The City Baker's Guide to Country Living

by Louise Miller

  “When her youngest married.”

  “That’s right. Well, last week one of the dogs that came in had parvovirus. Had to shut the whole place down to do some special sanitation treatment.”

  Martin put his fork down. “What did they do with all of the dogs?” He looked like a worried little kid. I could picture him asking for the raccoon.

  “Notice how he hasn’t asked about his sister-in-law,” Henry teased.

  “That’s the thing,” Dotty said as she stacked Henry’s empty plate on top of her own. “She took every single last one of those dogs home to be quarantined. She said there were twenty-seven of them.”

  Margaret shuddered.

  “That sounds like fun,” Martin said as he reached between Margaret and me and collected our plates.

  “So why the doctor visit?” I asked, delighted by Dotty’s roundabout way of storytelling.

  “She was covered head to toe in flea bites,” Dotty said over her shoulder as she headed into the kitchen. “She couldn’t stop scratching.”

  • • •

  I scooped vanilla ice cream into glass sundae cups, thinking about how much more at ease Martin seemed when he was around his family, while Margaret arranged the macaroons on a small silver tray and Dotty poured boiling water over loose tea leaves. In the other room Henry dozed in his chair. Once we were all seated again, Dotty cleared her throat and began pouring the tea.

  “Tea, dear?”

  Henry straightened, looking confused for a moment. “Lovely,” he said, fumbling for the cup.

  Dotty smiled and passed the tray of macaroons to Margaret. I spooned vanilla ice cream into my mouth and let it melt on my tongue.

  “So,” I said as I swallowed. “What’s up with Jane White?”

  Margaret’s tea immediately went down the wrong pipe. Dotty thumped her back as she coughed.

  Martin shoved a whole macaroon in his mouth and Dotty studied her cup of tea with the attention of a fortune-teller.

  “That old bat,” Henry said.

  I turned my attention to Henry.

  “I bet she cheated.”

  “Henry,” Dotty said.

  “Dad, how could someone cheat at a fund-raiser?” Martin asked.

  Margaret remained silent, but her face looked tight and colorless.

  Henry reached for a cookie. “By putting her own money in the pot.”

  “Martin, why don’t you take Livvy out to do the evening chores?” Dotty interjected. I looked down at my half-eaten bowl of ice cream. I guessed dessert was over.

  • • •

  The night had turned cold, and white stars shone brightly against the inky October sky. My breath came out in little puffs as we walked the short distance between the house and the barn. Martin shut the barn door behind me and gestured to a wooden bench. The goats were sleeping, resting their necks on one another in a bed of hay.

  “I guess I shouldn’t have asked about Jane White,” I said. “Your dad seemed a little riled up.”

  “Nah, it’s fine. My folks are just really protective of Margaret.” Martin reached under a milking bench and removed an earthenware jug. He poured golden liquid into two speckled tin cups. “She and Mrs. White have always had a thing between them. I’m not sure what.”

  Martin sat next to me on the small bench, his thigh and arm and shoulder touching mine. I felt acutely aware of every inch where our bodies met.

  “So what are the evening chores?” I rubbed my hands together and placed them on my cheeks.

  “There aren’t any, really.” He handed me a cup and placed the jug on the ground.

  I took a long sip. “Hard cider?”

  Martin drank his in one swallow. “My dad makes it from the windfalls. Evening chores has always been Dad’s excuse to have a little nip in the evenings. Mom will have a glass of wine on a special occasion, but she doesn’t like to keep alcohol in the house. Her dad was a drinker.”

  “Does she really not know?” I asked, taking another sip. They seemed too close a couple to keep secrets from each other.

  “I think she knows but likes to pretend she doesn’t so Dad can save face. That’s why she sends me out to do chores every evening. It’s basically so I have an excuse to come get Dad a cup of cider, even though he’s not supposed to drink.”

  “So.” I paused to take a long swallow. “How long has he been sick?”

