The City Baker's Guide to Country Living (8 page)

“You've got nothing to worry about. Your desserts are outstanding. Everyone is going to love you.” Al's cheeks reddened like apples. He looked down. “But you might want to do something about your hair.”

I reached up to feel a halo of frizz surrounding my face. “The cheese plates are ready to go. I'll be right back.”

 • • • 

The cool evening air felt fresh against my skin. I walked quickly to the front door of the inn, resisting the temptation to peek in at the dinner guests. The inn was quiet, the only sounds the ticking of the grandfather clock and Salty panting from one of the love seats near the fireplace. I went into the ladies' room. When I looked at my reflection in the mirror, I was surprised by what I saw. Sure, my face was glossy with sweat, and my hair had liberated itself from most of its bobby pins, but I looked happy. Content, even. I couldn't remember the last time I had felt so at ease. I pinned back my curls, wiped my face with a paper towel, and walked back out into the evening.

 • • • 

The tent smelled like the home of someone who loved you. Like Sunday dinner at my Nana's house, rich with the aromas of roasted meat, dark and crisp at the edges but tender and pink inside, of caramelized onions and woodsy mushrooms. My stomach grumbled.

“You held back enough for staff meal, didn't you?” I asked Al.

“Not to worry. There's a whole extra roast.”

“Are they slowing down?” I asked as I eyed the cheese plates.

“Want a hand with dessert?”

I exhaled. “Yes, please.”

We began with the chocolate shells. I topped the ganache with a rosette of freshly whipped cream and crowned each tartlet with a tiny half-dome of spun sugar, its amber color hinting at the caramel inside. The apple galettes were cut into wedges. I brushed the edges of the puff pastry with apricot glaze and sprinkled them with toasted slivered almonds. I was worried that the phyllo-wrapped pears would not have weathered well, but the pastry was still crisp and golden and the cognac-stuffed pears still looked moist and tender. The crème brûlées were last. I arranged the tiny orange pumpkins on the tray. Without having to be asked, Al spread a thin layer of sugar on each. I lit the blowtorch and waved the flame across the custards; the scent of caramelizing sugar filled the tent.

Margaret came in as the last wisps of smoke from the burning sugar dissolved into the air. “It's time. Follow me.”

Al handed me a tray of the custards. “Margaret will say a few words, then I'll follow. When you hear me say, ‘And now for dessert,' let the servers go out first with the other platters, and then you follow holding the brûlées. I'll introduce you. Just say whatever you like. Okay?”

“All right.” I hovered by the door as Margaret and Al disappeared into the barn. From outside I could hear the pleasant hum of the crowd, as though I were standing close to a beehive. Sarah peeked out from the doorway and gave me a thumbs-up. I followed the servers in. At the head of the tables stood Al, with Margaret standing a few steps behind him, her arms folded across her chest. I looked over at her and shrugged. She nodded her head toward Al.

When I reached his side, Al placed a comforting hand on the middle of my back. He turned his attention back to the room. “We've had a wonderful new addition to the Sugar Maple staff this year, as you all are about to discover. It's with deep pleasure that I introduce you to our new pastry chef, Olivia Rawlings.”

The sound of clapping filled the room. I was happy to have the tray of crème brûlées in my hands to steady me. To my left sat the town manager and his wife. To Alfred's right was Dotty. The seat next to Dotty was empty. The applause died down as the servers worked their way through the crowd, but the clap of a single guest's hands continued with gusto. I scanned the barn. A chair in the back scraped the dirt floor, and a figure stood up. I squinted across the room to see who it was. All I could see was that he was wearing plaid patchwork pants. My hands began to tremble. The tiny pumpkins started to vibrate, marching toward the edge of the tray. The tray itself grew heavy and slick as my palms started to sweat. A pumpkin teetered off the edge and landed in the town manager's lap.

“Are you all right?” Al whispered as he grabbed the tray.

“I'd like to propose a toast,” Jameson said from across the room. He raised his martini glass. I didn't even think the inn
had
martini glasses. He probably traveled with his own. “Miss Rawlings was the pastry chef at the Emerson Club, of which I am president, for more than two years. She is a treasure, an absolute delight, a gift from the heavens. . . .”

