The City Baker's Guide to Country Living

by Louise Miller

  “Dry. Coarse. Too sweet. In other words, your typical pecan sandy.”

  Margaret gave me a satisfied smile. She looked so pleased that I didn’t want to break the spell by asking her why she’d had me commit a petty crime.

  “My thoughts exactly. Let’s get in there and raise some money.”

  • • •

  By twelve thirty the church hall was filled with festival-goers armed with plastic baggies and dollar bills. Margaret and I had argued over the price of the macaroons. I had wanted to charge three dollars and she had suggested twenty-five cents. We settled on a dollar each. Margaret handled the money while I sat next to her and answered questions about ingredients and calorie count.

  “You know, this really is a one-woman job,” I said. “Don’t you think it would be better if I went back to the inn and begin working on—”

  “No,” Margaret said sharply. “I need you here.”

  “But—”

  “Margaret.” A woman about Margaret’s age—seventy? seventy-five?—appeared in front of us. “How nice to see you here.”

  “Jane.” Why did that name sound familiar?

  I froze in my seat. I didn’t recognize her at first—her hair was up, she wasn’t wearing her glasses, and she had on slacks and a turtleneck instead of a dress—but I would never forget that voice trash-talking me at the contra dance. Jane looked from Margaret to me and then back again. “I’m surprised to see you this year.”

  Margaret pressed her nails into the flesh beneath her thumb. “I always pitch in. You know that, Jane.”

  I cleared my throat.

  “And who is this?” Jane smiled down at me. I swear she had fangs.

  “My pastry chef.”

  “Another one?”

  Margaret leaned forward. I stood up and stuck out my hand.

  “Yes, Olivia Rawlings. Nice to meet you.” I put on my most saccharine smile. “Margaret was so generous about making room for me at the Sugar Maple. I really needed a change of scenery after the feature in Food & Wine. God, people treat chefs like rock stars these days, you know?” I shook my head. “There are only so many benefit dinners and interviews a girl can do. And most of those chefs you see on TV—they don’t even cook anymore! Can you imagine? I just wanted to get real. Back to the food. So when my best friend, Hannah Doyle, Dr. Doyle’s wife, told me about the Sugar Maple, I knew I had to work there. And here I am!” I sat down, exhausted. Margaret rolled her eyes.

  Jane looked at me evenly, smiling with her lips firmly clamped over her false teeth. She picked up a macaroon, turned it over to inspect the bottom, then put it back on the plate, rubbing her fingertips together.

  “Well, good luck,” she said as she worked her way down the row.

  “Who the hell is that?” I whispered into Margaret’s ear.

  “Nobody,” she whispered back.

  “Well, that nobody was spreading lies about me last night at the—”

  “Hello, my dears.” I recognized Dotty’s warm voice. When I looked up, I saw that Martin was standing behind her. Dotty popped a whole macaroon into her mouth.

  “Oh, Livvy, these are divine!” She handed one to Martin. “I’ll take a dozen.”

  Margaret grabbed the handle of her handbag. “We’ll be right back,” she said to me. “Keep an eye on the cashbox.” She and Dotty walked off, their heads bent together.

  “They look like they’re plotting something,” Martin said.

  “I think that might be closer to the truth than you think.” I handed him a plastic bin of macaroons. “Here to buy treats?”

  “Mom needed a ride.”

  Martin looked awkward, standing there holding the box of cookies. It was painful to look at him. I patted Margaret’s empty chair. “Want to keep me company for a bit?”

  Martin squeezed between the tables and sat beside me, stretching his long legs. I slid the cashbox toward him. “You’re in charge of the money.”

  We waited on customers. All the nontourists told Martin how glad they were to see him after all this time and asked after his father. His responses were polite and vague. He was the most laconic person I had ever met, and it made me edgy. I craned my neck to look for Margaret and Dotty, but they were nowhere to be seen.

  “So,” I said when I could no longer bear the silence. “I thought the dance went well.”

