The City Baker's Guide to Country Living (24 page)

I would rather have hiked up Mount Washington in the middle of January, in flip-flops, than go back to Guthrie, but Hannah had always had my back. “Just for the afternoon. No overnights. I'm going to your house, then back home.”

Hannah's eyes held a million thoughts, but she gave me no argument. “March twenty-eighth, one p.m.”

 • • • 

I locked myself in one of the graffiti-covered stalls of the Skull's ladies' room and sat on the toilet with my pants still up, pregnancy test in hand. Guitars shrieked and drums thrashed through the walls while a man shouted into the mic. I had spent the week since seeing Hannah in a state of denial, convinced I was just late, until the nausea kicked in, and even then I had carried the pregnancy test around for days, unable to settle on the right place to take it. The Friendly Eating Place had seemed too small, somehow, as though Salty, the results, and I couldn't all fit in the crowded space. Two girls came into the bathroom. I listened to them gossip about the bass player while spraying each other's hair with what, judging by the smell, could only be Aqua Net Extra Super Hold. “Suck it up, Livvy,” I muttered as I pushed my jeans down to my ankles.

It would be pretty after-school-special of me to get knocked up after having sex
one time
with a man
, I said to myself as the three
minutes it would take to reveal my fate eternally dragged on. Besides, I had had a lot of sex with a good number of men, and I had never gotten pregnant. I tried to push aside the fact that I had run out of pills sometime around Halloween and hadn't seen the point in refilling the prescription. A group of girls came in, and one pounded on the stall door.

“I have to pee so badly,” she wailed.

I dropped the test into my purse, opened the door, and pushed past her.

“Thank you,” she whimpered, slamming the door behind her, her friends laughing behind the other stall doors.

The club was dark and cool. When their set ended, the kids with egg-whited Mohawks packed up their gear while a boy in tight black jeans and an ironic Christmas sweater said, “Check, check,” into the mic. I sat down on a barstool. Jimmy, the bartender, reached out a tattooed arm and patted me on the shoulder.

“Haven't seen you in ages. How've you been, kid?”

“Can you do me a favor?”

“If it's legal.” He shot me a grin that sparkled with two gold teeth.

I slapped the pregnancy test onto the bar in front of him. “Just tell me what you see—one stripe or two.”

Jimmy squinted at it. He reached into his pocket, retrieved his iPhone, and shined the light on the plastic wand. He looked at me for a second, his expression soft, before saying, “It's two, kid.”

I grabbed the test, trading it for a couple of singles. “Thanks, Jimmy.”

Feedback screeched through the mic as a young man grabbed the stand. “We are the Fetuses and we are here to fuck. You.
Up.” A grinding guitar riff and throbbing drums played me out as I stomped down the long cement hallway to the door.

 • • • 

The walls of the clinic exam room were covered with brightly colored posters with cheerful fonts, warning of the dangers of domestic abuse, alcoholism, and unprotected sex. I sat on the exam table in a blue paper gown, angrily contemplating the heart-shaped doilies and paper Cupid on the door. There was a brisk knock, and an impossibly young female doctor came in and sat down.

“All right, Ms. Rawlings. Your urine test came out positive, but the blood test will take a day or two to confirm. Let's take a look, shall we?”

I scooted my butt down to the end of the table, placed my feet in the stirrups, and thought about all the ways in which I would be a terrible mother:

1. I didn't really have a mother, so I would have no example to follow other than “Don't abandon your kid.”
   
2. I couldn't stand the sight of creamed vegetables. Even mashed potatoes gave me the shudders, so basically until it could chew, the baby would starve.
   
3. The last two places I'd lived were a shack made for boiling tree sap and a gutted pizza shop. Where would I end up next, an abandoned wine cellar?
   
4. Babies are fragile—and ugh, that whole soft-spot-on-the-skull thing—and I was super clumsy.
   
5. —
   

“Okay, Ms. Rawlings, all set. You can sit up.” The doctor pulled off her disposable gloves and tossed them in the hazardous-waste bucket. It felt like my insides were dangerous material right now. “We can unofficially say you are definitely pregnant. If you like, we could do an ultrasound right now to estimate the date of conception.”

“December twenty-first,” I mumbled, wrapping the paper gown tightly closed.

“What's that?”

“December twenty-first is the date of conception. We only had sex once.”

“That's all it takes,” she said with a warm smile. “Now, have you made any decisions?”