My face and neck burned hotter than caramelized sugar. I clenched my hands into tight fists at my sides.

Beside him, Jameson's wife glowered. I imagined her hands mirroring mine.

“I just hope you all appreciate what a wonderful person you have here, because sometimes we do not really appreciate what we have until it's gone.”

Al coughed. “Yes, well said. Let's all—”

“To Olivia!” Jameson shouted. His wife grabbed him by the elbow. He shooed her away as if she were one of his hunting dogs.

“Yes,” Al interjected, “let's all raise a glass to Ms. Rawlings, to welcome her, although I am sure she would agree that the best show of appreciation would be your enjoying the amazing desserts she has prepared for all of you.” Al passed the tray of custards to one of the waitstaff. The crowd began to clap politely as the servers offered the desserts. Jameson remained standing.

“To Olivia!” He raised his glass in the air. His wife stood up and walked out the back door of the barn. Jameson swayed. “Olivia. Livvy.” He took a long swallow from the glass he was holding. He drained it and let it slip from his fingers. “Livvy, what are you doing here?”

Chef Al looked down at my frozen expression, took me by the arm, and led me out of the barn.

The fact of Jameson Whitaker, drunk at the harvest dinner, began to settle in my spine. Pressure built up behind my eyes.

“Livvy, was that . . . ?”

I pulled my arm out of his grip. “Please,” I said as I pushed past Alfred and headed back toward the inn.

“Livvy?”

“I'll be back to clean up in a minute, okay?” I called as I slipped into the building.

 • • • 

I marched into the darkened kitchen and grabbed by the neck the bottle of bourbon I kept for flavoring pecan pies. I poured a shot into a juice glass and knocked it back. Salty pushed open the swinging door and pattered in.

“Just this once,” I told him as I sank down into one of Margaret's rocking chairs, bottle in hand.

I was on my fifth shot when Al came in looking for me. He sat next to me in the other rocker and reached for the bottle.

“So, that was your old boss?”

“Yup.” I reached down and stroked Salty's fur, avoiding Al's eyes. “Did he do anything else? Pass out? Sing? Start tipping the staff with fifty-dollar bills?”

Al laughed. “No, I'm pretty sure he just sat down and ate dessert. The folks next to him probably got an earful.”

I groaned. Pushing off the ground with my feet, I rocked for a few moments. Al took a swig from the bottle.

“When I mentioned I was involved with someone at work . . . Jamie wasn't just my boss, exactly.”

“You don't say.” Chef Al stood and held his hand out to me. “When was the last time you ate?”

I rocked furiously. “I had that piece of spice bread this morning.”

“Come on, you need to get some food into you.”

“I can't go back in there.”

“Sure you can.” Al reached down and pulled me out of the rocker. “The table is all set for staff meal. Let's not keep them waiting.” Al tucked my arm into his to steady me and led me out of the inn.

 • • • 

“Livvy!” Sarah called when we ducked our heads into the tent. “I saved you a seat.”

Platters of prime rib, Brussels sprouts, and risotto were making their way around the table. Al placed a bowl of end cuts of beef on the ground for Salty.

“Great meal, everybody,” he said as he opened a bottle of wine.

“The whole thing was a big hit,” Sarah said, tearing open a popover. They were still steaming.

“Did they like dessert?” I asked, fixing my eyes on Salty.

“They loved every bite,” Al said from across the table.

“Well, I feel very appreciated right now,” I said with a grin.

“We treasure you, Livvy,” said Sarah.

“You're an absolute delight,” Al said, laughing so hard be began to choke on a Brussels sprout. One of the high school kids pounded hard on his back.

“To Livvy,” Sarah said as she held up her wineglass.

“To Livvy,” chorused the high school kids.

I cracked the burned-sugar topping of a pumpkin crème brûlée with my teaspoon, revealing a smooth orange layer of spicy cooked cream.

“To all of you,” I said, lifting up the bottle of whiskey.

Margaret walked in and joined us at the table. “Please tell me that dog was not in here the whole time you were serving dinner.”

