The City Baker's Guide to Country Living

by Louise Miller

  Henry nodded once, smiling. “We can watch one after supper. You’re staying. Now play me something else.”

  I placed the dulcimer back on my lap, picked up the noter, and began the first phrase of “Kitchen Girl.”

  Henry took hold of the end of the dulcimer and slid it onto his lap. “You can do a nice slide there in the second part. Blend the notes together.” He demonstrated. “Now you try it.”

  I played the tune from the beginning, adding the slide technique where it worked. I sneaked a look out of the corner of my eye. Henry looked tired, his eyes dark and hollow. He caught me looking and smiled.

  “This is a good tune to play with the fiddle. If I weren’t so blasted tired, I’d join you. You’ll have to teach it to Marty. I’m not sure if he knows this one.” Henry placed his hand on my forearm. I stopped playing. “Keep going,” he said. I strummed the strings with the pick.

  “You, know, Olivia,” Henry said softly, “Martin is a good man.”

  “I know,” I said, blushing. “Just like his father.”

  “Humph. Too much like his father, if you ask me. Now stop your sweet talk and listen.” Henry’s grip tightened. “Marty is a good man, but like me he’s stubborn, and slow to make changes. You’ll have to be patient with him.”

  I looked over at Henry, willing him to say more, but I focused on my fingers working the strings.

  “Patient how?” I asked as I practiced his slide technique.

  “Like this.” Henry covered my hand with his again and slid over the frets, again and again until I got the feel of it. Despite Henry’s frail appearance, his grip was strong. “Mark and Ethan too. I’ve been lucky.”

  I slid the dowel across the frets. Henry bowed his head in approval.

  “You don’t have children of your own yet. But when you do, you’ll see that all you want is for them to be happy.”

  I nodded, feeling confused.

  “We do our best as parents while we can. But after we’re gone, we expect that our children will go on. That they’ll keep becoming who we raised them to be.”

  Henry paused and squeezed my arm. I stared hard at the dulcimer strings, fighting the pressure that was building in my chest.

  “I have regrets. I imagine all fathers do. I wish I could live to see Marty settled with a family of his own. But I’m proud of that boy. I raised a good man. I just want you to know you can count on him.”

  I turned to face him. Henry looked straight at me, his blue eyes bright against his pale skin. “You’ll remember that, right?”

  “Sure,” I said, putting the dulcimer on the table and tucking the pick into the strings. “He can count on me too,” I said quietly.

  “I know he can.” Henry tucked the dulcimer into its case. “Now, I want you to take good care of this old girl.”

  “Henry, I couldn’t.” My heart raced. This sounded too much like good-bye.

  “An instrument needs to be played.” He snapped the metal clasps shut.

  “But you made it for Dotty. You should keep it in the family,” I said.

  Henry took my hands in his and leaned toward me. “That’s what I’m doing.”

  The door to the sitting room opened and Martin appeared in the doorway, his cheeks red from an afternoon outside. “Hey, Dad.” Martin’s smile widened when he saw me. “Hey,” he said, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Dad, Mom said dinner is ready. Do you want to eat in here?”

  Henry pressed into the couch and held himself straight. “No, son. Livvy brought some movies to watch. Why don’t we get settled into the living room?”

  “I’m just going to run up and change,” Martin said as he backed out of the room.

  I stood up, brushing my wool skirt down. “I’ll go see if Dotty needs any help.”

  In the living room Henry settled into an old recliner. Martin looked fresh in a white Irish fisherman’s sweater and a pair of jeans. Taking center stage by the bay windows was the most magnificent Christmas tree I had ever seen. Twelve feet tall, the white pine was covered trunk to tip with tiny colored lights, tinsel, garland, and hundreds of ornaments, many of them homemade, which looked to be from at least ten different decades. I stood in front of the tree in awe, wanting to know the story behind every treasure.

  “It’s a beauty, isn’t it?” Henry said.

  “It’s dazzling.”

  “We look forward to it every year.”

  “I can see why. It’s like a museum.”

  Henry smiled. “More like a scrapbook. There are hundreds of memories on those branches.”