“I'm pregnant. I'm really pregnant?”

“You're pregnant.”

“But I'm too young to be pregnant.” I was speaking of my mental age, of course.

The doctor looked at my crow's feet, then at my chart. “You're thirty-two. In a few years your fertility will actually start to decline.” This made me feel as if I had just eaten a dozen fried cider doughnuts. “Let's go over your options. You're still in the first trimester. If you choose abortion, I would wait one more week—it's best to perform the procedure between weeks eight and twelve. We don't recommend you wait any longer. If you choose adoption or to keep the baby, I can give you a referral to a low-cost OB-GYN clinic nearby.”

“You know, I've always made fun of the girls on TV that got knocked up after just one time.”

“All it takes is healthy sperm and a mature egg. It's not that
unusual.” She placed a pile of pamphlets next to my hip and patted my hand. “I'm going to pop into the exam room next door and check in on my next patient. Take a minute to see if any questions come up that we can answer today. You don't have to make a decision right away.”

Not making a decision
is
making a decision
. Henry's words seemed to float by like a banner behind an airplane. I ripped the paper gown off, dressed as quickly as I could, and sprinted out of the clinic, ignoring the call of the receptionist asking if I needed a follow-up appointment.

 • • • 

I'll get an abortion
, I said to myself for the millionth time that week. Every time I said it, I believed it less. Every time I considered my options, the thought ended with the words
Martin's baby
. Not just
a
baby—that would be hard enough—but his. A tiny little brooding creature with thick black glasses. Martin's, and mine. Then I would say to myself,
I'm keeping the baby
. And that seemed just as impossible. How could I do the one thing Martin had devoted his life to avoiding? It was bad enough having lost him. To have him and have him resent me seemed a thousand times worse. No matter which way I looked at things, all I could see was disaster.

T
he hopeful signs of spring that had shown their faces in Boston—the witch hazel blossoms, the greening of the willow trees—disappeared one by one as I drove north. Guthrie was still in winter's grip.

Hannah greeted me at the door, her belly round and heavy-looking, but she waited until I was in her living room to tell me that the baby shower had been moved to the Sugar Maple. “Mrs. Doyle invited practically the whole town,” she explained. This did not make me feel any better. I handed her the little blue gift box and made my way into the bathroom to make sure I was ready for public viewing after the long drive.

I had freshly Manic-Panicked my hair—Electric Lava—so the curls were the color of candied apples, and I had pulled them into a tight bun on top of my head. I had been switching the color every time I changed my mind about what my next move would be. The loose-fitting black tunic and pair of black leggings I wore didn't exactly scream baby shower, but the tunic hid the roundedness of my own belly. My boobs were another story. They had grown two cup sizes. No one knew about the baby yet—not even Hannah. I was hoping everyone would assume I was just eating
my way through the cookbook I was working on. I made a brave face in the mirror, but I wasn't fooling myself. With every exit off Interstate 93 had come the temptation to turn around. I hadn't factored in that my best friend still lived in the town as I had slipped out of the back of the church three months earlier. In my mind Guthrie was frozen exactly how I had left it—Henry in a casket, Martin next to Sylvie. The arrival of a single slim blonde in beautiful leather boots had turned the town into enemy territory. And I had just crossed the border.

 • • • 

“There's my girl,” Alfred whooped when I pushed through the swinging door to the Sugar Maple kitchen. The scent of garlic and browned butter enveloped me. Walking into the kitchen felt like zipping up my favorite fleece jacket. Alfred pulled me into a tight bear hug, swinging me around in a circle.

“There is a really good chance I'm going to vomit on you,” I giggled into his ear, although my stomach had made a remarkable recovery in the past week. I had moved from the nauseated not-wanting-to-eat-at-all stage to the wanting-to-eat-everything-all-the-time one.

Alfred put me back on the floor but kept an arm firmly around my shoulder. “You are a sight for sore eyes.”

I punched him on the bicep. “And you are a scent for sore stomachs. Whatever you're making smells delicious.”

Alfred beamed. “You'll have to stay for dinner, then. The shower is just hors d'oeuvres.”

“I can't stay—it's a long drive back. I don't want to drive through Franconia Notch in the dark.”

“Nonsense. You'll stay. The dance is tonight.”

I crossed my arms over my stomach. “I can't.”

