The City Baker's Guide to Country Living (18 page)

I
t took thirteen pounds of flour, two quarts of buttermilk, two pounds of butter, four pounds of molasses, forty eggs, ten pounds of confectioners' sugar, more than fifteen pounds of candy, and every second of my free time that week, but I managed to finish my gingerbread house before the children's cookie-decorating party, with an hour to spare. It was an exact replica of the Sugar Maple, including the barn and grounds. I fashioned the iron benches out of black licorice and cats to sleep upon them from softened Tootsie Rolls. Trees of upside-down ice cream cones covered in sliced green gumdrops lined the property. I even made a little sugarhouse, complete with fruit-leather curtains and a stone chimney built from jelly beans. A marzipan Salty stood alert on the porch.

The couches were pushed off to the side of the sitting room, and long tables were set up, covered in small dishes of sprinkles and candy, plates of naked gingerbread people, and piping bags of royal icing. I kept fingering the bags, worried the icing would set up too quickly in the cool room. When I asked to turn the heat up, I got a pained look from Alfred, who was already sweating in his red velvet suit, a child on his lap tugging at his all-too-real
beard. Children poured through the door in waves, stuffing fistfuls of candy into their mouths and screaming for their mothers to take them over to see Santa. I directed the exhausted-looking parents to Margaret, who was pouring wine, and joined the children at one of the tables, demonstrating how Red Vines make the best lips while Froot Loops create a convincing head of curly hair. When all the gingerbread people were modestly dressed and I was sticky from head to toe, I went over to join Margaret at the back of the room.

“This is a fun party,” I said, picking up a piece of Manchego and topping it with a slice of quince paste. Some of the children were putting on a play with their gingerbread people. Alfred still had a line of children waiting to see him. A group was gathered around Sarah, who sat on one of the couches reading Christmas stories.

“It is,” Margaret said. “It's nice to have the house filled with young people.”

“Did you not want to have children?” I asked.

“I didn't marry until I was forty.”

“I'm sorry,” I said, although I wasn't sure if I was sorry that she hadn't gotten to have children or that I had asked the question. Probably both.

“Wasn't in God's plan.” Margaret took a sip of tea. “How about you, Miss Rawlings? Do you want children, or is that giant mutt of yours enough responsibility?”

“I don't know, honestly. I haven't really given it much thought.”

“Well, you'd better. You're no spring chicken. You kids think you have all the time in the world, but I'll tell you, it goes by quickly.”

“There's just the pesky issue of not having a husband.”

Margaret raised her eyebrows. “Doesn't stop most people. What about Alfred?” She waved her hand toward Santa. A child was crawling up his lap and trying to pull off his hat.

“What about him?”

“He's good with children, patient. He has steady employment. I've always found him to be a nice man. Good-natured.”

“Margaret.”

“They do say the sperm count is low among men who have worked a long time in kitchens.” She made a circular gesture below her waist. “The heat.”

“Margaret! Stop!” I said, laughing. “I don't want to spend any time today thinking about Alfred's scrotum. He is like an uncle to me.”

“He likes you.”

“And I like him. As a friend. A good friend.” I reached behind my back to untie my apron. “Sarah said she would finish the cleanup. Do you mind if I take off? I'm going to the movies with Martin and the McCrackens, and I want to wash this sticky layer off of me first.”

Margaret's eyebrows knit together. “Martin called earlier. He said to tell you that they couldn't make it.”

“When did he call?” The lack of cell phone service was beginning to be a problem.

“This afternoon.”

“Why didn't you tell me sooner?” I mashed my apron up into a tight ball.

Margaret put down her teacup. “Because I was busy, Miss Rawlings, and so were you.”

“Did he say why?” I asked, my voice steady.

“No.” Margaret hesitated. “But I spoke to Dotty earlier, and she said Henry was having a bad day. Dr. Doyle was going to drop by this evening.”

“Is he okay?”

“I didn't press.” Margaret shook her head once. “You shouldn't either.”

“It's not pressing if they're your friends.”

“The McCrackens,” Margaret said, her voice clipped, “have been my best friends for more than sixty years. I think I'll be the judge of what is appropriate.”

“They're my friends too. I'm not going to leave them alone because it would be more convenient for you if I were less involved in your life.” I tossed the apron onto the dirty cookie table. “And I'd appreciate it if you would give me my messages in a more timely fashion, since this town doesn't have any cell service and you won't let me get my own line in the sugarhouse.” And with that I pushed my way into the kitchen.

 • • • 

I thought a long walk with Salty would calm me down, but after he was walked, fed, and sleeping by the woodstove, I still found myself pacing around the cabin. After several failed attempts at reading and watching TV, I put my coat back on and grabbed my car keys. I drove slowly down the road, thinking I would just knock on their door, but the closer I got to the McCracken farm the more right Margaret's words felt. When I reached the cell phone hot spot, I pulled over behind a pickup truck and saw that Martin had left a voice mail. He apologized for canceling at the last minute. I pulled back onto the road and kept driving, not
knowing where I was headed until I saw the blue and yellow neon glow of the Black Bear Tavern's sign through the trees.

The tavern was quiet. I plopped down on one of the free stools.

“Bourbon, straight up,” I said as I propped my elbows on the bar. The logger sitting next to me pushed a bowl of peanuts in my direction.

“Cheers,” I said, holding up my glass. We clinked drinks.

I felt a slap on my back. Tom was standing behind me, white shirt tucked in and string tie clasped at the neck. “Glad to see you here, Liv. Want to sit in?”

“The Beagles are playing tonight?”