  I sat down next to Martin on the couch. Dotty came in with a basketful of bread and sat on the other side of me. When we were finished eating, I cleared the bowls while Martin set up the movie and Dotty brought out the caramel corn. By the time the RKO signal stopped beeping, Henry was asleep, his breath ragged.

  “Should we turn it off?” I asked Dotty.

  “No, dear, he’ll sleep through it. It’s good for him to rest.”

  Dotty tucked a yellow wool blanket over my lap as Fred Astaire borrowed a dog to have an excuse to walk near Ginger Rogers. I curled up under the blanket and let myself drift.

  When I woke up, the room was dim, lit only by the lights of the Christmas tree. Henry and Dotty were gone. And I was lying with my cheek nestled on the chest of Martin McCracken, my arm across his stomach. Martin’s arm was around my waist. He was leaning against the edge of the couch, deeply asleep. My cheek felt scratchy against his wool sweater and I realized that I had drooled on him. Horrified, I slid carefully from under Martin’s arm and repositioned the blanket to cover him. I tiptoed into the hallway to find my coat and boots. When I was bundled up, I crept back in to peek at Martin one more time.

  He looked boyish. His hair was mussed, and his lips were parted slightly. I could picture waking up to this face every day. I leaned over, pressed my lips lightly to his temple, and quietly left the room.

  • • •

  The week before Christmas, when the last dollop of hard sauce had been placed on the final dish of figgy pudding, Alfred let out a loud whoop and wrapped his arms around me, spinning me around the kitchen.

  “Put me down,” I laughed, batting at his biceps.

  Sarah walked into the kitchen with a tray of four champagne glasses, followed by Margaret carrying a bottle of chilled prosecco. Alfred grabbed the bottle and twisted off the cork with a satisfying pop. He poured the wine carelessly into the glasses, letting it bubble over the rims.

  “I wanted to say thank you,” Margaret said. “You all did an excellent job. We had our best holiday season on record.”

  “Hear, hear,” said Alfred.

  “The guests were all so happy,” said Sarah. “Especially with the desserts, Livvy.”

  I raised my glass to the group. “This has been the happiest Christmas season I can remember,” I gushed. “Thanks for letting me be a part of it.” I took a long sip from my glass, too shy to look at their faces.

  “Well,” Margaret said, setting her glass down. She reached into the inside pocket of her blazer and retrieved three white envelopes. “I hope this will help with your Christmas shopping, now that you have time to do some.” She handed us each an envelope.

  I hadn’t expected a bonus from such a small business. I reached over and wrapped my arms around Margaret. For the first Christmas in years, I had many presents I actually wanted to buy. “Thanks so much,” I said, rocking her back in forth in a tight embrace. Alfred and Sarah looked on, shocked and amused.

  Margaret patted at my arms. “That’s enough of that, now.”

  “What do you all do for Christmas, anyway?” I asked. After serving Christmas lunch at the Emerson, I had always spent the day at the movies in Chinatown. You’d be surprised how packed theaters get on Christmas Day.

  “My family is just across the border in Littleton,”
said Sarah.

  Alfred scratched his beard. “I’m off to go skiing with a bunch of buddies. You headed down to Boston, Liv?”

  “God, no. I hadn’t actually thought of it. I’ll probably end up—”

  “You’re expected at the McCrackens’,” Margaret interrupted. She leaned toward me. “I saw Dotty embroider your name on a stocking.” My heart swelled.

  “Well, I’m off to bed,” Margaret said firmly. “I’m not planning to be in until after breakfast. Enjoy your evening.” Margaret patted Alfred on the shoulder as she walked out of the kitchen.

  Alfred pulled another bottle of prosecco out of his reach-in refrigerator. “Another drink?”

  I took off my chef’s coat and pulled on the old purple cashmere sweater I kept under my station. “Not me. I’m dying to curl up under the covers and drift off not making a prep list in my head.”

  Sarah laughed. “I had nightmares about missing tablecloths all month. I’ll stay for one more.”

  Alfred got to work on the cork. I kissed them each on the cheek and said good night.

