The City Baker's Guide to Country Living (15 page)

Emily sighed. Jane coughed. “What if it rains?” she asked.

“We'll have tents over the dining area and over the dance floor. And your guests could come in here as well to have drinks and to relax.” I waved my arm around the sitting room. “We have twelve guest rooms, so some of your bridesmaids could stay right here. You could even reserve a room for yourself to get ready in.”

Margaret rolled her eyes.

“Why don't we talk about this over lunch? Chef Alfred and I have made some summery dishes for you to try.”

We made our way through the inn into the dining room. Margaret and Jane ignored each other as Emily described the color scheme of the flower arrangements in breathless detail.

Sarah arrived a few moments later carrying a tray of arugula salad with fresh burrata and cherry tomatoes, drizzled with a
basil vinaigrette. I ran my tongue over my lip. Al's burrata was the creamiest I had ever tasted. Margaret waved her salad away when Sarah tried to serve her. “None for us, Sarah.”

“You're not eating?” asked Emily.

I looked at Margaret with questioning eyes.

“No, we've already had lunch.”

My stomach rumbled in protest. I straightened in my chair and looked at my legal pad, trying to stay professional. “These are just ideas for an early-summer menu. When you've had a chance to look at the banquet menu, we can arrange a formal tasting.”

Emily took delicate bites of her salad. Jane speared a cherry tomato into her mouth and pushed the cheese around the plate with her fork.

“This is delicious,” said Emily. She was a polite girl. It was hard not to like her, even if she was a White.

“Your grandfather would have loved this.” Jane smoothed Emily's blond curls out of her face. “I wish he were here to see you getting married.”

Margaret shifted in her chair. Sarah cleared the salad plates and served two small cups of vichyssoise. “The price includes soup or salad. You'll have to choose.”

“Unless you want to go with four or five courses,” I added.

“For an additional price,” Margaret said.

“Price isn't an issue,” Jane said, dabbing at the corner of her lip with the cloth napkin. “John set up a trust for precisely this occasion. He wanted the best of everything for Emily.”

Even I was getting tired of hearing about John. Margaret's face was inscrutable, but I could see that under the table she had twisted her handkerchief into a tight knot.

“I do have one important question,” Jane said, looking directly at Margaret. “Are you sure the inn will still be under the same management? We wouldn't want to commit if there's a chance that strangers will be running the place. Unless, of course—”

“I honor my commitments.” Margaret looked like she was ten seconds away from stabbing Jane with the salad fork. She needed help.

“Margaret, do you know where I left my cake portfolio?” I asked lightly.

Margaret's chair scraped loudly against the floor. “I'll get it.” She walked quickly through the swinging doors and into the kitchen. She didn't return with the leather-bound binder until Sarah was clearing the entree.

“Now, I know you'll want to have cake, but most weddings in Boston also feature a plated dessert, and the cake cutting takes place later in the evening.”

Sarah served the napoleon I had prepared, along with several other desserts I had whipped up. A tall wineglass held fresh berries bathing in a champagne sabayon. A crepe stuffed with white chocolate and mascarpone mousse was topped with strawberry and rhubarb compote. I sat back, pleased with what I had accomplished in late November with only a few hours' notice. Jane took small bites of everything without comment. Emily licked the spoon clean after each taste. When she pressed her fork into the crepe for a third bite, Jane patted her wrist and said, “Don't forget about your dress, dear. You'll want to fit into it.”

Emily put down her fork.

Margaret stood up. “Miss Rawlings, I trust you can manage to talk about the cakes without me?”

“Of course,” I said brightly.

“We won't hold the reservation until we have received a fifty percent deposit. I'll send over an estimate.” Without even a good-bye nod, Margaret walked purposefully out of the room.

I picked up the portfolio and stood. “Let's have coffee in the sitting room and look over the options for the cake.”

Emily and I sat by the fireplace paging through my portfolio while Jane walked around the room, picking up the small statues that perched on mantels, flipping them over to see what was underneath, and peering at the paintings, photographs, and decorative plates that hung on the walls, as if she were searching for clues.

“Look at this one, Granny.” Emily held up the binder, open to a photograph of a three-tiered cake wrapped in fondant, the surface worked with quilting tools to make it look as if it were sewn. “It reminds me of the quilts in your house.”

Jane was standing by the wall of photographs, her head leaning forward, peering at one over the rims of her glasses.

