The City Baker's Guide to Country Living (6 page)

“Well, if you're going for that seventies-rec-room look.”

“Hann, I live in a one-room shack made for boiling tree sap.”

“You live in a sugarhouse, not a shack. And besides, it's your
home
. We want it to look inviting.”

Hannah was a ruthless bargain shopper with an amazing eye. Even though Jonathan's salary would have allowed her to furnish her whole house from the antiques shops on Newbury Street, she loved the hunt. We had spent part of every one of my visits to Vermont scouring yard sales and thrift stores, then heading to the Miss Guthrie diner to eat tall stacks of blueberry pancakes while Hannah gave me the dirt on everyone we'd run into that morning. It was our ritual.

With her help, the sugarhouse had already begun to look more cheerful. We had replaced the old workbench with a sparkling turquoise Formica table, complete with two matching chairs, only slightly ripped and discreetly mended with clear packing tape. The previous week Walt, the elderly man who ran the recycling center at the town dump with the strictness of a nun at an all-girls Catholic school, had called me at the inn to tell me one of the summer people had dropped off a perfectly good couch. I didn't need to ask how he knew I was looking for
one. Hannah had even managed to get Walt to make his grandsons deliver it for free. It was a puffy, overstuffed sofa covered in spotless canvas, like something you would see in a catalog. We positioned the couch against the wall near the front door, facing the woodstove and the kitchen. Two upturned wooden crates that served as end tables held lamps of bottle green glass with cream linen shades. I loved to sit on that couch in the afternoon, reading and looking out the windows into the sugar bush, stark except for the carpet of fallen cardinal red leaves.

“What do you think about this, Livvy?” Hannah called from across the room. She was standing beside a hand-carved coffee table.

“It looks heavy.”

“I saw one of the butcher's sons over by the paperbacks. I'm sure he would be willing to carry it to the car.”

“Do you really think I should be investing in any more furniture, Hann? Alfred told me about the inn being for sale.”

Hannah flapped open a hand-stitched quilt. The squares were ripping apart at the seams. “Really, don't people know they have to use a front-loading washer to clean these?” She tutted and left the quilt in a heap on the table.

“Did you know about it?”

“She's been talking about selling for years.”

“Alfred made it sound like it was more than just talk.”

Hannah looked over both shoulders. “As far as I know, the only offer she's ever had was from the Bradford family,” she said in a fast whisper, “and she would never sell to them.”

“Why does that name sound familiar?”

Hannah gathered up the cotton curtains she had found.
“Remember what I said the other night, about Margaret's recipes? Jane White? She used to be Jane Bradford.”

So Margaret had an arch enemy. Somehow I wasn't surprised. But that didn't explain why the name
Bradford
rang a bell.

 • • • 

Salty brushed by my shins as we unloaded all of our treasures from Hannah's Volvo. Along with the afghan, which I promptly spread over the back of the sofa just to make Hannah's nose twitch, I had found two pillows, embroidered with the faces of hunting dogs (obviously a labor of love by some farmer's wife). Hannah had picked up white cotton curtains with scalloped edges and all the hardware, but our biggest score of the day had been two screens made of rice paper, which we used to hide the bathtub that sat in the middle of the cabin, right behind the woodstove.

“This looks much better,” Hannah said, nodding in approval. She had been obsessing over the exposed bathtub. I've never been able to get her to skinny-dip. And don't ask about the time I brought her to the hot-tub place in college. She wouldn't speak to me for a month.

“Hmmm,” I agreed as I fed one of the metal rods into a curtain. “It's starting to look like I live here.” This was the most furniture I had ever owned. It made me feel a little itchy knowing I couldn't move in one trip.

“You do live here,” Hannah agreed as she straightened the last curtain. “In fact, I know you are officially part of the town, because when I was at the pharmacy I heard two members of the Friends of the Guthrie Library talking about you.”

“Was it about Jeff Rutland?” I began to crumple up newspaper and stuff it into the mouth of the woodstove.

“Jeff Rutland from Lyndonville?” Hannah stepped down from the stepladder, hands on her hips, surveying her work.

“Never mind.”

“Why would they be talking about—Livvy, you haven't . . .”

“Jesus, Hannah! No. I've never met the guy. Tom the dairy farmer said something about him to me my first day.”