  Martin bounced his heel off the leg of the bench. “He was diagnosed about six months ago.”

  “Is it cancer?” I asked tentatively.

  “Yes, colon.”

  “Did he have surgery?”

  He nodded. “Radiation first. They couldn’t get it all out. Now it’s chemo. Did your dad have cancer?”

  “Heart attack. It was sudden.” I poured myself another cup, offering the jug back to Martin.

  “Careful. It tastes like apple juice but it’ll creep up on you.”

  Straw crackled under the twitching foot of a dreaming goat.

  “So when that Frank guy said that thing in the bar—about your coming back—did you come home to take care of your dad?”

  “Mom takes care of him, and a nurse comes in in the mornings to help. I came back to help with the farm.”

  “Where do you live, usually?”

  “Seattle.”

  “You’re not a farmer, then?”

  Martin huffed. “I couldn’t get out of here fast enough.”

  “Was it hard to come back—I mean, with work and all?”

  “I teach. I came up as soon as the semester ended. I’m on family leave now.”

  “What do you teach?”

  “Industrial arts.”

  “Ahh, the troublemakers.”

  Martin laughed. “Some of them, yes. They’re good kids, though.”

  I stretched my legs out in front of me and watched the silver sparkles on my flats glint in the dim light. “So you’re sticking around, then?”

  Martin scuffed at the ground, making a circle in the dirt with his toe. “We’ll see,” he said, and stood. He bent to pick the jug up off the floor and poured some of the cider into a red plaid thermos that was stationed on a shelf. “I think the chores are done.”

  “We don’t have to milk the goats?” I asked.

  “Mabel stopped giving milk a long time ago. And Crabapple is a billy goat. They’re just pets now.”

  • • •

  Margaret met us on the porch in her coat. “Your folks have already gone up to bed, dear,” she said to Martin. Turning to me, she said, “Grab that potato sack you call a purse and let’s get going.”

  Margaret walked past us. I heard the car engine ignite and begin to hum.

  “Thanks for the invitation,” I said, looking up at him. I tried to read his expression, but in the darkness I couldn’t see his eyes behind his thick glasses. “It was great to meet Henry, and Dotty is amazing.”

  “They like you.”

  “It’s mutual.”

  I stood awkwardly for a minute, fighting the urge to hug him. “Night.”

  “Get in the car, young lady. Are you trying to freeze me to death?” Margaret scolded from the open car window. I rolled my eyes and climbed in.

  • • •

  I dipped the end of a French fry into my chocolate frappe and swirled it around while watching the waitress glide from table to table as if she were on roller skates: pouring coffee, taking orders, wiping spills, all the while keeping up a flirty conversation with a logger sitting on one of the stools at the counter.

  “That’s so disgusting,” Hannah said as she slid into the booth.

  “The fries or the waitress pinching butts?” I popped the fry into my mouth and reached down for another.

  “Both.”

  I pointed a French fry at Hannah. “What makes a complex dessert,” I said in my
best French accent, “ees contrast. Say it with me, chefs. Contrast. Salty and sweet, hot and cold, soft and crunchy, light and dark. Your desserts must balance all of zee senses.” I popped the fry into my mouth and grinned. “It’s much better with pommes frites. These steak fries have a little too much potato and not enough fry for my liking, but they’re better than nothing.”

  Hannah shook her head and scanned the menu.

  The waitress glided over. “Can I get you anything, Hannah?” Even her voice was smooth.

  “Just a decaf, thanks, Liz.” Hannah smiled up at her and placed the menu back behind the napkin dispenser.

  “It still boggles my mind that you know everyone,” I whispered. “Don’t you ever miss being . . . nobody?”

  Hannah shrugged. “Sometimes I drive a couple towns over to go to a matinee, just so I don’t have to hear from the woman at the concession stand how surprised she is that a doctor’s wife would take butter on her popcorn.”

  “Or what they think of the movie you’re seeing,” I said, thinking about Hannah’s weird obsession with horror films.