The door to the office opened. Two men in suits emerged, followed by Margaret, who ushered them toward the door to the dining room without even a nod in my direction.

I waited until the door stopped swinging. “What's up with that?”

“She was pretty upset when you left.”

“That much I figured. I meant the suits.” They looked different from any visitor Margaret had ever had.

Alfred poured a heap of salt into the palm of his hand and sprinkled it by the pinch into the saucepot. “Not sure exactly. But they aren't the first.”

I made my way over to my old workbench, hit by a wave of longing at the sight of the Nancy Drew books still piled underneath the legs, and pulled up the stool that Tom used to occupy in the mornings. “So where's my replacement?”

Alfred looked surprised and handed me a teacup of the soup he was making.

“She didn't replace you.” He turned back to his pot. “So, how about it? It's the Maple Sugaring Festival weekend. The Sugar on Snow contra dance is tonight in the grange hall. Be my date.”

“Who's playing?” I tried to sound casual. Maybe he had come back after all.

“I think it's just Tom on the piano and a fiddle player over from Montpelier. I'm sure they'd let you sit in if you'd rather play than dance with me. But I've been taking lessons.”

I laughed as he promenaded an invisible partner.

“Stay, Livvy. It will give us a chance to catch up.”

“I don't know. Salty is in Boston, and Hannah's place is full of the Doyle family. I don't have a place to crash.”

“Well, you can't stay here,” Margaret said as she walked past us carrying an empty silver tray. “The sugarhouse is busy with what it was intended for, and the inn is all booked up.”

“What did you do with all of my stuff?”

Margaret held the tray up in front of her. “Alfred, they already went through the cheese.”

“Alfred is here, you're here—who's sugaring, anyway?” I said in the same dismissive tone she had used with me.

Margaret put the tray down on the table in front of me. “Not your concern. Are you coming into the party or are you planning on hiding in the kitchen all afternoon?”

The kitchen was warm and familiar, and Alfred's eyes were always kind. Hiding in here sounded like a very good plan.

“Hannah is asking for you. She wants you to keep track of the gifts for the thank-you notes.”

I rolled my eyes and slid off the stool, stopping to kiss Alfred on the cheek. “I'll see if I can find someone to take care of Salty.”

“And you'll stay with me,” Alfred said over his shoulder.

Margaret raised her eyebrows at me. I ignored her and walked straight out of the kitchen.

 • • • 

Hannah was seated in one of the wing-backed chairs, flanked by two enormous papier-mâché storks, the babies in their beaks suspended over her head like anvils. Seated next to her was her mother-in-law, Mrs. Doyle, looking regal in her cornflower blue suit with matching shoes. I was pretty sure she had the same outfit in pink for the arrival of granddaughters, and another in black for funerals. The room was packed shoulder to shoulder with women. A giant mound of presents was piled up at Hannah's feet.

“Livvy!” she called, patting the chair on her other side. I wound through the crowd, nodding and returning smiles, trying to ignore the rising hum of hushed voices. “Did you try the punch? Chef Alfred made it up—he's calling it the Doyle Twins. It has twin rums—light and dark.”

I shook my head. “I have a long drive ahead of me.”

“I actually miss drinking. I didn't think I would.” Hannah eyed her mother-in-law. “But it helps with stress relief.”

I looked toward the back of the room, where Margaret was standing. “I can't believe you didn't tell me the shower was going to be here.”

“You wouldn't have come.” Hannah leaned toward me. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.”

“I'm so not believing you.”

“Open your present,” I said. My blue box had made it to the top of the pile.

Hannah grinned and leaned down to grab the box. She undid the white ribbon with a single pull and popped open the lid. Inside was a silver locket in the shape of a heart.

“Two pictures will fit in it,” I said shyly. I leaned and whispered into her ear, “I figured you were going to have enough Diaper Genies after this.”

“It's perfect,” she said, her eyes welling up.

“You need to push those babies out so I can have my pragmatic best friend back. The tears are killing me,” I said, wiping my own.

Mrs. Doyle called everyone to attention, and Hannah unwrapped the rest of her gifts, cooing appropriately over each tiny sock and onesie. I studiously recorded the gifts, happy to have
something to focus on. Hannah tore the wrapping off a rectangular box to reveal a hand-crocheted afghan in yellow and pale green. “Dotty McCracken,” she whispered. My eyes scanned the room. I found Dotty sitting in a rocking chair toward the back, next to Margaret. She gave me a warm smile when our eyes met. I waved to her with both hands. Her gray hair was loose around her shoulders, and she looked smaller than I remembered, swallowed by the chair. Memories of gray afternoons drinking tea and playing music flooded my thoughts.