  “Yeah.” He paused for a moment. “You’re a good player.”

  “You play like it’s easier than breathing.”

  Martin laughed, then coughed. “It feels that way sometimes.” He opened up the cashbox and started turning all of the bills to face the same direction. “So how was your visit with your friend?”

  “Who?”

  “Your friend, the man from Boston. Big guy, kind of loud. Spectacular pants.”

  “Oh. Fine.” Great. “How did you know I had a friend?”

  “I met him at the dinner.”

  “You weren’t at the dinner,” I pointed out.

  “How do you know?”

  I looked down at my boots. “You weren’t at Dotty’s table.”

  “I was. Then I left.”

  “You missed the dinner part of dinner.”

  “I’m sure it was good.”

  “It was good.” I tucked my fingers under my thighs. “You should have stayed.”

  “I gave him directions.”

  “Who?” I asked, avoiding the obvious.

  “Your friend.” Martin zipped the gray wool sweater he was wearing up to his Adam’s apple.

  “He’s not my friend.” I swallowed. “He’s just my old boss.”

  “Why did he need directions to your cabin?”

  “He offered me my old job back, at the Emerson. He probably didn’t want to ask me someplace where Margaret could walk in.”

  I swear the corners of Martin’s lips moved up a quarter of an inch. He straightened in his seat. “Would you like to . . .”

  Just then Melissa, Mrs. Coventry County, stopped by the table. “Hello there, Martin. I haven’t seen you since we graduated.”

  “Hey, Melissa.” He pointed to her rhinestone crown. “Congratulations.”

  Melissa blushed and handed me an envelope with “The Sugar Maple” written across the front in script. “Livvy, just put the money you raised in this envelope and write the total on the front. I’ll be by to collect it in a bit.”

  “She’s the same age as you?” I whispered as Melissa walked over to the next row.

  “We were in the same class, so yeah. She’s around forty.”

  “She looks so much like an adult.” I grabbed the cashbox and opened it. It was stuffed full of dollar bills.

  “Some might consider forty to be an adult, I guess.” Martin ran his hands through his hair. “That’s what my dad keeps telling me. Anyway, Melissa has four kids, I think, maybe five. That might have something to do with it.”

  I finished separating the money into piles. “What were you going to ask me?”

  “Would you like to come to dinner? Tonight? Just over at the house. My father would like to meet you.”

  “Sure, thanks. I’d love to. What time? What can I bring?” Some people get quiet when they’re nervous. I talk.

  “My folks eat early.” Martin nodded his head toward the back of the hall, where Dotty and Margaret stood chatting with the pharmacist. “Around six?”

  “Okay.”

  Martin stood, reached into his pocket, and handed me a twenty-dollar bill, waving the box of macaroons. He gave me a lopsided grin. “I’ll see you then.”

  I had to count the money in the cashbox six times before I got it right.

  • • •

  By the time Margaret made her way back to the table, I had already packed up the remaining cookies and returned the silver tray to the kitchen. She had both of our coats drap
ed over her arm.

  Melissa came to the front of the room. “Gather round, everybody!”

  Margaret grabbed my elbow and ushered us to the front row.

  Melissa adjusted her red reading glasses and cleared her throat. “Thank you so much for donating to the Harvest Festival annual fund-raiser bake sale! It looks like we broke a record this year. The folks over at the library are going to be thrilled. I want to express my deepest thanks to Bonnie Fraser, who did such a wonderful job decorating the hall this year. Let’s give her a hand.”

  A slight woman with bone-straight blond hair and bright red lipstick stood and bowed.

  “That’s my girl, Bonnie!” shouted a man from the back of the room. It was Frank, the drunk guy from the Black Bear Tavern. So this was the former Sugar Maple baker.

  “Bonnie!” the man shouted again. The crowd clapped politely.

  “Thanks again, Bonnie.” Melissa cleared her throat and held up a white envelope. “The Miss Guthrie Diner generously donated a gift certificate to use as a token of appreciation for our top baker. This year the person who raised the most money—a record-making one hundred and twenty-two dollars—for the Guthrie Library is . . . Jane White! For her pecan sandies!”

