The City Baker's Guide to Country Living (27 page)

A
pril did its usual showers-to-May-flowers thing, but the lilacs that hugged the Friendly Eating Place's back alley were cloying, and I kept the back door off the storeroom closed despite the growing warmth. Ever since I had returned from Guthrie, I had felt stuck. Every sign of spring fed my irritation. The daffodils' cheerful faces mocked me. The birdsong at dawn sounded more like a lament. I knew saying no to Martin had been the right decision, but I hadn't given much thought to what would happen next. When I tried to fantasize about the future, the daydream would always end in Guthrie, but with Martin gone and Margaret selling the Sugar Maple it didn't make much sense. It was as if Guthrie, with all its past possibilities, were being eaten piece by piece until there were only crumbs. I tried to keep thoughts of Martin at bay, but my swelling breasts and nightly leg cramps were a constant reminder that a part of him would always be with me. I pushed through each day like it was just something to get through, napping during the daylight, folding my way through the “Creams, Fools, and Jellies” chapter of Richard's cookbook each night.

I was lying on my cot after my OB/GYN appointment, reading
a magazine article debating nail art—yea or nay—when I heard the familiar Monday-night sounds of folding chairs squeaking open and stringed instruments being tightened into life.

It was a hot night, sticky for spring, and the heavy feeling of the baby was making me restless. I poked my head into the alley. The music shop's back door was propped open, and without the walls between us the music sounded sweet. I leaned on the doorframe, willing myself to turn around and go back in, when I heard the first notes of “I'll Fly Away,” an old gospel tune my father had loved to play.

Some bright morning when this life is over, I'll fly away

For a song about dying, it had a joyful lightness to it. It was hard to resist. I stepped quietly into the back of the shop. The familiar scents of old cigarette smoke and whiskey reminded me of an old-man bar. I eased through a tunnel of instrument cases stacked waist high against the walls, making my way toward the music.

To a land on God's celestial shore, I'll fly away

Through the doorway to the front of the shop I could see a couple of the players. Wide men, pants held up by suspenders, faces covered in gray whiskers. Young bearded men playing confidently next to the old-timers. I slipped into the packed room, taking a seat in the corner between the door and a pile of fake books. A middle-aged man with a stumpy little banjo called a banjo-uke in his lap smiled at me and nodded his head. The jam
reminded me of ones that my father had taken me to, and sitting among the players felt akin to church, tunes in place of prayers. I settled back into my chair and closed my eyes.

I'll fly away, oh glory, I'll fly away

When I die, hallelujah by and by, I'll fly away

I felt it between “Black Cat in the Briar Patch” and “Cumberland Gap.” Right where my arm rested against the side of my belly. A little nudge, from the inside out, like she was trying to get my attention.

“Holy crap,” I said. I pressed my hand into my side. She nudged again.

“You all right?” the man next to me asked.

“Yes—it's just, it's the baby,” I said, blushing, like it was a secret I was keeping.

“You haven't felt it before?”

I shook my head, pressing my hand into my side, just wanting to feel her again. I rested my hands on my belly where I had felt the jab. Nothing. A couple of the players picked the first phrase of “Jennie Jenkins,” a silly song sung to teach little kids their colors. When the tune ended, I felt a tumbling inside. “Hey there, baby,” I sang. “I think she likes the music,” I said to the man, feeling like I was meeting her for the first time.

“We better keep playing, then,” he said, and called to the jam leader to play some old children's tunes. The fiddler led “Skip to My Lou” followed by “Polly Wolly Doodle.” I placed my hands on my belly and focused my attention inward. I felt as if we were listening together.

The leader stuck his foot out, and the last tune ended with a whoop from the players. One by one instrument cases were latched, mandolins and guitars put to bed for the night.

“Do you mind, just for a second?” I asked the man next to me, reaching toward him. I wanted to test out a theory. He handed me his stubby banjo. I sat up and strummed out a few chords. Another little flutter, and then a sharper nudge. “Okay, kiddo,” I whispered as my fingers fell into Henry's tune. “I'll keep playing.”

 • • • 

Hannah called a week later to tell me her doctor had put her on mandatory bed rest for the remainder of her pregnancy. The first thing I did when I hung up the phone was dye my hair—Cotton Candy Pink—after I had double-checked to make sure the dye was nontoxic and vegan and wouldn't turn my baby into a woolly mammoth. Then I shoved everything I had into a garbage bag, left the keys to the Friendly Eating Place on the pizza counter, and drove straight to Guthrie, not even stopping at the F&G for pie.

Hannah's house, which was normally decorator-magazine clean, was a mess of unfinished baby projects. I became Hannah's partner in nesting for as long as my body would allow each day, assembling strollers and hanging mobiles. Then we would both cuddle up on the bed and nap or watch talk shows.

 • • • 

I emptied Hannah's laundry basket onto the foot of her king-sized bed. A multicolored mountain of onesies, diaper covers, and spit-up blankets tumbled across the duvet. “Should I sort these by category?” I asked, folding a tiny light green T-shirt into quarters. There were hundreds of pieces of clothing, all adorable. The only thing I had purchased for my baby so far was a black onesie with the Ramones' logo in white.

“Could you keep the long-sleeve and short-sleeve shirts separate?” Hannah asked from under the covers. She was lying on her side, a pillow propped under her stomach, which I could have sworn had grown in the past hour. “I can't thank you enough for doing this,” she said for the millionth time.

“You don't have to thank me. Just give me all of the boys' hand-me downs,” I said as I folded a baby blue sweater.

“So, Liv—where is Martin now?” she asked, keeping her voice light. Hannah hadn't been too happy when I told her I had sent Martin away.

