The City Baker's Guide to Country Living (30 page)

“Most get disqualified for having a soggy bottom crust,” Margaret offered.

Dotty rummaged in her large canvas bag. “I brought provisions. It looks like it's going to be a long one.” She pulled out a thermos and handed Margaret a cup.

The edge of someone's large purse bumped the side of my head. I looked up to see Jane White looming over us, the pink and yellow flowers of her blouse fighting to soften her hard face.

“You really are a glutton for punishment, aren't you?” Jane asked, crossing her fleshy arms.

“Ladies and gentlemen, the president of the Coventry County Fair welcoming committee has arrived,” I said. “Feeling a little uncertain, Jane? There's a lot of competition this year.” I was in a fighting mood.

Margaret laid a hand on my arm. “Good morning, Jane. How did your pie come out?”

Jane pursed her lips. “Just fine, as always.” She hesitated before asking, “And how is yours?”

“Just fine,” Margaret replied. “Oh, look, they've handed out the last number.”

“Okay, bakers. We've got a record number of entries this year—eighty-two. It's going to be a long judging. Go stretch your legs.” Melissa walked into the glass room and locked the door behind her.

I turned to see that all of the folding chairs had been claimed and a standing-room crowd had formed all the way to the back wall. Someone had dimmed the lights, and the glassed-off kitchen
glowed like a fish tank in a dark apartment. Behind the glass sat the three judges, two women and a man, each grasping a fork, with scorecards in front of them. Melissa served the judges small glasses of water and then carefully sliced the first pie. The male judge wedged his fork under a slice and tilted it into the air. He peeked at its bottom, then pushed the plate away without even taking a bite. A woman at the end of the row stood and walked out of the hall, sobbing.

“Ouch,” I said. “That was harsh.”

“Shhhh,” Margaret said, scribbling a series of numbers on a yellow legal pad. From our side of the glass you couldn't hear a word of the judges' discussion.

One of the female judges, a horsey-looking woman wearing slacks and a T-shirt that read, “Good apple pies are a considerable part of our domestic happiness,” took a bite of the next pie and tossed her fork onto the table. The third judge, a chubby redhead in a beautiful green cotton dress, discreetly spit her bite of the same pie into a paper napkin.

“God, these judges are rough.”

“They're being particularly ruthless this year,” Dotty whispered. “I think it's because there are so many entries.”

“What's our number again?”

“Fifty-seven.”

“And what number are we on?”

“Three,” Dotty replied, and handed me a bag of kettle corn.

I looked over at the legal pad Margaret had balanced on her lap. On the left were the numbers one through eighty-two, followed by a series of figures. It looked like she had been writing down the lucky lottery picks. I reached over and pulled a slip of
white paper, worn from years of folding and unfolding, from between the pages of the pad.

“Where did you get this?”

“Hush now,” Margaret said, studying a judge as she slowly chewed a forkful. “And keep that out of sight. Don't want to start a riot.”

It was difficult to take your eyes off the judges, who chewed,
sniffed, and swallowed bite after bite, their expressions moving from curiosity to delight to disgust. It was like watching silent-movie actors eat.

I turned and scanned the crowd, looking into all of those hopeful faces like sunflowers turned toward the sun, and realized that I was one of them. I had been so focused on how much I wanted Jane White to lose, but in truth all this time I had wanted to win. I wanted to win for the Sugar Maple and its long-standing legacy. For Margaret, who deserved every ounce of pride and admiration that the blue ribbon stood for, whether she had baked the pie or not. And I wanted to win for me, because Margaret was my family, and I hoped to carry the Hurley family torch for years to come and, someday, to hand it down to my daughter.

“The next one is ours,” Margaret whispered, and with her strong, thin hand she gripped my arm.

“Margaret, I need to tell you something.”

“Not now, Olivia,” she said, craning forward.

I placed my hand over hers and squeezed. “I want to stay. And I think you should stay too.”

“Miss Rawlings, that's our pie.” Margaret pointed to the kitchen. Melissa brought the whole pie to the table. It looked as good as I remembered. Around pie forty-six I had begun to worry about the color. But here was ours, golden brown, with a slight sheen from the watered-down egg wash. Edges perfectly crimped. No visible filling spillover. Plump, even body. The judges hunched over their score sheets, faces serious.

“Don't sell the inn,” I whispered into Margaret's ear.

“Look,” said Dotty. Melissa cut into the pie with a chef's knife.

“I can help you,” I said to Margaret.

“This is it,” Margaret said. “They each have a slice.”

I leaned forward. “The filling is nice and thick.”

Margaret leaned toward me. Her fingers dug into my arm a little deeper. “And it didn't shrink. It reaches all the way to the top of the crust.”