“Of course not. Just for the after-party,” I said.

Margaret poured herself a glass of wine. “Excellent job, Alfred. The guests certainly seemed to enjoy everything.” She looked about the table. “The service went smoothly, Sarah. And you kids did a good job. I'm proud of you.” Margaret finally turned to face me. “You certainly made an impression, Miss Rawlings.”

I rolled my eyes and poured a finger of whiskey into my water glass. “Did your friends have a good time?”

“They did,” she said, standing. “I'm going to retire. Alfred, the rental company is going to be here to pick up the equipment first thing. Can you manage that?”

“No problem. I'll have it all packed up and ready.”

“Okay, then.” Margaret stood up. “Don't raise too much of a ruckus out here. I've got an inn full of guests.”

 • • • 

I didn't return to the sugarhouse until one a.m. My mind raced as I shuffled through the darkness, guided by the crunch of Salty's paws on fallen leaves. Margaret hadn't seemed too upset, and maybe that speech of Jamie's hadn't been as bad as I thought. I mean, no one here knew about our relationship. Maybe they thought that I really was just a beloved employee? My thoughts drifted to the empty seat beside Dotty. If Henry hadn't been able to make it, why wasn't Martin there? I was simultaneously relieved and disappointed. Thank God he hadn't witnessed Jamie's toast. But I had wanted him to try my desserts. I bit my bottom lip. It was never a good sign when I was trying to impress some man with how succulent my poached pears were.

I fumbled with the doorknob and let Salty and myself in. It was a relief to be alone. I carefully unbuttoned my new coat and
pulled my tights off with a grateful sigh, then tugged on a faded pair of yoga pants. I was wrestling with the elastic snarled in my hair when someone knocked. Salty's head shot up, his ears pricked. My heart leaped. I stood up and opened the door.

Standing in the light of my cabin was Jameson Whitaker IV.

“You've got to be kidding me.” I leaned against the doorframe.

“Livvy.” Jamie's voice had the breathless quality that told me he had been drinking gin. I'm pretty sure he did it on purpose because he thought it was sexy. To me it sounded more like he had just been jogging up Beacon Hill.

“What are you doing here?”

“You live here.”

“Yes, I know. What are
you
doing here?” My shoulders were bare and I wasn't wearing any socks, but I didn't want to take a step back into the cabin for fear he would take it as an invitation.

Jamie reached out and wrapped his arms around me. I had forgotten how tall he was. I stood still as he held me tighter and tighter.

“Jamie, you're squishing me. Seriously. I can't breathe.”

He loosened his grip and leaned in to try to kiss me. I pressed my hands against his chest and pushed.

“Not going to happen.”

“But darling, I—”

I pushed him over to the bench on the porch. “Sit there. Stay.”

I ducked back into the cabin to grab a cardigan and rifle through my underwear drawer in search of a pair of wool socks. Salty let out a long growl.

“Don't worry about it, Salt. I'll be right back.”

Jamie was leaning back with his head against the side of the
house. I tiptoed over to see if he was still awake and pressed my toe into his thigh. He started and sat up. “Livvy.”

“How did you find me?” I leaned against the porch railing.

“Glen gave me your forwarding address.” Jamie looked around at the trees. “Does the post office even deliver here?”

“Jamie.” I made a mental note to cross Glen off of my list of people to send toffee to at Christmas.

“What are you doing here, Livvy? This is a big step down for you.”

“All sorts of chefs are moving to the country. That chef from the Top of the Tower moved to rural Maine last year, remember?”

Jamie shook his head slowly from side to side. “No one could cook a steak better than his.”

“See?”

“You can't be making enough money to survive.”

I waved my hand at the cabin. “It comes with free rent!”

“And what about your other expenses? Your landlord called the club looking for you.”

I winced. “Did Glen tell you that? What did he say?”

“That we don't give out private information about our employees.”

“Former employees.”

“Everyone knew it was an accident, Liv. You didn't have to leave.”

“That's not what the executive committee said.” I turned and looked out into the dark orchard. “I would have left anyway,” I said quietly.

“You didn't call. I was worried. You didn't want to see me?” Jamie asked.