  Margaret stared straight ahead, her gaze so fixed I thought that whatever she was looking at was going to burst into flames.

  Light applause was quickly followed by the hum of gossip. Jane gracefully walked up and took her envelope from Melissa, peering at Margaret the whole time.

  Melissa clapped her hands together. “Well done, everyone.”

  I leaned my head toward Margaret’s ear. “I can’t believe those pecan sandies did better than—”

  “You’ll do better next year,” said Margaret, although she looked doubtful—about whether I would do better or whether I would be there next year, I didn’t know which.

  “Better luck next year,” Jane said as she breezed past us.

  “I’m sure we won’t have to wait a whole year to compete, will we?” I called.

  Jane stopped in her tracks. She turned to face us.

  “I heard something about an apple pie contest?”

  Jane’s lips curled into a smirk. “Perhaps. If she keeps you that long.” She tucked the envelope into her handbag and walked away.

  “What a bitch,” I said under my breath. I looked over at Margaret. Her fingers were entangled in her pearls.

  “We’d better get back so you have time to get yourself cleaned up before we head over to Dotty’s,” she said.

  “We?”

  “Yes, for supper. Dinner will be on the table at six. I’ll drive.”

  My cheeks reddened.

  “What?” Margaret put her arms on her hips.

  “Nothing.”

  “And leave the dog at home.”

  Chapter Seven

  When we arrived, Margaret walked ahead and up onto the porch. I lingered behind, still feeling embarrassed and slightly overdressed in the 1950s cocktail number I had bought at the church thrift store when Hannah and I had been out furniture hunting. It was the only thing I had that wasn’t covered in flour or dog hair. Margaret had on her standard uniform of cardigan, wool skirt, and pearls. She knocked once on the door and let herself in.

  “Well, hello there!” a gravelly voice called out. I entered the front hall and was greeted by an elderly man standing up straight with the help of a wooden cane. He offered me his free hand. “You must be Olivia. I’m Henry McCracken.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” I said, clasping his hand in mine. It was bony but strong underneath, with skin that felt like washed canvas. He was almost an exact replica of Martin, only twice as old and half as big, with shaggy gray hair instead of brown.

  “Marty, come on down here and take the girl’s coat,” Henry shouted, and then turned to me. “It takes me a little while to get around. I better get a head start.”

  Henry turned and shuffled toward the living room door. Martin was slight but sturdy; Henry looked like a just-birthed fawn.

  Martin clomped down the stairs like a teenager called to supper.

  “Hey.” I slid out of my wool coat and handed it to him. He looked down at my dress and grinned slightly before turning his attention to a coat hanger. I blushed. Why on earth had I gone for the polka dots? Martin looked more scrubbed than usual. He was wearing a blue cotton dress shirt with his usual jeans and black Converse sneakers. I wondered if Dotty had made him get cleaned up.

  “Hey.” Martin led me down the hall into the living room where Margaret, Henry, and Dotty were all sitting, holding glasses of wine. Margaret was leaning over the armrest of the couch, talking to Henry.

  “You should have seen the look on her face when they called her name.”

  “Livvy!” Dotty looked up and smiled. “Have a seat, dear. Martin, get the poor girl something to drink.”

  Martin disappeared, returning moments later with two glasses of white.

  “Now we can have a proper celebration.” Dotty raised her glass. “To the Sugar Maple and its new pastry chef, Livvy.”

  “To Livvy,” the rest of the room chimed, and we all reached to clink. Martin sat next to me on the sofa. He smelled of Ivory soap and something greener, like moss by a brook.

  “We’re all so happy you could pitch in today. Everyone loved those macaroons, and—”

  “It was good for the library,” Margaret interjected, and gave Dotty a long look.

  “Margaret, why don’t you help me get supper on the table?” Dotty pressed her palms onto the sides of her chair and hefted herself up to standing. Margaret silently followed her.

