The City Baker's Guide to Country Living (11 page)

Melissa clapped her hands together. “Well done, everyone.”

I leaned my head toward Margaret's ear. “I can't believe those pecan sandies did better than—”

“You'll do better next year,” said Margaret, although she looked
doubtful—about whether I would do better or whether I would be there next year, I didn't know which.

“Better luck next year,” Jane said as she breezed past us.

“I'm sure we won't have to wait a whole year to compete, will we?” I called.

Jane stopped in her tracks. She turned to face us.

“I heard something about an apple pie contest?”

Jane's lips curled into a smirk. “Perhaps. If she keeps you that long.” She tucked the envelope into her handbag and walked away.

“What a bitch,” I said under my breath. I looked over at Margaret. Her fingers were entangled in her pearls.

“We'd better get back so you have time to get yourself cleaned up before we head over to Dotty's,” she said.

“We?”

“Yes, for supper. Dinner will be on the table at six. I'll drive.”

My cheeks reddened.

“What?” Margaret put her arms on her hips.

“Nothing.”

“And leave the dog at home.”

W
hen we arrived, Margaret walked ahead and up onto the porch. I lingered behind, still feeling embarrassed and slightly overdressed in the 1950s cocktail number I had bought at the church thrift store when Hannah and I had been out furniture hunting. It was the only thing I had that wasn't covered in flour or dog hair. Margaret had on her standard uniform of cardigan, wool skirt, and pearls. She knocked once on the door and let herself in.

“Well, hello there!” a gravelly voice called out. I entered the front hall and was greeted by an elderly man standing up straight with the help of a wooden cane. He offered me his free hand. “You must be Olivia. I'm Henry McCracken.”

“Pleased to meet you,” I said, clasping his hand in mine. It was bony but strong underneath, with skin that felt like washed canvas. He was almost an exact replica of Martin, only twice as old and half as big, with shaggy gray hair instead of brown.

“Marty, come on down here and take the girl's coat,” Henry shouted, and then turned to me. “It takes me a little while to get around. I better get a head start.”

Henry turned and shuffled toward the living room door. Martin was slight but sturdy; Henry looked like a just-birthed fawn.

Martin clomped down the stairs like a teenager called to supper.

“Hey.” I slid out of my wool coat and handed it to him. He looked down at my dress and grinned slightly before turning his attention to a coat hanger. I blushed. Why on earth had I gone for the polka dots? Martin looked more scrubbed than usual. He was wearing a blue cotton dress shirt with his usual jeans and black Converse sneakers. I wondered if Dotty had made him get cleaned up.

“Hey.” Martin led me down the hall into the living room where Margaret, Henry, and Dotty were all sitting, holding glasses of wine. Margaret was leaning over the armrest of the couch, talking to Henry.

“You should have seen the look on her face when they called her name.”

“Livvy!” Dotty looked up and smiled. “Have a seat, dear. Martin, get the poor girl something to drink.”

Martin disappeared, returning moments later with two glasses of white.

“Now we can have a proper celebration.” Dotty raised her glass. “To the Sugar Maple and its new pastry chef, Livvy.”

“To Livvy,” the rest of the room chimed, and we all reached to clink. Martin sat next to me on the sofa. He smelled of Ivory soap and something greener, like moss by a brook.

“We're all so happy you could pitch in today. Everyone loved those macaroons, and—”

“It was good for the library,” Margaret interjected, and gave Dotty a long look.

“Margaret, why don't you help me get supper on the table?” Dotty pressed her palms onto the sides of her chair and hefted herself up to standing. Margaret silently followed her.

“Can I help?” I called.

“Best leave the two of them to squawk,” Henry said. “So where's this dog I hear has been hanging around the goats?”

“Margaret told me not to bring him.”

“She's like most older folks. She believes that animals belong outside.”

You would never think that if you saw her with Salty in the parlor.
“Did you have pets growing up?”

Henry nodded. “Had a pet squirrel when I was a kid. Used to sneak him up to my room. I thought my mom didn't know about him, then I found out his favorite game was to ride on the mop while she washed the floors.”

I laughed. “Did you name him?”