  “Exactly.” She nodded toward my French fries. “You know, for a chef you really eat like crap.”

  “A chef’s favorite meal is the one cooked by someone else.”

  Liz placed a cup of coffee in front of Hannah. I bit my straw.

  “Excellent, excellent job at the festival dinner.” Hannah beamed. “The head of the board of directors at the hospital has already asked if you would make the dessert for their next fund-raising dinner.”

  I rolled my eyes. Ever since Hannah had become Mrs. Doyle, it’d been one fund-raiser after the next.

  “What? It’s for a good cause . . .”

  “We’ll see, Hann.” After the contest and the dinner, I felt superstitious about making any future commitments in Guthrie. For all I knew, Margaret had already placed an ad for a new baker in the PennySaver.

  Hannah leaned back, her hands neatly folded in front of her. “Everyone’s talking about you, you know.”

  “You know I had nothing to do with Jamie coming up here.”

  “I meant about your food, Livvy. The desserts. Everyone’s raving about them. Molly over at the pharmacy asked if you would be willing to share the chocolate tartlet recipe.”

  I let out a long breath.

  “But since you brought it up,” Hannah leaned forward. “So . . . that was Jamie.”

  “Yup, in the flesh.” I unwrapped a fresh straw and jammed it into the frappe.

  “He was quite . . . talkative.”

  “He was quite drunk.”

  Hannah sat a little straighter in her seat. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. It was . . . surprising. He just showed up. There wasn’t anything I could do about it.”

  “You never mentioned he was married.”

  I sucked on my frappe. Loudly. “It’s not something I’m super proud of.”

  Hannah smoothed out a paper napkin and folded it into a perfect square. “Did you see him over the weekend?”

  “He stopped by the cabin that night, but no, I think they might have left the next day. So, what can you tell me about the pecan sandy queen?”

  “Jane White?”

  “Yeah. She ‘won’ the bake sale. If I don’t up my game, I’m going to be out of a job and homeless. I tried asking about her at the McCrackens’, but . . .”

  “When were you at the McCrackens’?”

  “Sunday. For dinner.”

  I watched several unrecognizable thoughts pass across Hannah’s face. “Do you want the facts or the gossip?”

  “Both, in that order.”

  “Well, Jane grew up a few towns over, in the next county. She married John White, whose family owns a small chain of grocery stores, including the one here in Guthrie. They had four children who all live in the area and manage the stores.”

  I made a rolling gesture in the air. “Get to the good stuff.”

  “Well, Jane’s husband passed away four years ago. Had a stroke, right in the middle of the produce aisle.”

  “That’s not gossip.”

  “It’s what happened afterward. A couple of months after Mr. White died, Margaret’s husband had a heart attack. It was shortly after that that Jane took an interest in baking. Margaret lost her first contest a month later.”

  “There is a disturbing amount of heart disease in this town.”

  Hannah eyed the three stray fries left on my plate. “Smoking and a poor diet, both of them, but you didn’t hear that from me.”

  “So Jane poured her grief into a new hobby. What’s the problem?”

  Hannah stole a quick glance around the diner and leaned in close. “Well, there’s talk that there had been something between Jane White and Margaret’s husband, Mr. Hurley.”

  “No way.”

  Hannah shrugged. “It’s probably just a rumor. But it might explain why Margaret started losing and Jane started winning. Was Margaret upset about the fund-raiser?”

  “Let’s see, at first she just stared straight ahead like she was in a coma. Back at the inn she was cold. She warmed up at the McCrackens’, but—”

  “Margaret was at the McCrackens’?”

  “Yes.”

  “So it wasn’t a date?” Hannah looked oddly relieved.

  “I don’t know. It was just, like, family dinner.” I raised my hands so they would cover my face. “I wore a dress.”

  Hannah snorted. “Which one?”

  “The polka-dot one.” I leaned forward and rested my face on the Formica.

