The City Baker's Guide to Country Living (10 page)

A card table had been set up at the bottom of the stairs. I found Margaret standing with a hand on one hip. A woman with curly frosted hair sat behind the table, clutching a clipboard.

“Here I am,” I said to no one in particular.

“Melissa, have you met my new pastry chef?”

Melissa peered up at me from behind red plastic reading glasses. “I haven't had the pleasure.”

“Melissa is this year's Mrs. Coventry County.” Margaret drew out each word.

“A pleasure.” I extended my hand. “Olivia Rawlings.”

“Olivia just came to us from the Emerson Club in Boston.”

“On Beacon Hill?” Melissa asked.

My eyebrows shot up. “Yes. Do you know it?”

“I have family in Boston. Cousins.”

I looked over at Margaret. She was bent over, furiously filling out a form.

“How lovely. Do you visit them often?”

“Usually just at Christmastime. I'm not much of a city person. But I love shopping on Charles Street and seeing the lights in the park.”

“On the Common.” My heart sank a little as I thought about the draped lights in the trees that I used to gaze at through the
Emerson's kitchen window. You could see the ice skaters on the Frog Pond from the chef's office on the sixth floor.

“Okay, ladies, you're all set. You're in your usual spot over by the windows, Margaret. The sale begins in an hour. Thanks for donating!”

Margaret took me by the elbow and led me into the coatroom.

“We've got an hour to kill. Now what do we do?” I asked, leaning against the wall, overwhelmed by the smell of mothballs.

“We go check out the competition.”

“But it's a bake sale, not a contest. Isn't it?”

Margaret straightened her coat on a hanger. “That doesn't mean there isn't a winner at the end.”

The church hall was filled mostly with women huddled in groups of two or three. There were a few men, standing on the edges of the hall, drinking black coffee out of small Styrofoam cups. They all looked like they were still dressed for church. Long tables covered by paper tablecloths filled the center of the room. I followed Margaret to the corner near the coffee urn, where a little natural light filtered in from the windows at the top of the wall. She arranged the macaroons on a silver platter she had stashed in the church kitchen, hiding the plastic tubs under the table.

After we had set up the hand-lettered signs that Sarah had made, Margaret led me to the front of the hall, where she walked us slowly down the aisle, considering each platter one by one. Golden brandy snaps looked dressed up next to a plate of plump butter cookies studded with dried cranberries and mini marshmallows. Peanut-butter cookies with the classic fork-pressed lattice rested next to carefully rolled rugelach. There were more than seventy plates, and there was still a line at the card table where
Melissa sat. These people took their baking seriously. The pie contest I had been hired to win no longer sounded like a charming small-town tradition. I had real competition.

“Those look pretty good,” I said, admiring the dainty shell shape of a madeleine.

“She uses imitation vanilla,” Margaret said under her breath.

“Gross.” I approached a plate of sugar cookies buried under blobs of neon green icing. “What do you think of those?”

“They look like they could break teeth.”

I snorted. Margaret walked briskly down the aisles, examining each plate as if she were looking for something. Some of the bakers sat behind their tables, ready for business. Margaret said quick hellos, skipping introductions, and worked her way down to the last table.

At the end of the row was an unmanned plate of pecan sandies. Margaret turned to face me and leaned in close.

“When I walk away, grab one of those.”

“There's no one here to pay yet.”

“Exactly.” She handed me an embroidered handkerchief. “Just snatch one and meet me at the car.” Margaret marched down the hall and disappeared behind the ladies'-room door.

Bakers were filing into the room and setting up their tables. I looked over both shoulders to make sure no one was close and plopped my courier bag on the table, pretending to look for something. My hankie-lined hand darted out and grabbed a cookie. When it was stashed in my bag, I crossed the room in long, purposeful strides, not looking back.

 • • • 

I found Margaret sitting in the backseat of her car with the door still open. I slid in on the other side.

“Did anyone see you?”

I placed the cookie and handkerchief in her hand. “I'm ninety-nine percent sure no.”