  “Can I help?” I called.

  “Best leave the two of them to squawk,” Henry said. “So where’s this dog I hear has been hanging around the goats?”

  “Margaret told me not to bring him.”

  “She’s like most older folks. She believes that animals belong outside.”

  You would never think that if you saw her with Salty in the parlor. “Did you have pets growing up?”

  Henry nodded. “Had a pet squirrel when I was a kid. Used to sneak him up to my room. I thought my mom didn’t know about him, then I found out his favorite game was to ride on the mop while she washed the floors.”

  I laughed. “Did you name him?”

  “Sure.” He paused for a few moments. “Cricket. I don’t remember why, though.”

  “I always wanted a pet raccoon,” Martin said quietly. “They advertised them in the back of Field & Stream.”

  “Oh, yes, I remember you crying one Christmas after the gifts were unwrapped and there was no raccoon among them.” Henry leaned toward me. “He was the sensitive one,” he said, pointing a long finger toward his son.

  “Dad.”

  “So, young lady. Marty tells me you are an excellent frailer.”

  “He exaggerates.” I winked at Henry. “I’m okay. But I’m not nearly as good as Marty is on the fiddle.”

  “Don’t even think about it,” Martin whispered to me. “That’s strictly for family use.”

  “What’s that, Marty?”

  “Did you bring it with you?” Henry asked. “We could have a tune after supper.”

  “Oh, I wish I had. Do you play? I could go back and get it . . .”

  Martin rested a hand briefly on my forearm.

  “Not the banjo, though I love the sound of one. No, fiddle’s my instrument. And Dotty plays the dulcimer, or she used to. I made her one when we were courting.”

  “I had no idea,” Martin said under his breath.

  “That’s wonderful,” I said. “I’ve always wanted to learn.”

  “Well, maybe Marty can dig it out of the attic for you. It’s just gathering dust up there.”

  I glanced quickly up at Martin. His eyes were fixed on his father.

  “So
, who taught you how to play?” Henry asked.

  “My dad did, when I was a kid. I didn’t really take to it until I was older.” The banjo had seemed hopelessly lame to my young, rebellious self. It had become something to treasure only after he died.

  “Good thing to hand down to a child, the old songs. Course, you have to settle down and have a family before you can pass them down to anyone, but I’m sure your father is after you about that.”

  “He passed,” I said.

  Henry leaned over and patted my forearm. “I’m very sorry to hear that.”

  Dotty bustled into the room. “Supper’s ready. Come on in.”

  Dinner was spread out on a large Formica table in the kitchen. It was a traditional bean supper with all the fixings—a ceramic crock filled with steaming baked beans flavored with molasses, bowls of potato salad and coleslaw, and a plate of sour pickles. And, to my delight, there were thick round slabs of brown bread that had clearly been baked in an old coffee can.

  Henry reached out to either side of him. “Let’s join hands and give thanks.”

  Margaret took my left hand in hers. It felt dainty and smooth. Martin’s arm reached across the table and wrapped his hand around mine. My palms began to sweat. Margaret pinched her eyebrows together.

  “Dear Lord, thank you for the many blessings you have given us, today and every day. May we always strive to be deserving of your gifts. Amen.”

  “Amen.” Margaret dropped my hand and wiped hers on her napkin. Was it just me or had Martin’s hand lingered for a second before retreating? I reached for a slice of brown bread and focused all my attention on spackling it with butter.

  “I ran into Jessie when we were at Dr. Doyle’s yesterday,” Dotty said.

  “Jessie is my brother Ethan’s wife,” Martin explained.

  Henry said as he served himself seconds of coleslaw, “I didn’t see Jessie.”

  “You were in with the doctor.” Dotty smiled at me. “He doesn’t like me to come in with him. Says I interrupt too much.”

  Henry shook his head and kept eating.

  “Is she all right?” Margaret asked.

  “Well, remember when she started volunteering at the dog warden’s?”