“Sure.” He paused for a few moments. “Cricket. I don't remember why, though.”

“I always wanted a pet raccoon,” Martin said quietly. “They advertised them in the back of
Field & Stream
.”

“Oh, yes, I remember you crying one Christmas after the gifts were unwrapped and there was no raccoon among them.” Henry leaned toward me. “He was the sensitive one,” he said, pointing a long finger toward his son.

“Dad.”

“So, young lady. Marty tells me you are an excellent frailer.”

“He exaggerates.” I winked at Henry. “I'm okay. But I'm not nearly as good as
Marty
is on the fiddle.”

“Don't even think about it,” Martin whispered to me. “That's strictly for family use.”

“What's that, Marty?”

“Did you bring it with you?” Henry asked. “We could have a tune after supper.”

“Oh, I wish I had. Do you play? I could go back and get it . . .”

Martin rested a hand briefly on my forearm.

“Not the banjo, though I love the sound of one. No, fiddle's my instrument. And Dotty plays the dulcimer, or she used to. I made her one when we were courting.”

“I had no idea,” Martin said under his breath.

“That's wonderful,” I said. “I've always wanted to learn.”

“Well, maybe Marty can dig it out of the attic for you. It's just gathering dust up there.”

I glanced quickly up at Martin. His eyes were fixed on his father.

“So, who taught you how to play?” Henry asked.

“My dad did, when I was a kid. I didn't really take to it until I was older.” The banjo had seemed hopelessly lame to my young, rebellious self. It had become something to treasure only after he died.

“Good thing to hand down to a child, the old songs. Course, you have to settle down and have a family before you can pass them down to anyone, but I'm sure your father is after you about that.”

“He passed,” I said.

Henry leaned over and patted my forearm. “I'm very sorry to hear that.”

Dotty bustled into the room. “Supper's ready. Come on in.”

Dinner was spread out on a large Formica table in the kitchen. It was a traditional bean supper with all the fixings—a ceramic crock filled with steaming baked beans flavored with molasses, bowls of potato salad and coleslaw, and a plate of sour pickles. And, to my delight, there were thick round slabs of brown bread that had clearly been baked in an old coffee can.

Henry reached out to either side of him. “Let's join hands and give thanks.”

Margaret took my left hand in hers. It felt dainty and smooth.
Martin's arm reached across the table and wrapped his hand around mine. My palms began to sweat. Margaret pinched her eyebrows together.

“Dear Lord, thank you for the many blessings you have given us, today and every day. May we always strive to be deserving of your gifts. Amen.”

“Amen.” Margaret dropped my hand and wiped hers on her napkin. Was it just me or had Martin's hand lingered for a second before retreating? I reached for a slice of brown bread and focused all my attention on spackling it with butter.

“I ran into Jessie when we were at Dr. Doyle's yesterday,” Dotty said.

“Jessie is my brother Ethan's wife,” Martin explained.

Henry said as he served himself seconds of coleslaw, “I didn't see Jessie.”

“You were in with the doctor.” Dotty smiled at me. “He doesn't like me to come in with him. Says I interrupt too much.”

Henry shook his head and kept eating.

“Is she all right?” Margaret asked.

“Well, remember when she started volunteering at the dog warden's?”

“When her youngest married.”

“That's right. Well, last week one of the dogs that came in had parvovirus. Had to shut the whole place down to do some special sanitation treatment.”

Martin put his fork down. “What did they do with all of the dogs?” He looked like a worried little kid. I could picture him asking for the raccoon.

“Notice how he hasn't asked about his sister-in-law,” Henry teased.

“That's the thing,” Dotty said as she stacked Henry's empty plate on top of her own. “She took every single last one of those dogs home to be quarantined. She said there were twenty-seven of them.”

Margaret shuddered.

“That sounds like fun,” Martin said as he reached between Margaret and me and collected our plates.

“So why the doctor visit?” I asked, delighted by Dotty's roundabout way of storytelling.

“She was covered head to toe in flea bites,” Dotty said over her shoulder as she headed into the kitchen. “She couldn't stop scratching.”