“Do you sew as well as bake, Mrs. White?” I asked sweetly. “I'm surprised you would trust anyone else with your granddaughter's cake, you being such an accomplished baker yourself.”

“I'm not much of a cake decorator,” Jane said, her voice distant and faltering. She eyed me cautiously. “Pie is my specialty. Apple pie.”

“We have that in common,” I said.

Jane gave me a level look. “All right, Emily, I think we've seen enough. We'd better be on our way.”

As Jane and Emily buttoned their coats, I planted myself where Jane had been standing, taking quick glances at the photograph she had been studying. It was one from Dotty and
Henry's wedding, a candid of the wedding party coupled off on the dance floor. “Let us know if you have any questions,” I said, smiling brightly. “Chef Alfred is looking forward to hearing your menu ideas.”

Jane walked past me and into the front yard. Emily stopped and shook my hand. “It was nice to meet you,” she said.

I gave her hand a small squeeze. “You too. And congratulations. Or whatever I'm supposed to say to the bride.”

Emily laughed. “I like being congratulated. I'm getting what I've always wanted.”

“What is that?” I asked. When I was her age all I wanted was to score some pot.

“My own family.” Her eyes softened, and she looked shy all of a sudden.

I pictured myself sitting at the McCrackens' kitchen table, Dotty and Margaret gossiping about the people in the church basement while Henry and Martin talked about the Christmas-tree crop. That led to thoughts of Martin's breath on my cheek that night in the woods, and how natural his hand felt in mine. I looked over at fresh-faced Emily, who looked like she was born to be a bride, and pushed the thoughts aside.

“Well, congratulations, then,” I said as I closed the door behind them.

 • • • 

I walked back to my cabin after the Whites left. I needed a break from the tension that was radiating from the closed door of Margaret's office. Expecting a chilly cabin and an anxious dog, I was surprised to find Salty sleeping heavily by the woodstove, which held a roaring fire. A small pile of wood was neatly arranged
beside it. When I peeked out the back door, the cord of wood that had been a sprawling mess was stacked under the eaves and tucked under a blue plastic tarp. On the kitchen table was a note.

Salty was on the porch with the door open when I walked by. Noticed the woodpile. Let him play while I stacked it. Hope you don't mind. Martin

I kicked off my boots and put the kettle on to boil, humming an old tune whose name I couldn't remember.

 • • • 

Hannah arrived at the sugarhouse a couple of hours later, a large pizza box balanced in one hand, a sonogram clutched in the other. She pushed the box at me and collapsed onto the couch. “Twins,” she said, waving the sonogram in the air. “I'm having twins. I just found out.”

I dropped the pizza box onto the counter. “Seriously?” One baby seemed impossible. Two babies—at once—seemed catastrophic.

“Can you heat that up? I drove all the way to Littleton to get it. I've been dreaming about that pizza for days.”

I turned on the oven and flipped open the box. It was just a cheese pizza. “What makes this so special?” I asked.

“I have no idea, but it's all I want to eat. That pizza from that shop. Jonathan won't eat it, so I don't feel right asking him to go.” Hannah kicked off her shoes and put her feet up on the couch.

“I'd have gone,” I said, pouring bubbly water into two cups.

“You've been busy.”

I could hear the note of hurt in her voice. It had been two weeks since I had seen Hannah at the diner. Between baking,
practicing dulcimer, and having lessons with Henry—which always led to visiting with the McCrackens—I hadn't had much time to do anything other than take Salty out for walks.

I handed her a warm slice and a glass of water and then plopped down on the couch beside her. She had taken off her coat and her belly was noticeably rounded.

“So, how do you feel?”

“Terrified.”

“And what did Jonathan say?”

“He was thrilled. He always wanted a big family, and we got a late start, as you know.”

Twins. Hannah's and my friendship had weathered the changes of her marrying Jonathan and moving up to Vermont with little conflict, most likely because I had convinced myself they were temporary. Some part of me still believed that Hannah and I would always be partners in crime. You could still be a partner in crime with one baby, but with two? Now I couldn't avoid the truth that things would never be the same.

“That's great, sweetie,” I said, grasping her foot and giving it a little shake. “I'm so happy for you guys.”

“I just wish we could keep it to ourselves a little longer, but with my belly . . . Jonathan wants to announce it to his family on Thanksgiving. Thank God you're going to be there.”