When the gifts were unwrapped and Hannah was making the rounds with her thank-yous, I elbowed my way over to Dotty.

“Hello, my dear girl,” she said, kissing my cheek as I leaned down to greet her.

She smelled like maple candy. I bit the inside of my cheek. “Hey, Dotty.”

“It's been quiet without you and your dog around the house. Have you been keeping up with the dulcimer?”

I hadn't had the heart to open the dulcimer case since Henry died. I attempted a weak grin. “How are the boys?” I hadn't meant it to be the first question I asked, but it was impossible to look into Dotty's blue eyes and make small talk as if we were strangers.

“Mark and Ethan are good—busy with their families and their farms. I think they keep a schedule so one of the grandchildren is always at the house,” she confided. Tilting her head, she kept her eyes trained on mine. “I'm sure you heard Marty is back in Seattle.”

I held her gaze, holding my breath.

“He calls on Sundays. He seems busy with school, so that's
good.” Dotty leaned toward me, her face near my ear. “He took his father's death the hardest, I'm afraid. I wish he hadn't left.”

“Me too,” I said quietly.

“You could call him. It would do him good to hear from you.”

My eyes reflexively looked down at the braided rug.

Dotty reached for my hand and gave it a squeeze. “How about brunch with an old woman tomorrow? Tom gave me a jug of fresh syrup just this morning. Come over to the house for pancakes, won't you? We have a lot to catch up on.”

I smiled as I stood. “Ten o'clock too late?”

“Mass ends around ten. Let's make it eleven.”

Margaret stood. “Will you come into the kitchen with me for a minute, Miss Rawlings?”

I looked over at her, but she was already halfway to the kitchen. I shrugged at Dotty and made a face. Dotty laughed and waved me off.

 • • • 

The kitchen was quiet, Alfred nowhere to be seen. I found Margaret sitting at her desk in the office. From the case on the back wall, the three red ribbons from the failed pie contests glowed like warning lights.

“Close the door behind you.”

“So what's up?” I asked, plopping into the chair opposite her.

Margaret frowned. “Mrs. White took the time to remind me that when she paid the deposit on her granddaughter's wedding it was with the expectation that you would be baking the cake.”

“God, what is up that woman's butt?”

“Diamonds from the White family fortune, or so she'd like everyone to think. I need you to fulfill that commitment.”

“I'm committed elsewhere.”

“I'm told you're freelancing, so your schedule must have some flexibility. It's only one day.”

“Wedding cakes take a week to make. Besides, I'm not sure what I'll be doing then. I could find someone to make it for you.”

“They're expecting you. Mrs. White made that quite clear this afternoon.”

“Since when do you do what Jane White says?”

“Since you raised the girl's expectations with that quilted cake pattern. And you did make me a commitment of one year, which I let you out of without a single complaint.”

I winced. I still felt bad about New Year's. “Did she decide on a flavor?”

“She wants three different layers.”

“Of course she does.”

“The coconut with the passion-fruit curd, the devil's food with a rum ganache, and the lemon with the fresh raspberries and white chocolate cream.”

I grimaced. That was a week's worth of work, minimum. “What's the date?”

“June twenty-fifth.” I'd be six months pregnant. There would be no hiding it then. I huffed out a breath. “Is there even going to be a Sugar Maple in June?”

Margaret gathered some papers on her desk and patted them into a neat pile. “Of course there will be. Why would you ask that?”

“I know investors when I see them.”

“I don't see how who I meet with in private is any of your concern.”

“I don't want to commit myself in June if you might close the place.”

“Believe me, Miss Rawlings, come hell or high water, Jane White's granddaughter will be married here in June. Now, are you going to be fit to make a wedding cake in June?”

“Of course, why wouldn't I be?” I said, having no idea if I would or wouldn't. I didn't have anyone to ask. “I'll do the baking from wherever I am and do the finishing work here. You'll cover the cost of ingredients?”

“Of course. Do I need to draw up a contract?”

“For a wedding cake?”

“You broke the last verbal agreement we had.”

“Fine,” I said, suddenly feeling exhausted. “Whatever. I'll sign whatever you want.”