 • • • 

I scooped vanilla ice cream into glass sundae cups, thinking about how much more at ease Martin seemed when he was around his family, while Margaret arranged the macaroons on a small silver tray and Dotty poured boiling water over loose tea leaves. In the other room Henry dozed in his chair. Once we were all seated again, Dotty cleared her throat and began pouring the tea.

“Tea, dear?”

Henry straightened, looking confused for a moment. “Lovely,” he said, fumbling for the cup.

Dotty smiled and passed the tray of macaroons to Margaret. I spooned vanilla ice cream into my mouth and let it melt on my tongue.

“So,” I said as I swallowed. “What's up with Jane White?”

Margaret's tea immediately went down the wrong pipe. Dotty thumped her back as she coughed.

Martin shoved a whole macaroon in his mouth and Dotty studied her cup of tea with the attention of a fortune-teller.

“That old bat,” Henry said.

I turned my attention to Henry.

“I bet she cheated.”

“Henry,” Dotty said.

“Dad, how could someone cheat at a fund-raiser?” Martin asked.

Margaret remained silent, but her face looked tight and colorless.

Henry reached for a cookie. “By putting her own money in the pot.”

“Martin, why don't you take Livvy out to do the evening chores?” Dotty interjected. I looked down at my half-eaten bowl of ice cream. I guessed dessert was over.

 • • • 

The night had turned cold, and white stars shone brightly against the inky October sky. My breath came out in little puffs as we walked the short distance between the house and the barn. Martin shut the barn door behind me and gestured to a wooden bench. The goats were sleeping, resting their necks on one another in a bed of hay.

“I guess I shouldn't have asked about Jane White,” I said. “Your dad seemed a little riled up.”

“Nah, it's fine. My folks are just really protective of Margaret.” Martin reached under a milking bench and removed an earthenware jug. He poured golden liquid into two speckled tin cups. “She and Mrs. White have always had a thing between them. I'm not sure what.”

Martin sat next to me on the small bench, his thigh and arm and shoulder touching mine. I felt acutely aware of every inch where our bodies met.

“So what are the evening chores?” I rubbed my hands together and placed them on my cheeks.

“There aren't any, really.” He handed me a cup and placed the jug on the ground.

I took a long sip. “Hard cider?”

Martin drank his in one swallow. “My dad makes it from the windfalls.
Evening chores
has always been Dad's excuse to have a little nip in the evenings. Mom will have a glass of wine on a special occasion, but she doesn't like to keep alcohol in the house. Her dad was a drinker.”

“Does she really not know?” I asked, taking another sip. They seemed too close a couple to keep secrets from each other.

“I think she knows but likes to pretend she doesn't so Dad can save face. That's why she sends me out to do chores every evening. It's basically so I have an excuse to come get Dad a cup of cider, even though he's not supposed to drink.”

“So.” I paused to take a long swallow. “How long has he been sick?”

Martin bounced his heel off the leg of the bench. “He was diagnosed about six months ago.”

“Is it cancer?” I asked tentatively.

“Yes, colon.”

“Did he have surgery?”

He nodded. “Radiation first. They couldn't get it all out. Now it's chemo. Did your dad have cancer?”

“Heart attack. It was sudden.” I poured myself another cup, offering the jug back to Martin.

“Careful. It tastes like apple juice but it'll creep up on you.”

Straw crackled under the twitching foot of a dreaming goat.

“So when that Frank guy said that thing in the bar—about your coming back—did you come home to take care of your dad?”

“Mom takes care of him, and a nurse comes in in the mornings to help. I came back to help with the farm.”

“Where do you live, usually?”

“Seattle.”

“You're not a farmer, then?”

Martin huffed. “I couldn't get out of here fast enough.”

“Was it hard to come back—I mean, with work and all?”

“I teach. I came up as soon as the semester ended. I'm on family leave now.”

“What do you teach?”

“Industrial arts.”

“Ahh, the troublemakers.”

Martin laughed. “Some of them, yes. They're good kids, though.”

I stretched my legs out in front of me and watched the silver sparkles on my flats glint in the dim light. “So you're sticking around, then?”