The sun felt warm on my neck, but the wind coming down the hill through the woods behind the cabin was cold on my skin.

“Careful,” Tom said to the boy with a saucepan between two pot-holdered hands. Tom took the pot and poured the syrup in a steady stream, making roping patterns in the snow. The syrup grew waxy. Tom held up a piece and handed it to me. I put it in my mouth. It was chewy, like taffy. I sighed in delight.

“We used to eat this with powdered doughnuts and pickles when we were kids,” Tom explained. The boys came out one by one to grab a piece, then returned to their jobs.

“That sounds like something from a picture book,” I said fondly, watching the long-limbed boys push one another around. I hadn't given much thought to how I'd raise the baby—would I give her a childhood like mine in the city, growing up in bookstores, subways, and cafés? Memories of Thanksgiving at the McCrackens' flooded my mind, the cozy feeling of being surrounded by family, the children wandering from room to room, woods to fields, always with someone to play with.

Tom clamped my shoulder. “When are you coming back, Liv? We got used to you being around. And I've lost five pounds!” Tom rubbed his belly.

“June. Can't miss the White wedding,” I said, looking out toward the pines. “I was thinking of walking to Dotty's. Is it passable?”

“Once you get under the evergreens, the carriage path isn't too muddy. You might make it all the way to the farm. Careful, though,” he warned, turning back to the evaporator.

I zipped up my jacket. “Thanks, Tom.”

“All right, then.” Tom tipped his baseball hat to me and set back to work, skimming the surface of the sap.

 • • • 

The air felt cold after the steam of the sugarhouse, and the damp on my cheeks stung. Tom was right—once I crossed into the evergreens the walking was easy. Someone—most likely Mark or Ethan—had kept the sleigh rides going on the carriage trail, so the snow was packed down smooth and hard. Clear white light filtered softly through the pines. The whole world looked white and gray and green. In the quiet I felt my whole body loosen. Martin was everywhere in these woods. For the first time in months, I allowed myself to feel the loss of him. There was something so comforting about his physical presence, something that I hadn't recognized until he had gone. When I was with him, I had felt tucked in, in place. I walked faster, trying to stomp out the thoughts with my boot steps. I knew where they would lead me, and it was just going to make lunch with Dotty more difficult to get through.

Under the tree in the little clearing where Martin had stopped to show me the great horned owl were bits of fur, blood, and
bones. I looked up. There she was, as if she had been waiting for me. Her yellow eyes blinked down at me. Beside her sat what looked like two downy footballs.

“You too?” I asked her. The owlets stared down at me with the same steady gaze as their mother. They were covered in gray curls, as though they were draped in sheepskin. One of them yawned and stretched its wings, and the other did the same. The mother's head whipped around. I turned to see what had caused her alarm.

There on the carriage path stood Martin McCracken.

I looked away and then back, expecting him to disappear like a ghost. He looked thinner than before, his black jeans hanging loose, his torso hidden underneath the Irish knit sweater I had fallen asleep on only months earlier.

“Livvy.” His voice shook me out of the sensation that this was all a dream.

“What are you doing here?” I asked unsteadily.

“I took the red-eye when I heard you were in town.” Martin stood awkwardly for a moment, then took three long strides and pulled me into his arms. I nuzzled into his armpit, breathing him in.

“I'm so sorry,” he said in his drone-string voice.

My mind raced, counting the things Martin could regret. I didn't want to be one of them. I loosened my grip and took a step back.

“For everything. For not telling you about Sylvie. I tried—I tried to keep my distance from you. I wanted to tell you the night I brought over the Christmas tree, but . . .”

“But Henry went into the hospital,” I said, remembering his hesitation when I kissed him.

Martin nodded. “I came looking for you to talk after the funeral, but you had left.”

“Is it true, then? You and Sylvie, you're—”

Martin shook his head. “I told her about you when we got back home. I'd wanted to tell her right away, but my father . . . And then it was Christmas, and I didn't want to tell her when she was so far away from home.” Martin let his breath out in a steady stream. “She had guessed. She slept in one of the guest rooms while she was here. She said it was out of respect for my mother, but—”

“You're not together anymore?” My head spun.

“We split up. We just sold the condo. The closing is at the end of April. Listen.” Martin looked like a kid at five o'clock on a Christmas morning—wild hair and tired eyes, barely able to contain his excitement. “I've just been hired to play fiddle for the Darnielle Brothers. The Darnielle Brothers!”

They were the biggest name in alt-country.

“The tour starts in Japan! A thirty-city tour here in the States, then we're going to be in Europe all summer.” Martin pulled me back into his embrace. “Come with me,” he said into my hair. “You'd have a blast playing in all the jams at the festivals, traveling to all those different places.” Martin pulled just far enough away so he could cup my cheeks in his hands. “And we could be together.”

He leaned down and kissed me then.

There are only a few moments in my life that I have ever wanted to bask in—driving up the coast of Maine beside my father on an autumn afternoon, when I pulled my first chocolate soufflé out of the oven, the first time Salty rested his muzzle on my lap and sighed. And now this. I would have given anything to pause time right there.

I pushed my palms against his chest and stepped back. “I can't.”

“What? Why?” Martin's expression held a mixture of confusion and hurt.

“Because of the pie contest,” I blurted.

He took a step back to get a full look at me. “Livvy, if it's really that important, you can come back for the pie contest.”

I wanted to say yes. A few months earlier I would have already been digging through my drawers for my passport. “It's not just that. Hannah is going to give birth soon, and Margaret needs me to make a wedding cake in June. I have to stay.”

“You're not even living here,” he said, exasperated. It was as though I could see his plans dripping off him one by one like slowly melting icicles. “Come on, Liv. This is our chance.”

Through my fleece pocket, I pressed my hand onto my belly. Margaret was right—Martin deserved to know. But I knew that what Henry had said was also true—Martin would do the right thing. He would give up his dreams and move back to Guthrie. I couldn't be the reason he stayed.

“Couldn't our chance wait until you come back?” I asked.

Martin looked deflated.

“Listen,” I said, grabbing the fabric of his jacket. “Your dad just died. And you ended a long relationship, you sold your house. I'm assuming that you quit your teaching job too?” I leaned my head against him and spoke into his chest. “This isn't the time for any more big decisions. Think about what you really want when you're on the road. Call me when you get back.”

I stood up on my tiptoes and kissed him firmly on the lips, then turned away, walking as fast as I could down the snowy path before I changed my mind.

“Apologize to your mom for me,” I called, not looking back.