“It's just that—Liv, you can't just, you know . . .” Hannah picked up her purse and rooted around inside. As if she didn't know exactly what side pocket she kept her lip balm in.

“Sleep around? Become the town home wrecker?” I went back to the woodstove, layered in kindling, and threw in a lit match.

“Listen, my first month in Guthrie I had a third glass of wine at book group. They were
small glasses
. It's been ten years, and every single time someone mentions book club one of the women will say, ‘We better get more wine if Hannah is coming.'”

“You do love your Chardonnay.”

“And you love your trysts. Just be discreet, okay? You'll like it here more if you don't ruffle a bunch of feathers.”

“I'll try,” I mumbled as I jabbed a too-big log into the stove, but I had serious doubts about my ability to please anyone.

Hannah opened her mouth to say something, then closed it. “Anyway, the two ladies from Friends of the Guthrie Library were talking about the bake sale. They were wondering what you were going to make.”

I watched as the log sparked and started to burn. “I was thinking macaroons.”

“The ones that were featured in
Cookie Connoisseur
?”

“Yup,” I said, closing the door to the woodstove.

“Perfect.” Hannah grabbed her coat and draped it over her
arm. “You'll be the talk of the town,” she said as she leaned over and kissed my cheek. “In a good way.”

 • • • 

I grabbed my banjo by the neck and headed out onto the porch, wanting to take advantage of the precious few hours of afternoon light. I sat down on the rocking chair, leaned back and propped my feet up on the porch railing, and, with the banjo balanced between my knees, twisted the pearly pegs until the strings began to talk to one another. My banjo leans toward the lazy, letting its strings wander and go slack at their own will. And on a humid day, well, forget it; it sounds like Salty howling after I have tethered him to a parking meter. But this afternoon was dry and warm and made for playing. I started with “Cluck Old Hen,” and then came “My Pretty Crowing Chicken,” old-time standards that keep your feet tapping. Before I knew it I had frailed a full hour of tunes named after poultry.

“The Cuckoo” required me to adjust the strings to a minor tuning. These modal tunes are my true love. Play me something in double C and I feel like someone has cracked me open. It's like those odd little notes are the voice of some truth I can't name. I let my mind wander as I played. The sun, now waning, still warmed my cheeks.

Hannah was right about one thing. It was peaceful here. I couldn't remember the last time I had spent a lazy afternoon playing. In Boston, when I wasn't at work, there always seemed to be something to do—laundry to schlep to the cleaners, checks to be deposited, Jamie to bed. My heart stilled. I guessed I should have told him I was leaving, even if our relationship wasn't exactly based on what people call feelings. Now that I was no
longer distracted by the thrill of meeting him in bedroom 8, when I thought of him, I also couldn't help but think of his wife. Not talking to him seemed like the best thing for everyone.

I focused on my fingers. Without my meaning them to, my hands had settled into the tune that I had heard in the woods with Salty. It was the saddest melody I had ever heard—a last waltz of unwelcome goodbyes and a desire I couldn't name. I played it over and over, a little surer of the notes with each round. I was lost in the rhythm, how it held both longing and joy.

“You can't play that.”

My feet slipped off the railing and I was flung forward, the banjo losing its place between my knees and landing on the porch floor with a loud twang. I picked it up and whirled around. Martin McCracken was standing at the bottom of my porch steps, fists clenched.

“I didn't hear you walk up.”

Martin crossed his arms against his chest. “You can't play it.”

“I thought I was doing pretty well.”

“It's not yours.”

I could feel my eyebrows involuntarily pinching together. “Well, ‘Whiskey Before Breakfast' isn't mine either, but I play it.” I leaned my banjo against the wall of the cabin and stood up.

Martin paced in front of the porch, his eyes to the ground. “Where did you hear it, anyway?” I could barely hear his mumble over the crunch of his boots on leaves.

“I don't know,” I lied. “I must have heard someone play it in a jam.” I walked to the edge of the porch, looking down at him.

“That's impossible,” he said under his breath. “You shouldn't go around just picking up people's tunes.”

I threw my arms up in the air. “That's how music has been passed down for centuries!”

Martin turned his back to me. I heard him let out a puff of air.

“I know that, but—”

“What are you doing here, anyway?” I had been having a perfectly peaceful afternoon. Now I felt like I was back in Boston, being lectured by one of my neighbors on the proper placement of the recycling bins on trash day.