  • • •

  It had snowed every third night since Martin had taken me on the sleigh ride. The woods between the inn and the sugarhouse were knee deep in snow, but the sleigh had packed down a path to travel on. I loved to walk the path in the mornings with Salty, who bounded through the fresh snow face-first, leaping like a deer through the high banks.

  The moon was hidden behind a thick blanket of clouds, and as I approached the cabin, a layer of tiny flakes covered my shoulders. The snowdrifts that hugged my cabin were bathed in an unusually rosy glow. Salty came to meet me as I opened the door, wagging his tail in greeting. The cabin was warm, a fire in the woodstove blazing. “Oh my God,” I gasped. Standing tall and full in the corner of the cabin was a giant tree, its outstretched branches draped with chunky colored lights, each bulb as big as an egg and glimmering softly. The tree shook from side to side as Martin emerged from underneath and brushed his hair out of his eyes.

  “The season’s winding down, and we had a good number of trees left. It seemed a shame that you didn’t have one,” he explained, looking at his boots. He glanced over at my bed. “You can see it from anywhere in the cabin,” he offered.

  “You can,” I said, looking around the tiny space, “even the bathtub.”

  “I didn’t know what to do for ornaments.” He shrugged, looking lost. “Do you like it?”

  “It’s perfect. I love it,” I said, and without thinking I kissed him.

  It was a light kiss. Just a soft brush of my lips against his.

  My first thought was His lips are chapped.

  Then I looked up at his face. He looked wide-eyed and nervous, like an owl.

  His back went rigid. My heart sank. My hands slid down his arms and back to my sides.

  “Olivia,” he breathed quietly, “We should . . .”

  “I’m so sorry,” I said, feeling lost. “I shouldn’t have.”

  Martin took a step forward, closing the gap between us. I raised my gaze, daring to look into his eyes. They still held a nervous spark, but his expression had softened. He leaned forward and pressed his forehead into mine. I closed my eyes and breathed him in. He smelled green and new, like the tender grass that sprouts on a muddy riverbank in earliest spring. His hands traveled to my shoulders, and I felt his lips press against my temple. His rough cheek glided against my own, and his lips brushed the tender spot in front of my ear, his nose grazing the delicate outer shell. Then his mouth found mine. A tiny sigh escaped from the back of my throat as his lips moved against mine. He moved slowly, each kiss deliberate. I wrapped my arms around his waist. I could feel the muscles in his back work as he wove his fingers into my hair. One hand moved down to my shoulder blade as his tongue parted my lips. He tasted like cinnamon Tic Tacs and tobacco. I rose up onto my tiptoes, wanting him closer. Martin made a sound like a harmonium and moved his hand down to my lower back, pressing us together.

  Someone knocked on the cabin door. Martin drew back and nestled his face into the crook of my neck. I could feel heat radiating from his cheek. I pressed my face to his chest, listening to his heart pound a steady, quick beat.

  “One minute,” I called.

  I felt the cold air on my neck before I heard the door knock against a bookcase. Martin took a quick step away from me, as if we were teenagers caught necking on the couch. Margaret stood in the doorway and looked from me to Martin.

  “It’s your father.”

  Martin’s face lost all color. He walked past me and began tossing pillows off my couch, looking for his jacket.

  “What happened?” he asked, his voice panicked.

  “They took him to the hospital. Your mother is with him.” Margaret picked Martin’s gloves up off the kitchen table. “I have the car running at the bottom of the hill. I’ll drive.”

  I stood in the corner by the Christmas tree, frozen.

  “Get your coat, Olivia,” Margaret said quietly as Martin pushed past her. “Now.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Margaret and I sat in the waiting room outside of the ICU. It had been hours since Martin had disappeared behind the swinging doors through which only immediate family were allowed to pass. I sat feeling helpless as I watched Martin’s brothers’ wives breeze past us.

  “What did Dr. Doyle say, again?” I asked Margaret, who was sitting quietly, her back straight.

  “The home-visit nurse couldn’t control his pain,” she said patiently for the fourth time. “So they brought him in to see if there was anything they could do for him here.”

  “Have you talked to Dotty?”

  “Not since she was trying to track down Martin.”