I stood up and went back to the stove to refill our plates. “Um, Hann, about that. I've been invited to the McCrackens' for Thanksgiving.”

“But I assumed you'd be coming to my house. I need you as a buffer.”

I leaned against the kitchen counter. “I'd like to, but Henry
is . . .”
Like a father to me
, I couldn't say. And I was going to lose him too. “I just couldn't say no to them.”

“But you can to me?” Hannah put her plate down. “Is there something going on between you and Martin that you haven't told me about?”

“I honestly don't know.”

“How can you not know?”

Because he hasn't tried to get down my pants, like every other man I have ever been involved with
. “Look—we're just friends. But I've been spending a lot of time with him and his family, and . . .”

“I need you there, Livvy. The doctor is threatening bed rest. And Jonathan was talking about his mother
moving in
.”

“I'm sorry. I just feel like I need to be there.” I turned to face the sink and stuck my hands under the hot water.

“I thought that you moving up here meant that we'd see more of each other, not less. You can be so frustrating sometimes.” Hannah appeared beside me. She dropped her plate on the counter with a loud clang. “You know what's going to happen. Henry is going to die, and Martin is going to go back west. And then you'll be back on my doorstep, just like you are every time you get hurt, and—”

“Hannah, you don't need to tell me that everyone leaves,” I said quietly.

“I never leave,” she said, her hand on the doorknob, “I just wish you would appreciate that.”

T
hanksgiving had never meant Indians and Pilgrims, or football, or even turkey to me. For twelve years it had equaled long days and cramped fingers. The day before Thanksgiving was always a marathon—twenty-four hours of pie baking—and I spent the morning of Thanksgiving boxing them for pickup. By the afternoon I was capable only of icing down my forearms, trying to ease the pain of rolling out hundreds of piecrusts. When Margaret informed me that the Sugar Maple was closed for the holiday, I should have felt elated. Instead I was surprised to find that I was nervous instead of relieved. Hannah and I hadn't spoken since our argument, and it left me feeling deeply unsettled.

I tried to find a way to decline Dotty's invitation, but excuses are hard to come by in such a small place. The closer we came to the day, the more I found myself with an anxious energy that could be released only by baking pies. I began with the basics—double-crust apple, sweet potato, bourbon pecan. A friend from the Cape had just sent me a crate of fresh cranberries, so I added a cranberry with crumb. Then an old-fashioned custard pie that I thought Margaret would enjoy. The custard reminded me of an old recipe for chess pie that I'd saved. I added a key lime and a
lemon meringue after I woke up in the middle of the night thinking that all the flavors were too heavy. Then I started to worry that the pies were all too adult somehow. I knew that Martin's nieces and nephews were coming, and children like chocolate, so I filled a cookie crust with pudding made from cornstarch and cocoa and piled it high with mounds and mounds of whipped cream and ribbons of milk chocolate. Everything would need to be accompanied by ice cream—vanilla. I spent an afternoon scraping the tiny black seeds out of fresh vanilla beans with the edge of a paring knife. I couldn't help but make Parker House rolls when I had the original recipe—not the one found in magazines but truly the original, which I had teased out of the chef at the hotel while we drank sidecars in the very room where Jack proposed to Jackie. I was determined to dazzle the McCrackens with baked goods so that they wouldn't notice that I lacked experience in the family department.

By Thanksgiving morning I had run out of pies to bake, so I dyed my hair. I must have been thinking about my walk in the woods when I chose the color—Enchanted Forest. It looked like the dark green balsams that lined the McCracken fields. When I was dressed, I grabbed my banjo and Dotty's dulcimer and marched down the hill. By the time I arrived at the inn, Margaret had already loaded the pies into the trunk of her car and was waiting by the door.

“Green, Olivia? I thought crimson might have been a more festive choice.”

“Did you remember the ice cream?” I asked, ignoring her comment.

She nodded.

“And the pumpkin and the cream pies? Some of them were in the back of the walk-in.”

Margaret let out a breath. “Yes, Miss Rawlings. Now stop fussing. It's a holiday.”

We pulled onto the dirt road that led to the McCracken farm. Cars were lined up along the road, and the parking area was full.

“That's a lot of cars.” I knew from dinner conversations at the McCrackens' that the extended family was large, but seeing it live and up close made my stomach churn.