Martin's back straightened. “Is this your dog?” He pointed down at Salty, who was sitting politely next to him. Salty panted and gave his tail a thump. Traitor.

“Hi, Salty,” I said. I hadn't noticed that he wasn't on the porch while I played. “He is. What are you doing with him?”

“Me?” Martin turned away from me again. He walked a couple of paces, then turned back. “I came home today to find your dog and one of the goats lying on my mother's sofa.”

“Were they asleep?”

Martin gaped at me. “Uh, no.” He put his hands in his pockets.

“What were they doing?” I had no problem picturing Salty lying on someone's sofa. I just thought he would be too excited to sleep next to a goat.

“Apparently they were watching TV,” Martin said in a tight voice.

“What were they watching?” I asked.

“
Duck Soup
.”

“God, I love that movie,” I said, laughing.

“Me too.” Martin sat down on the bottom step and leaned his head against the railing. I tucked my skirt around my knees and sat on the top step. “My mother was in the La-Z-Boy, snoring
away, with Mabel and your dog on the sectional. I managed to get them both out without waking her.”

I pressed my lips together, picturing Martin whispering and gesturing wildly. “Well, I'm sorry if Salty had anything to do with liberating your goat. The vet said he has separation anxiety. He's pretty good with doorknobs and latches.”

Martin reached down and stroked Salty's head behind his ears. Salty let out a low groan and rolled onto his back. Martin laughed and rubbed Salty's belly.

“Well,” he said to the ground, and then stood. He glanced up at me, his mouth open as if to speak, then turned and began walking into the sugar bush behind the cabin.

Salty stood and watched him as he disappeared into the trees, then padded up the steps, brushing past me, and into the cabin, no doubt ready for his supper.

T
he next morning I made a test batch of pumpkin crème brûlée. While the milk scalded on the stove, I whisked together egg yolks and pureed pumpkin, the bright orange mixture brilliant against the blue bowl. As I poured the milk slowly into the bowl, whisking all the while, a cloud of cinnamon and ginger wafted up, filling the kitchen with the scent of fall.

“Smells good,” said Tom as he walked by, carrying a crate of heavy cream into the refrigerator. I sliced a piece of frangipane tart for him.

“You've been holding out on me,” Tom said, mouth full. Flakes of puff pastry flew into the air.

“How so?” I transferred the custard into a glass pitcher and poured the mixture into the tiny pumpkins I had hollowed out the day before, lined up in a roasting pan.

“Here I am, having breakfast every other day with a banjo picker, and I didn't even know it.”

I put down the pitcher. “How did you . . . ?”

“And here I am, in need of a banjo picker.” Tom took a long sip of his coffee.

“Tom, I hate to break it to you, but I hate the Eagles.” I wiped
my hands on my apron, then cut myself a piece of the tart. “I just don't see myself as a Beagle. Besides, I
frail
, I don't pick. Now, what do you think of the tart? Too almondy?”

“How can you not like the Eagles?”

“I've got two words for you. Hotel Cali—”

“You're losing the taste of the apple.”

I nodded, taking another bite. I had been thinking the same thing.

“Now, it's not the Beagles that need a banjo player. It's the Hungry Mountaineers.”

“The who?”

“My contra-dance band.” Tom looked longingly at my plate.

“Take it,” I said, pushing it toward him. “Are there a lot of dances around here?”

“Ten or so a year. Next one's during the festival.” Tom popped the last bit of my tart into his mouth, reached into his back pocket, and pulled out a clean cotton handkerchief to wipe his lips.

“I've never played in a contra-dance band before.” I dampened a dish towel and wiped down the table.

“Have you ever been to a contra dance?”

I laughed. “I took my first steps on a contra-dance floor.”

Tom raised his eyebrows. “Really?”

I leaned my elbows on the table. “My dad was a frailer too. He played in a dance band when I was a kid.”

The door to the dining room swung open, and Margaret marched in. I straightened. “I'm surprised you don't have more deliveries this morning, Tom,” Margaret said as she walked past us and into her office. “I can see by the crumbs in your beard that you haven't given up the pastries despite what Dr. Doyle told you.”

Tom ran his fingers through his beard. “Darn wife tells
everybody everything,” he mumbled under his breath. “Well,” he said, slapping his hand against the counter, “rehearsal's at eight tomorrow night in my barn. I'll see you then.”