I reached over and took Dotty's hand.

The judges each took a bite. The male judge closed his eyes and leaned back, chewing slowly.

I fought the urge to jump up and scream,
Yes!

The judge in the T-shirt took dainty bites while jotting down numbers. The redhead picked her piece apart with the tines of her fork before tasting it. She looked thoughtful as she filled out her form. When Melissa reached down to take her plate, the judge grabbed her wrist and said something.

“What's happening?”

Margaret didn't answer me. All of her focus remained on the judge, who was picking her fork back up. With the edge of the fork, she broke off one more bite. She raised it to her nose first, breathing it in, before popping it in her mouth. Margaret, Dotty, and I leaned forward in our seats.

The judge reached for her pencil and, with long vertical strokes, erased all of her numbers. She took her time refilling in the form. A murmur like a hundred violins being tuned at once rose up from the crowd behind us. I looked over at Margaret. “That was good, right?” I asked, standing up and pressing my fists into my lower back.

“We'll see,” said Margaret, but she looked hopeful.

“I need a bathroom break.” I stepped around Dotty's feet, making my way down the aisle.

“You're going to miss the next pie,” Margaret said.

The truth was I needed a break from the tension. “Fill me in. I'll be right back.”

 • • • 

When the last plate was cleared, the judges stood and shook one another's hands. Melissa opened the glass door and stepped outside. “Phew, that was a long one, wasn't it?” she said warmly to the crowd. “It's going to take some time to tally all the scores, but the awards ceremony should start right on time. I'll see you all at the grandstand at five. Now go get something to eat and enjoy the fair.”

The crowd seemed to stand up as one, and the room teemed like a beehive in summer. “Lunch?” Dotty asked.

“I'm too nervous to eat,” I said.

Alfred joined us from the back of the room.

“I kind of just want a maple creemee,” I said.

“You had pie for breakfast.”

“And now ice cream for lunch. Maybe after the contest we could all go for a slice of cake at the diner.”

“I'm with Margaret,” said Dotty. “Please go feed my grandchild some vegetables.”

“I'll make sure she eats something healthy,” said Alfred.

“Fine. But I'm having ice cream afterward.”

“Be careful,” said Margaret.

I raised my eyebrows at her.

“It's crowded. And you've been a little less than graceful the past couple of days.”

I thought about the open sack of flour I had managed to drop to the floor the other morning. “I'll be fine. I just want to pet the piglets.”

“Don't forget to use hand sanitizer afterward.” Margaret had become the baby's guardian, which would have been adorable, except that she kept feeling the need to protect the baby from
me
. “Be back by four thirty. I'll save you a seat. Try not to get too wrinkled. You'll be representing the inn if you win.”

I rolled my eyes as I grabbed the map. “Yes, boss.”

“Want to take a turn in the goat barn?” Alfred asked.

“I'd love to,” I said, linking my arm in his.

The sun warmed the paved road of the fairground, and the warm smell of popcorn and candied apples hung in the air. Children walked by clutching newly won stuffed pandas with their sticky fingers. The mothers all smiled at us when they noticed my swollen belly. I let myself pretend that Alfred was my husband, that this baby was just another step in our carefully laid-out lives.

In the center of the poultry barn, among the many stacked cages, was a glass-domed incubator where chicks were hatching. I walked over and pressed my cheek against the glass. Every few minutes an egg would move and a tiny beak would appear, only to retreat, tired from all the pecking.

“Sometimes I wish the baby would come like this.”

“Pecking its way out?” Alfred asked.

“No,” I said, laughing, “outside of me. Then I could watch it happen without all the pain.”

“Starting to worry, Liv?” Alfred asked gently.

I leaned into him. “A little. Sometimes, like when I wake up with leg cramps, or my back aches, this voice inside my head says,
You don't even know the meaning of the word
pain
yet
.”

“Well, every mother seems to forget all about it once the baby is born.”

“Not me. I'm a total lightweight when it comes to pain. I'm planning on holding a grudge.”

Alfred and I left the barn and found the maple creemee hut. I bought two cones and handed one to him. A young couple gave up their shady bench to us—one of the excellent fringe benefits of pregnancy, I was fast learning—and we sat down, licking away happily.

“Have you given any more thought to my offer, Livvy?” Alfred asked, as if he were asking me if he needed to order more lemons.

I blushed and took a deep breath. “I haven't talked to Martin about the baby yet.” He had called several times, leaving panicked-sounding messages from all over Europe. “And I just think—I think the next thing I should do is talk to Martin.”

“Martin is an idiot if he doesn't come back for you.”