“It's usually just the kids and their families,” Margaret replied. “A stray friend or two.”

Three boys who looked about nine or ten ran by the car holding sticks in the air and shouting. Margaret stepped out of the car and called them over.

“Hi, Auntie Margaret,” said the tallest boy, stopping to kiss her cheek.

“Hi, Auntie Margaret,” said the smaller two.

“You boys drop those sticks for a minute and give us a hand.” Margaret popped open the trunk and handed each boy a tower of pie boxes. “Now, be careful. Go straight into the kitchen and give them to your great-grandmother.”

The boys held the boxes in front of them and walked as if they were carrying gifts for a king.

I carried the ice cream, leaving Margaret with just the apple pies. We were met on the porch by a handsome man with salt-and-pepper hair and Dotty's hazel eyes. He wrapped his arm around Margaret's shoulder and gave her a tight squeeze.

“Great to see you,” he said, kissing her on the cheek. “Mom's in the kitchen. Tim!” he shouted into the open door. “Get your brothers and come out here.”

Three young men, all in their late twenties or early thirties, slipped through the door.

“I'm Mark,” said the salt-and-peppered man. He held out his hand. I balanced the ice cream awkwardly on one hip and shook his hand with the other.

“Olivia Rawlings.” I didn't know how to introduce myself. “I work at the Sugar Maple.”

“Do you go by ‘Livvy'?” Mark asked. “Henry mentioned you. Hope you brought your banjo.”

I nodded. “It's in the car. Your mom's dulcimer too.”

Mark handed the ice cream to one of the young men and took the box from Margaret and passed it to another. “Good, let's go get them. Maybe we can have a tune before supper.”

The once-peaceful McCracken homestead was buoyant with sound. I put the instrument cases on the floor and wrestled out of my coat. I could hear Dotty and Margaret talking in the kitchen, as well as some younger female voices. In the sitting room someone tuned a guitar string while a couple of men laughed. Three boys stood in a cluster unarmed but arguing. From somewhere deep inside the house, a baby cried. All I could think was
Thank God I didn't bring Salty
. I stood still in the foyer, not knowing where I belonged.

“I'll bring the instruments into the sitting room—it's where we usually play,” Mark explained, and disappeared into the room. Not sure if I should follow, I waited in the hallway. When he didn't emerge, I walked toward the room I had the highest chance of feeling comfortable in—the kitchen. It was as steamy as a sauna and every flat surface was covered with pans and dishes. Dotty stood at the center of it all, her face serene.

“Livvy, dear, glad you could make it.” She leaned over and kissed
my cheek. “I thought I saw a custard in one of your boxes,” she whispered. “I might have to hide that for myself. Now, I put the ice cream in the freezer downstairs, and all the pies are on the back porch—it's cool enough out there, don't you think?”

“That's perfect.” I rolled up my sleeves. “What can I do?”

A young redhead in her early twenties walked through the kitchen and handed me a baby. “Thank God. Could you take Dotty? I'm dying for a nap.” Without waiting for an introduction or an answer, she walked out of the room.

“That was my granddaughter, Nicole,” explained Dotty, reaching over to stroke the downy hair on the baby's head, “and this fine young woman is my great-granddaughter and namesake, Dorothy.”

Dorothy let out a cry and all the women laughed. I looked down at the baby in panic.

“You know, I'd probably be a lot more useful helping in the kitchen,” I hinted.

“Nonsense,” replied Dotty. “She's just like me—she likes to move. Just walk her around a bit and she'll be fine.”

All the other women in the kitchen turned back to their tasks. Feeling out of place, I tucked young Dorothy's butt under my arm and walked through the door. The baby radiated heat like a little furnace. I bounced her gently up and down as I walked her back and forth in the foyer, wondering where Martin was but feeling too weird to go in search of him. Dorothy reached behind me, grabbed my ponytail, stuck a curl in her mouth, and began to suck. A deep voice chuckled from down the hall.

“I see Nicole has already found someone to babysit my granddaughter.” I turned to see the perfect combination of Henry and Dotty at the end of the hall. He had Henry's sharp nose and Dotty's sweet smile. “Ethan,” he said, offering his hand.

“Livvy.”

“I figured. Marty told me about you.” Ethan tilted his head toward the sitting room. “Want to play? The boys are just tuning up.”