“LA, maybe?” I replied, but I knew from my daily checks of the band's Twitter feed that they were playing at the El Ray in LA that night, in San Francisco the following night, then up in Portland and Seattle. Martin e-mailed me weekly with details of the tour. I responded only in emojis and pictures of Salty, worried that if I used words I'd let something slip.

“You're going to have to tell him soon, Liv. Before someone sees you in town and tells him themselves.”

She was right, of course. My own baby bump had emerged, and I looked undeniably pregnant. I kept to Hannah's house most of the time, and I would travel two, three, or five towns over if there were errands to be run. I figured I was only one or two ice cream runs away from being the hottest piece of gossip at the farmer's market.

“I was thinking of e-mailing him as soon as he lands in Helsinki.”

The oven timer went off in the kitchen. From around the corner I could hear the splatter of bubbling pie filling hitting the cookie sheet. The room was heavily scented with browning butter and caramelized sugar. I had finished my work for Richard, but I
had told Hannah I was still working on the pies and tarts chapter. She didn't seem to notice that every pie I made was apple.

When I returned, Hannah was sitting upright with her legs dangling over the side of the bed.

“Do you need help?” I asked, assuming she was on her way to the bathroom.

“I think my water just broke.”

I stopped in the middle of the room. “Are you sure? What do we do? Should I call an ambulance? Boil water? Tear up sheets?”

Hannah laughed. “No to all of those things. I'm not even in labor, at least I don't think so.” She scooted off the bed. “Jonathan is at the hospital anyway. Let's go over and find him. Help me get dressed.”

 • • • 

The television in the waiting room of the maternity ward was set to a marathon of
The Bachelor
, which I thought was an odd choice, but by the time Jonathan came out of the delivery room, blurry-eyed and happy, I had watched the whole first season.

“Everybody okay?” I asked, but you could see from the joy in his face that mother and babies were just fine.

To my surprise, Jonathan wrapped me in a bear hug. “Thank you for being here for us, Livvy. You've been a great friend.” I wanted to make a joke about how this was the first time we had ever touched, but instead I burst into tears. Once I had entered into my second trimester, I had become a serious weeper. When Jonathan pulled away I could see that he was crying too. “Come see my sons.”

Hannah looked exhausted but serene, a white-capped, swaddled bundle in each arm.

“Hey there, babies,” I said, rubbing a freshly sanitized finger across one of the twin's cheeks. “They're so little.”

Jonathan sat next to Hannah, and a nurse placed one of his sons in his arms. The baby's mouth stretched into a yawn.

“You holding up okay?” I asked Hannah. “Did the drugs work?” I was terrified of giving birth. Hell, I was terrified of the whole thing, from birth through high school diploma. Hannah looked so natural holding the babies, as if she were a nurse or a midwife. I couldn't help but wonder if I would ever look like that.

Hannah beamed up at me. “Aren't they beautiful?”

“They really are, Hann.”

Another nurse came in and checked Hannah's chart. “Mom needs her rest now.”

“Can I do anything before I go?” I asked, buttoning up my sweater.

Hannah shook her head, not taking her eyes off the babies.

“I'll be back in the morning.”

I lingered by the door for a moment watching Hannah and Jonathan, gazing down at their sons, laughing quietly about some little expression one of the boys made. I wanted my baby to know that closeness too. And I knew I had some decisions to make.

 • • • 

It was two in the morning when I left the hospital, but by the time I got back to Hannah's house I felt wired. I swung by the house to pick up Salty and hopped back into the car.

The inn's windows were dark, but I drove around and parked in the back. There was still a light on in the kitchen. I let myself in the back door, the way I had so many times before. Margaret
was sitting in one of the rocking chairs, a paperback half read in her hand.

“Miss Rawlings,” she said, as if she expected me. I set the pie on the counter and sat down in the rocker beside her. “You're looking well,” she said.

“Thanks.” I rocked back, not sure if she was being nice or sarcastic. “I brought you something.”

“All the way from Boston?”

“Just from Hannah's. I've been here for a while, helping. She had the babies tonight. Two boys.” I jutted my chin over toward the counter. “It's a pie.”

Margaret walked over to the counter and opened the Tupperware bin I had stored the pie in. “Everyone doing well, I expect.”

“Yeah. They're super cute. You'll have to come by when she's back from the hospital.”

Margaret handed me a plate and fork along with a napkin and a glass of water. She settled back into her chair and took a dainty bite.

I studied her as she chewed, looking for a reaction. She really did have the best poker face.

“Now that the babies have arrived, will you be staying long?”

“Indefinitely.” I stopped rocking and leaned forward. “Listen, I came by because I wanted to apologize. I've felt terrible about the way I left here. It wasn't fair to you.”

“I understood why you were upset,” she said carefully, “but many people before you have weathered more embarrassment than a broken heart.” I wondered if she was speaking from experience. “You didn't need to leave.”

I carefully unfolded the napkin and lay it across my lap. “Leaving just always seems like the best option.”

“The world is full of heartbreak, Miss Rawlings. Might be a good idea to try something different next time.” Margaret took another bite of the pie, chewing it slowly. “It's going to be fairly crowded over there when the babies come home.”

“Tell me about it. Mrs. Doyle is coming to stay for the month of June, and Jonathan has hired both a day nurse and a housekeeper to come in.”

“You know I'm selling the inn, correct?”

“I do.” I dug my fork into the pointed tip of my pie slice. It sank easily through the crust, down into the tender apple slices. “Are the papers signed?”

“Not till the end of the summer. They wanted to see how the staff handled a function like the White wedding before they made any final decisions about who stays and who goes. And they want to see the profits, of course.”