“True.” I smiled up at him. “See, it's a mess. You don't want to get yourself stuck in the middle of all of this.” I took my napkin and wiped some ice cream out of Alfred's beard. “You're stuck with me, though. I've decided to hang around.” It felt good to say it out loud. Blue ribbon or red, with Martin or without, Guthrie had become what I'd always been looking for: home.

“What about the inn?”

“I have a little money stashed from the cookbook job, but I need to start making calls as soon as the inn changes hands. I'm going to need an income, especially after the baby comes. I can't see Jane White's cousins hiring me.”

Alfred leaned over and kissed the top of my head. “Well, it's happy news. You belong here.” He smiled. “Besides, it gives me the opportunity to wear you down.”

I laughed and tried to stand but failed. Alfred stood and
hoisted me up. “I've got to head back and get dinner prep started. You knocked it out of the park, Liv. It's yours to lose.” I gave Alfred's hand a thankful squeeze and watched him get swallowed by the crowd.

I lingered on the midway, watching the families. A father soothed a red-cheeked girl who sat crying on the back of a carousel horse while a pair of brothers egged each other on as they whipped baseballs at glass bottles lined up on a shelf. A young couple, still maybe in their teens, walked hand in hand, the girl with a newborn strapped to her chest. They were probably making out on top of the Ferris wheel this time last year, I mused. I tried to picture myself last summer, working long hours in the hot kitchen of the Emerson. It felt like a lifetime ago. The baby did a little somersault. “A lot can happen in a year, young lady,” I said as I rubbed the spot on my belly where she felt closest. “All sorts of surprises. I'll make sure you're ready for them.”

 • • • 

I followed a trail of teenage boys—skinny, greasy frames in baseball caps and black concert T-shirts—over to the arena where the awards ceremony was being held.

“Olivia,” I thought I heard someone say as I was making my way to the chairs near the stage.

I turned and looked into the crowd gathered behind the contestants. Sarah waved at me, beckoning me over. “Hey,” I called, edging my way toward the front row, where I was sure Margaret was waiting.

“Good luck,” Sarah shouted, and I gave her a wide smile in return.

A hand reached out and grabbed my shoulder. I spun around
and into a Tom Carrigan bear hug. The rest of the Beagles were standing behind him. “We're playing the grandstand right after the demolition derby. Want to sit in?”

“You know my Eagles rule, Tom,” I said, laughing into his shoulder.

Melissa walked onto the stage and removed the mic from the stand. “Greetings, everyone.”

“I've got to get up there or Margaret's going to kill me.”

Tom patted my arm. “Go, go, before she gets riled.”

I passed Dotty in the ninth row, behind the contestants, flanked by at least two generations of McCracken children. She blew me a kiss.

Melissa adjusted her sash. This was her last official act as Mrs. Coventry County before she had to hand over her tiara to this year's winner. “As many of you know, this has been a record-breaking year for entries in the annual Coventry County Fair's apple pie contest. Thank you, everyone, for entering.”

I scooted down the first row, carefully stepping over contestants' bags and feet, whispering apologies and pointing to my enormous belly when someone gave me a scowl.

“Do you do this on purpose?” Margaret hissed as I slid into the chair next to her.

“Of course I do. The excitement keeps you young,” I whispered back.

I looked up at the judges, sitting behind Melissa. They didn't look too thrilled about the record-breaking number of pies. The horsey one looked a little green.

“Pies are judged based on the following criteria: appearance, crust, flavor, and filling.”

I elbowed Margaret in the ribs. “We have it all,” I said in a singsong voice.

“Shhh.”

“Olivia.” I searched the crowd but couldn't pinpoint the voice. Hannah and Jonathan were standing at the edge of the crowd, wearing matching baby carriers. “You made it!” I called, waving. Hannah held a sleeping baby's hands in hers and made him wave back.

“Miss Rawlings,” Margaret hissed.

“So, without further ado . . .” Melissa picked up a white ribbon and an envelope from the small table beside her. “In third place, a newcomer to the pie contest”—Margaret grabbed my hand and squeezed—“Ashley Laferrier, age thirteen. Congratulations, Ashley. Come on up here.”

A skinny teenager with thin brown hair down to her waist climbed up the steps. Ashley looked overwhelmed as she gazed at the crowd.

“Olivia!”

I stood up and turned around.

Margaret grabbed my wrist. “Will you sit down?”

I plopped back into my chair, annoyed.

“And now for the red ribbon. The judges said it was very difficult to choose between first and second place. The scores were the same, so it came down to the judges' personal taste. Both of you should feel very proud today.” Melissa smiled in an apologetic way. She knew the second-place winner was not going to feel proud. “Okay, so our second-place ribbon this year goes to—Olivia Rawlings, baking for the Sugar Maple Inn. Come on up here, Livvy.”

I sat motionless and, to my embarrassment, burst into tears.