Margaret unwrapped the small package, then broke the cookie in half. It fell into crumbly pieces all over her lap. She handed me two of the larger crumbs. “What do you think?”

“Dry. Coarse. Too sweet. In other words, your typical pecan sandy.”

Margaret gave me a satisfied smile. She looked so pleased that I didn't want to break the spell by asking her why she'd had me commit a petty crime.

“My thoughts exactly. Let's get in there and raise some money.”

 • • • 

By twelve thirty the church hall was filled with festival-goers armed with plastic baggies and dollar bills. Margaret and I had argued over the price of the macaroons. I had wanted to charge three dollars and she had suggested twenty-five cents. We settled on a dollar each. Margaret handled the money while I sat next to her and answered questions about ingredients and calorie count.

“You know, this really is a one-woman job,” I said. “Don't you think it would be better if I went back to the inn and begin working on—”

“No,” Margaret said sharply. “I need you here.”

“But—”

“Margaret.” A woman about Margaret's age—seventy? seventy-five?—appeared in front of us. “How nice to see you here.”

“Jane.” Why did that name sound familiar?

I froze in my seat. I didn't recognize her at first—her hair was up, she wasn't wearing her glasses, and she had on slacks and a turtleneck instead of a dress—but I would never forget that voice
trash-talking me at the contra dance. Jane looked from Margaret to me and then back again. “I'm surprised to see you this year.”

Margaret pressed her nails into the flesh beneath her thumb. “I always pitch in. You know that, Jane.”

I cleared my throat.

“And who is this?” Jane smiled down at me. I swear she had fangs.

“My pastry chef.”

“Another one?”

Margaret leaned forward. I stood up and stuck out my hand.

“Yes, Olivia Rawlings. Nice to meet you.” I put on my most saccharine smile. “Margaret was so generous about making room for me at the Sugar Maple. I really needed a change of scenery after the feature in
Food & Wine
. God, people treat chefs like rock stars these days, you know?” I shook my head. “There are only so many benefit dinners and interviews a girl can do. And most of those chefs you see on TV—they don't even cook anymore! Can you imagine? I just wanted to get real. Back to the
food
. So when my best friend, Hannah Doyle, Dr. Doyle's wife, told me about the Sugar Maple, I knew I had to work there. And here I am!” I sat down, exhausted. Margaret rolled her eyes.

Jane looked at me evenly, smiling with her lips firmly clamped over her false teeth. She picked up a macaroon, turned it over to inspect the bottom, then put it back on the plate, rubbing her fingertips together.

“Well, good luck,” she said as she worked her way down the row.

“Who the hell is that?” I whispered into Margaret's ear.

“Nobody,” she whispered back.

“Well, that nobody was spreading lies about me last night at the—”

“Hello, my dears.” I recognized Dotty's warm voice. When I
looked up, I saw that Martin was standing behind her. Dotty popped a whole macaroon into her mouth.

“Oh, Livvy, these are divine!” She handed one to Martin. “I'll take a dozen.”

Margaret grabbed the handle of her handbag. “We'll be right back,” she said to me. “Keep an eye on the cashbox.” She and Dotty walked off, their heads bent together.

“They look like they're plotting something,” Martin said.

“I think that might be closer to the truth than you think.” I handed him a plastic bin of macaroons. “Here to buy treats?”

“Mom needed a ride.”

Martin looked awkward, standing there holding the box of cookies. It was painful to look at him. I patted Margaret's empty chair. “Want to keep me company for a bit?”

Martin squeezed between the tables and sat beside me, stretching his long legs. I slid the cashbox toward him. “You're in charge of the money.”

We waited on customers. All the nontourists told Martin how glad they were to see him after all this time and asked after his father. His responses were polite and vague. He was the most laconic person I had ever met, and it made me edgy. I craned my neck to look for Margaret and Dotty, but they were nowhere to be seen.

“So,” I said when I could no longer bear the silence. “I thought the dance went well.”

“Yeah.” He paused for a moment. “You're a good player.”

“You play like it's easier than breathing.”