“But I—”

“Bye, Margaret!” Tom called over his shoulder. “I'll be sure to tell Marcie you say hello!”

I took out a fresh eleven-pound block of chocolate and a cleaver. Play with a dance band? I had to admit, it sounded like fun. I had complained endlessly when my dad dragged me off to folk festivals in the summers growing up, wanting to spend my afternoons with my girlfriends in the air-conditioned paradise of the mall. But I secretly loved the dancing. The sweaty scent of the grange hall on a hot summer night. The flashes of color when the women twirled in their full skirts. And the music! Tunes with silly names like “Kitten on a Black Dog's Tail” and rhythms so uplifting that you couldn't help but get up and join in. The best part was always the last waltz, when we paired off with whomever we had been crushing on to sway together for those few moments before the hall lights went up and we all went giggling into the darkness of the night.

 • • • 

The Carrigan place was on the outskirts of Guthrie, where farmland stretched far on both sides of the road. I turned into the driveway, tires crunching on gravel, past a peeling white farmhouse and down a long hill toward the cattle barn, a yellow rectangle of light marking the open door. I pulled my station wagon in between two pickup trucks. Salty leaped out over my lap and sauntered straight into the barn. I stood up and stretched, taking in the wide expanse of stars in the moonless sky. I grabbed my banjo from the backseat and headed into the light.

“Hey.” Three men sat in a circle on folding chairs. Tom stood
up from behind a small upright piano and slapped me on the back. He was wearing a pressed shirt tucked neatly into his jeans. Even in his barn Tom looked like he was on his way to church.

“Glad you could make it, Livvy. Come meet the band.” The men looked up shyly. “This here is Arthur on bass.” I recognized him as the Beagles' bass player as well. He grinned and took a long swig from a green bottle. “That's Gene on rhythm guitar.” He was older than Tom, at least sixty, slender with wavy silver hair and pink cheeks. “And on fiddle we have Martin McCracken.” Martin looked up at me and nodded. Salty, who had chosen to lie down on a patch of hay beside Martin, rolled over onto his back. Martin stretched down and scratched his stomach.

“We've met.” Though I'd suspected it was Martin who'd told Tom I played, it hadn't occurred to me that he might be in the band. He didn't seem like the joining type. Tom opened another folding chair and placed it next to Salty.

The cows radiated heat, and the barn was cozy despite the open door. I unzipped my fleece and settled in as Tom handed me a beer without asking. I took a long swig while Martin raised his fiddle and drew out a long G for me to tune to. I folded over, my ear to the drum, twisting the tuning pegs that tightened the strings, listening for the match.

“I thought we'd just run through our set, Livvy, so you could get to know how we play,” Tom said. “Join in anytime you like.”

I sat back, my arms relaxing.

“Ready?” he asked. Arthur stood with a groan and picked up the bass. Tom sat on the piano bench and tapped his brown work boot on the dirt floor. “One, two, three, and . . .” The barn leaped alive with music. My feet kept time with the rhythm Tom pounded
out on the piano keys. Arthur rocked his bass in his arms like a dance partner, while Gene arched his whole body over his guitar, his silver hair hiding his face. I couldn't keep my head from nodding to the beat. Even the cows in the barn had turned to face us.

I sneaked a look at Martin from the corner of my eye. He sat on the edge of the folding chair, leaning forward. The fiddle was pressed into a spot under his collarbone, as if he were pressing it into his heart. His eyes were closed. He moved the bow effortlessly across the strings, as if it were an extension of his hand. His knee bounced up as if his boots were spring-loaded. The folding chair threatened to collapse beneath him. If I had been deaf, I could have heard this tune by his gestures alone.

It was as if I were watching another person entirely. He played with the grace and strength of a long-distance runner. I had never seen his face look so unguarded. When his lips curled up as he leaned into a double stop, I found myself wishing he would smile like that for me.

At the end of the third round Tom stuck out his foot and everyone ended on the same note. Without realizing it, while watching Martin I had turned in my seat to face him directly. When he opened his eyes, I swiveled back to face the center of the room, dabbing with the back of my hand at the sweat that had beaded along my hairline.

“So, Livvy. Think you can keep up?” Tom asked with a grin.