  Hannah peeled back the paper lid off a creamer and poured it into her cup. “So what was he like?”

  “Martin?” I shrugged. “Shy. But nice. He seems younger at home.” I realized I was twisting my napkin into a tight ball. “I don’t know. He smelled good. Like a campfire.”

  “You were close enough to smell him.” It wasn’t a question.

  “Just for a moment.” I had thought about the feeling of his arm pressed against mine more than once that day already. “I wish you had seen him play fiddle at the dance. He’s incredible. I could watch him play all night.”

  “You like him,” Hannah said, her voice incredulous, as if she had just discovered that aliens were real. I ground the last cold fry into a pile of salt on my plate and shoved it into my mouth.

  “Did you meet Henry?”

  “Yes.” I smiled. “He’s amazing.”

  “You know I can’t reveal anything,” Hannah whispered, “but did Martin tell you about Henry’s condition?”

  “I know it’s colon cancer, that they couldn’t remove it all, which sounds bad. Martin says he’s doing chemo now.”

  Hannah nodded and looked down. “Well, I’m glad he told you. It wouldn’t be good to get too attached.”

  I frowned. “To Henry or to Martin?”

  “Either.” Hannah twisted around and waved at the waitress. “Just a refill, when you get a chance, Liz.”

  “Why?” I tried to keep my voice even. “I mean, it’s obvious Henry isn’t doing well. I could carry him and a fifty-pound bag of flour up a flight of stairs, but—”

  “He probably won’t stick around. I heard he left the day after he graduated from high school and went as far away as he could. I’d just hate to see you get hurt, Liv.”

  “Since when do we worry about my getting attached?” I asked, even though my stomach was churning. Martin made living in Guthrie feel possible. I didn’t want to think about his leaving when we had only just met. “I’m the queen of casual. Right?”

  Chapter Eight

  I took the back roads to the Sugar Maple. The inn was closed, dinner service long past. The kitchen was dark except for the small table lamp. Margaret was sitting in one of the rocking chairs, her feet firmly planted on the ground, looking out into the dar
kness.

  “Oh,” I said. “I didn’t think anyone would be here.”

  Margaret reached for her wine and leaned back. Finding the open bottle on my workbench, I poured myself a glass and sat down in the other rocker.

  “I hope you don’t mind. Quiet night?”

  “As expected.”

  “I just came in to pull out my cinnamon roll dough so it can rise overnight.”

  “Hmm.”

  The joints squeaked as I rocked back.

  “I’m sorry about the cookies,” I said quietly. “Honestly, they’ve never let me down before.”

  Margaret nodded her head a fraction.

  “I won’t be so cocky next time.”

  She leaned back in her chair and began to rock, her feet just leaving the ground.

  “They tasted good.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The macaroons. They were good cookies. I thought they were the best.”

  “Really?”

  “They were certainly better than any pecan sandy,” Margaret mumbled into her wineglass.

  “I know, right?” My shoulders dropped down an inch or two away from my ears. Without the hum of the exhaust fan and the rhythmic beating of the mixer, it felt like we were sitting in any farmhouse kitchen. Warm and safe.

  Margaret drained her glass. She stood, tucking the red ribbon she’d been winding between her fingers into the pocket of her skirt, pulled out a folded piece of stationery, and handed it to me. “Dotty was by earlier to drop off some plates. She left you this.”

  “Olivia” was written across the page in a scratchy cursive.

  I raised my eyebrows.

  “I didn’t read it. Turn the light out when you’re done,” Margaret said as she walked toward the parlor. “And don’t stay too late; you have to be in by six tomorrow. The Rotary Club breakfast meeting is at seven thirty sharp.”

  I leaned toward the table lamp and unfolded the letter.

  Dear Olivia,

  Marty has restrung the dulcimer and she is waiting for your first lesson. Are you free Saturday afternoon around one? Bring the dog.

  Sincerely,

  Henry McCracken