Martin laughed, then coughed. “It feels that way sometimes.” He opened up the cashbox and started turning all of the bills to face the same direction. “So how was your visit with your friend?”

“Who?”

“Your friend, the man from Boston. Big guy, kind of loud. Spectacular pants.”

“Oh. Fine.” Great. “How did you know I had a friend?”

“I met him at the dinner.”

“You weren't at the dinner,” I pointed out.

“How do you know?”

I looked down at my boots. “You weren't at Dotty's table.”

“I was. Then I left.”

“You missed the dinner part of dinner.”

“I'm sure it was good.”

“It
was
good.” I tucked my fingers under my thighs. “You should have stayed.”

“I gave him directions.”

“Who?” I asked, avoiding the obvious.

“Your friend.” Martin zipped the gray wool sweater he was wearing up to his Adam's apple.

“He's not my friend.” I swallowed. “He's just my old boss.”

“Why did he need directions to your cabin?”

“He offered me my old job back, at the Emerson. He probably didn't want to ask me someplace where Margaret could walk in.”

I swear the corners of Martin's lips moved up a quarter of an inch. He straightened in his seat. “Would you like to . . .”

Just then Melissa, Mrs. Coventry County, stopped by the table. “Hello there, Martin. I haven't seen you since we graduated.”

“Hey, Melissa.” He pointed to her rhinestone crown. “Congratulations.”

Melissa blushed and handed me an envelope with “The Sugar Maple” written across the front in script. “Livvy, just put the money you raised in this envelope and write the total on the front. I'll be by to collect it in a bit.”

“She's the same age as you?” I whispered as Melissa walked over to the next row.

“We were in the same class, so yeah. She's around forty.”

“She looks so much like an
adult
.” I grabbed the cashbox and opened it. It was stuffed full of dollar bills.

“Some might consider forty to be an adult, I guess.” Martin ran his hands through his hair. “That's what my dad keeps telling me. Anyway, Melissa has four kids, I think, maybe five. That might have something to do with it.”

I finished separating the money into piles. “What were you going to ask me?”

“Would you like to come to dinner? Tonight? Just over at the house. My father would like to meet you.”

“Sure, thanks. I'd love to. What time? What can I bring?” Some people get quiet when they're nervous. I talk.

“My folks eat early.” Martin nodded his head toward the back of the hall, where Dotty and Margaret stood chatting with the pharmacist. “Around six?”

“Okay.”

Martin stood, reached into his pocket, and handed me a twenty-dollar bill, waving the box of macaroons. He gave me a lopsided grin. “I'll see you then.”

I had to count the money in the cashbox six times before I got it right.

 • • • 

By the time Margaret made her way back to the table, I had already packed up the remaining cookies and returned the silver tray to the kitchen. She had both of our coats draped over her arm.

Melissa came to the front of the room. “Gather round, everybody!”

Margaret grabbed my elbow and ushered us to the front row.

Melissa adjusted her red reading glasses and cleared her throat. “Thank you so much for donating to the Harvest Festival annual fund-raiser bake sale! It looks like we broke a record this year. The folks over at the library are going to be thrilled. I want to express my deepest thanks to Bonnie Fraser, who did such a wonderful job decorating the hall this year. Let's give her a hand.”

A slight woman with bone-straight blond hair and bright red lipstick stood and bowed.

“That's my girl, Bonnie!” shouted a man from the back of the room. It was Frank, the drunk guy from the Black Bear Tavern. So this was the former Sugar Maple baker.

“Bonnie!” the man shouted again. The crowd clapped politely.

“Thanks again, Bonnie.” Melissa cleared her throat and held up a white envelope. “The Miss Guthrie Diner generously donated a gift certificate to use as a token of appreciation for our top baker. This year the person who raised the most money—a record-making one hundred and twenty-two dollars—for the Guthrie Library is . . . Jane White! For her pecan sandies!”

Margaret stared straight ahead, her gaze so fixed I thought that whatever she was looking at was going to burst into flames.

Light applause was quickly followed by the hum of gossip. Jane gracefully walked up and took her envelope from Melissa, peering at Margaret the whole time.