I braced my banjo squarely between my knees and strummed an open chord, my thumb plucking the fifth string with a bright twang. “Let's give it a whirl.” And with my foot tapping in time to Tom's whispered countdown, I frailed my first chords with the Hungry Mountaineers.

 • • • 

When I stepped out of the barn, the droplets of sweat instantly froze on my skin. Reluctantly I zipped up my fleece and made my way to the station wagon in the dark. Light pooled from the car when I opened the door.

“Come on now, Salt.” I scanned the darkness, straining my ears to hear the jingle of his tags.

“He's right here.” Martin appeared on the other side of the pickup next to mine.

“He likes you,” I said. I patted my thigh and whistled a short loop. “Come here.”

Salty walked around the truck and leaped onto my backseat. I closed the door and opened the driver's side.

“Have you played with them long?” I asked, leaning my arms on the roof of the car.

“I used to—back in high school. Now I'm just sitting in.”

“They're all older than you, aren't they?” I guessed that Martin was only in his late thirties at best. “Was that strange?”

“I think Tom's around fifty, so yeah. Not a lot of options in a town like this.”

I tried to imagine being a teenager without record stores or coffee shops or the sweaty crush of strangers in the mosh pit, and failed.

“So why Salty?” Martin asked, leaning against his truck, still clutching his hard, black fiddle case.

“It's short for Old Salt. Doesn't he look like the Gorton's Fisherman?”

Martin raised his eyebrows.

“You know.” I took a deep breath, then sang, “Trust the Gorton's Fisherman.”

“The fish sticks commercial?”

“Exactly!”

Martin peered into the backseat of the station wagon. “I guess a little around the eyes.”

I laughed. “It probably helps that I found him in Gloucester. Right by the Fisherman's Memorial statue, in fact.” I gazed through the fogging windows at Salty's long frame. “I never really wanted a dog. I sat by the statue for hours waiting for someone to come looking for him, but no one ever did.”

“You don't like dogs?”

“No, I love dogs. It's just . . . too much responsibility. Anyway, he looked so pathetic, all alone.”

Martin took a sudden interest in something on the ground. “You play beautifully.”

“You're not bad either,” I said. In fact, he was the most remarkable fiddle player I had ever seen.

Martin barked out a laugh. “Thanks a lot.”

“Thanks for getting Tom to invite me,” I said shyly.

“It seemed like a good fit.” He slid into the driver's seat. “I'll see you tomorrow for practice.”

“See you.” Waving, I ducked into my own car.

Martin started the truck's engine, stretching his arm around the bench of the cab as he backed up. I watched his taillights snake up the hill and turn onto the main road, disappearing into the dark night.

 • • • 

I stopped at the inn to make a phone call before feeling my way back to the sugarhouse. Raphael was my old specialty-foods rep, and he owed me a favor because I'd introduced him to his now-husband, Charles. Margaret hadn't said another word about the
bake sale, but I knew that it wasn't just a casual charity event. And I had to admit that there was a grain of truth in what Hannah had said: I needed to make a good impression. Every private club from Boston to DC had almond macaroons on its dessert menu, but mine were legendary. Crisp on the outside, fragrant with the scent of bitter almond, the center tender with just enough chewiness. They were sweet without being cloying, rich without being heavy. My first magazine write-up had been about my macaroons. They had established me as a notable chef and given me job security at the Emerson; in situations like this one, they were my secret weapon.

When I told him I had a special event a week away, Raphael agreed to overnight me a can of my favorite almond paste and a pound of Belgian cocoa powder, extra dark. I was not going to take any chances with ingredients. I could make macaroons blindfolded, but the key to perfection lay in the oven being precisely 325 degrees, and I just hadn't developed that kind of trust with the oven at the Sugar Maple. When my package arrived, I stayed late in the kitchen. I measured the almond paste, sugar, and cocoa powder into the bowl of the stand mixer and set it in motion. The mixture began to make a swish-swish sound like maracas being shaken. The inside of the bowl sparkled like a black-sand beach as the tide went out, the almond paste perfectly cut by the sugar and cocoa. After adding egg whites that had been whisked together with instant espresso powder and a drop of rum, I stopped the mixer, pinched off a piece of raw dough, and popped it in my mouth—the mixture melted on my tongue.
All right, Guthrie bakers
.
Bring it on.