“You didn't know? I thought that was why you were here.” Tom sounded hurt, but his eyes were crinkled and sparkling.

“Just a quick drink.”

“Well, if you change your mind, we'd love to have you. No Martin tonight?”

“No, not tonight.”

I was sipping my second bourbon when a man leaned on the barstool next to me. “Didn't think I'd see you in here,” he said. I turned to face the familiar flannelled bulk of Frank Fraser.

I held my hand up. “I get it. I'm not from here. I don't belong here. Sorry to crash your bar, but it's not like there are a lot of options.”

“What?”

“Not tonight, okay? I just want to have a drink in peace.”

“I just meant I didn't think she would let you out of the kitchen this time of year. At least that's how it was when Bonnie worked there. I hardly saw her all Christmas season. Sucked.”
Frank held two fingers up to the bartender, who opened two Rolling Rocks and placed them on the bar.

“Just part of the glamorous world of baking.”

Tom stepped up to the microphone and tapped it with his index finger. “Evening, everyone. Since I know everybody in the room, I don't think I need to mention that we're the Beagles. Let's do it, boys.” And with a tap of his foot and the strum of a banjo chord the band broke into “Hotel California,” singing in a high, lonesome harmony.

I groaned. Frank slid off the barstool, taking his beers with him.

Cold air hit the back of my neck when the bar door opened. I felt a hand on my shoulder. Martin slid onto the stool next to me and ordered a whiskey.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” I replied, surprised but pleased.

We drank as we watched Frank and Bonnie press against each other on the dance floor. Frank's hand slipped into the back pocket of Bonnie's jeans. Her arms were wrapped around his neck and her eyes were closed.

Martin leaned over so his lips brushed my hair. “Do you want to get out of here?”

My heart sped up. “Sure.”

We drove down the highway in silence for half an hour, but I didn't mind. The bourbon I had drunk at the bar had left my body feeling loose—the tension of my argument with Margaret and the long hours spent in the kitchen were finally lifting. I was blanketed by a feeling of calm that I hadn't felt since the sleigh ride.

A bright yellow glow lit up the fog in the distance. “Almost
there,” said Martin. He took the next exit, and we pulled into the familiar parking lot of the F&G truck stop.

“How did you know?” I asked. “This is my favorite place in the world.”

“You've been here?”

“It was on my dad's truck route. He'd take me with him every so often.”

Martin smiled. “I used to come here all the time once I got my driver's license. It's the only place open past nine that isn't a bar.”

We weaved our way through the tractor-trailers and into the brightly lit lobby. The revolving display was jam-packed with pies. The hostess sat us in a corner booth.

A waitress came over with a pot of coffee and filled our cups without asking. “Anything else?”

“Black bottom,” I replied.

“Pumpkin for me,” said Martin, handing her the menu. He leaned back in the booth. In the bright yellow light of the diner I could see that his eyes were bloodshot. He looked exhausted. “I'm sorry I had to cancel tonight.”

“When Margaret gave me the message, she mentioned that Henry wasn't feeling well.” I paused. “Is he okay?”

Martin paused. “The doctor suggested it was time to bring in hospice.”

My heart clenched. “What does that mean, exactly?”

“More help, mostly. A visiting nurse.” Martin cleared his throat. “The focus will change to just keeping him comfortable.”

I reached over and took his free hand in mine.

The waitress wordlessly placed the slices on the table.

“I'm glad I found you.”

I wondered if he meant tonight, or in general. I unwrapped the paper loop that held my fork and knife together.

Martin scraped off the whipped cream with his fork. “My brothers were over with their wives and some of the nephews and the doctor. I needed a break.”

I tried to spoon a bite of custard that was only vanilla, saving the chocolate part for last. “Too many people?”

“My family can be a little overwhelming at times.” Martin ran his fingers through his hair, his gaze focused on something behind me. “I never thought I would feel that way about them.”

“What do you mean?”

“When I was a kid, I was really close to my brothers. Now they're just pissed off that I've stayed away for so long.” Martin alternated the pink and blue artificial sweetener packets in their plastic holder. “I just wanted to know who I was when I wasn't Mark and Ethan's little brother, or my mom's baby, or my dad's prodigy. I thought I'd join a band, play music, tour some, get to see a little of the world, then come home.”

“Why have you stayed in Seattle so long, then?” I asked. No one had ever had expectations of me. I wondered whether it would feel like pressure or a comfort.

“You know how it is—one thing leads to another. Time passes and you have your bandmates and your job, your apartment with the great little coffee shop downstairs and the cool dive bar right around the corner. Good friends. Suddenly your life is someplace else. The funny thing is that when I'm there, I feel like a kid from Vermont, and when I'm here, I feel, or I felt . . .”

I licked the last bit of chocolate custard off my fork. “I've never had any of those things.”

“Really?”

“Well—favorite coffee shop, yes. But I've never stayed in one place long enough for the rest. And I work all the time. The kitchen has always been my world.”

Martin cleared his throat. “Don't you think it's time to settle down somewhere, young lady?” he said in his best Henry voice.

“Oh my God,” I laughed, “you sound just like him.” I peeled off the lids of three creamers and dumped them into my coffee cup. “I do, actually. Think about settling down,” I said. “But I'll tell you what I told your dad—I think that decision is going to be Margaret Hurley's.”

“What did you do now?”

“I'm pretty sure it's somehow your fault,” I said, pointing my empty fork at him. “I don't think she's a fan of our friendship.”

Martin lined up the ketchup bottle with the salt and pepper shakers. “She means well.”

“So do I.” I brought my empty coffee cup to my lips and pretended to drink, just to give my face something to do. “What do you think?”