I held up the baby in
Lion King
fashion. Dorothy kept a tight grip on my hair, and a stream of drool escaped from her lips. “I've got my hands full.”

Ethan reached toward the baby. “I can take her.”

The baby felt like a security blanket—she was comforting and didn't expect me to talk much. I felt shy playing music with all of these strangers. “I'll just listen for this round,” I said, smiling. “But I'm sure I'll get the urge to play as soon as this one starts howling.”

Ethan chuckled and held open the door.

“There you are,” Henry called out. He was sitting on the couch, fiddle in hand, flanked by two of the younger boys. His sweater hung off his frame loosely, but his eyes looked bright, and he looked happy being surrounded by so many generations. “Everyone, this is Olivia.”

I waved hello, noticing that one of them had my banjo on his lap.

“I hope you don't mind,” he said, his fingers already twisting the tuning pegs.

“Not at all. Warm her up,” I replied as I settled into an armchair. The baby nestled her head into my shoulder and grew a tiny bit heavier as she sucked on my lock of hair. I rubbed my nose across her head.

Henry pressed his fiddle into the flesh beneath his collarbone, the same way Martin held his, and raised his bow. Counting under his breath, “One, two, three,” Henry began a slow version of the Shaker hymn “Simple Gifts.” Tim and Charlie, two of Henry's
grandsons, followed in time. I tapped my foot, singing the words softly into the baby's hair.

'Tis the gift to be simple, 'tis the gift to be free

'Tis the gift to come down where we ought to be,

And when we find ourselves in the place just right,

'Twill be in the valley of love and delight.

I looked up to see Martin leaning against the doorframe, looking at me, his expression unreadable. I waved. He tilted his chin in a single nod. The tune wound around three times before Henry stuck his toe out from under the red afghan on his lap. After the last verse, the room felt silent. Baby Dorothy let out a piercing roar.

“You better keep playing.” I laughed as I soothed the baby's back. One of her uncles strummed a chord on his guitar and the baby responded with a thundering “Ga,” waving a chunk of my hair in the air. The front door opened and a male voice called hello. Martin stepped back into the hallway. The house seemed to expand with the addition of each new guest. Ethan walked in and placed a glass of wine on the table next to me. The baby reached her hands out to him and squeaked.

“Ready for a break?” Ethan offered.

“Livvy, where's that dulcimer?” Henry asked. “Come show me how you're doing.”

I handed Ethan his granddaughter prying my hair from her tight grip. I grabbed the glass of wine and settled myself beside Henry on the sofa.

“Have you been practicing?”

“Of course,” I said as I removed the dulcimer from its case. “Will you play with me?”

Henry tucked the fiddle into his chest. “How about ‘Shady Grove'?”

I tucked the noter under my left finger and strummed the strings with the pick in my right.

“You start.” I closed my eyes and sang along to the sweet notes of Henry's fiddle. The difference in his and Martin's playing was slight but palpable. Henry had a way of teasing out the notes, almost as if he were lazily waiting for them to find him. When Martin played, I could feel his urgency deep in my belly, the feeling that each note was almost out of reach. I pressed the noter behind the second fret and joined in on the chorus. A low mumble that sounded more like a harmonium than a voice sang the next verse
.
I opened my eyes and found Martin sitting across from me with the guitar in his lap. I beamed at him. His face broke into an unguarded smile. We played until Henry stuck out his slippered foot, ending with a whoop and a shout.

“Dinner is ready,” Dotty called. “We've been blessed with a good crowd this year. If you could all join us in the dining room for grace, then we'll find everyone a place to sit down and eat.”

Martin and Charlie hung back to help Henry up off the couch. When Henry took his seat at the head of the table, the family gathered around. “Now, if you could all join hands,” Henry said as he reached over and took his wife's in his, smiling up at her. She kissed the top of his head and reached over for Margaret's hand beside her. Martin slipped in quietly behind me and took my hand in his. My heart sped up as his fingers wove themselves through mine. I could have sworn Margaret was
staring at us from across the room. She seemed to be looking at our hands. “Now, I hate to put you on the spot, Livvy,” Henry said, and a few people tittered. “But it's custom in this house to have our newest guest offer the blessing.”

“Wouldn't that be little Dorothy?” I asked.

Henry laughed. “No—it's your first Thanksgiving with the McCracken brood, not hers.”