  I tossed the catalog I was paging through onto the coffee table and paced around the small room. Memories of sitting in the ER waiting for news of my father flooded me. “It’s driving me crazy not to know what’s going on.”

  “Sit down, Olivia.”

  I sat, digging my fingernails into my palms.

  Margaret reached over and took one of my hands in hers. “When the pain gets to be this hard to manage . . . It might not be long now.”

  Fat tears spilled from my eyes.

  Margaret squeezed my fingers. “You know,” she said, her voice sounding tight, “I went on a date or two with Henry before he and Dotty fell for each other.”

  I looked over at her. She had a sweet smile on her face.

  “He was so handsome. He used to play at all the dances, and Dotty and I would go to watch the band. She had a crush on the guitarist. Wouldn’t give Henry the time of day. So he asked me out—and when I said yes, he asked if I had a friend who would want to double-date. Said his parents wouldn’t let him step out alone with a girl, which was probably true—things were different back then. But I could tell from the moment we sat down at the diner that he only had eyes for her.”

  “Were you mad?”

  “Oh, Lord, no. He was never my type. Too full of mischief. And someone had already captured my heart.”

  “Your husband?”

  “Dotty and Henry were so sweet together.” Margaret took a deep breath. “I’ve been lucky to have such good friends.” She looked over at me. “I know you’ve grown very fond of Martin. You should—”

  Dr. Doyle pushed his way through the swinging doors and headed down the corridor.

  “Jonathan!” I called, hopping up to chase him. “How is he?” I asked when I reached him.

  “Livvy, you know I can’t—”

  “Jonathan Doyle, you’ve known me long enough to know how close I am to the McCrackens,” Margaret said sternly, crossing her arms.

  “Sit down,” Jonathan sighed, flipping his white coat out of the way. “Henry’s in a coma. The medication put him under.” He reached out and took one of Margaret’s hands. “I’d start preparing.”

>   Margaret stilled. “We should get going.”

  “No,” I said. “Why?”

  “I appreciate it, Jonathan. Have one of the nurses call me if anything changes.” Margaret folded her coat over her arm. “Come on, dear. Let’s get home.”

  • • •

  After a long, silent drive, Margaret pulled into the back parking lot behind the inn. She turned off the ignition and sat back in her seat. I stared into what I knew was the orchard as it lay hidden in darkness.

  “He’s not going to come out of the coma. It’s the pain medication. It will keep him under as his body slows down. We should get a good night’s sleep. It could be days. And we need to get things ready for the funeral.” I wondered if she was saying this more for herself than for me, to try to make it feel a little more real. “I know tomorrow is supposed to be a day off, but could you come to the kitchen around nine? We can go over things then.”

  I nodded, feeling the tide of grief rising inside me.

  “Do you want to stay at the inn tonight?” she asked, placing her hand gently on my shoulder.

  I wanted to say yes, to be safe in the inn—warm and comforted by the sound of Margaret’s squeaky rocking chair and the scent of vanilla that always dominated the kitchen. But I thought of Martin. He wouldn’t be able to find me if I wasn’t in the cabin. “No, but thank you.”

  “I’ll come if there is any news.”

  I didn’t start crying until I saw the honeyed glow of the Christmas lights through the trees. Though it was cold when I came in, I flushed at the memory of my last moments there with Martin. Even the scent of the cabin reminded me of him: tree sap and cinnamon. Sitting down on the floor near the tree, I hugged Salty’s soft body to mine and let my tears soak into his thick ruff.

  • • •

  Three long days had passed. Dotty called Margaret from the hospital every morning and again at suppertime. I wanted to go to the hospital, but Margaret said that with the extended McCracken family gathering there we would only be in the way. I spent the time baking restlessly. The inn was officially closed until New Year’s Eve, so I had the kitchen to myself. I baked coffee cakes and tea rings, muffins, scones, and shortbread. I made a special batch of hermits, because Dotty loved molasses. I worked my worry into baguette dough. Margaret came and worked beside me most afternoons, baking casseroles, cutting them into small portions, and freezing them in tiny aluminum tins. Every time I looked at one of those containers I could only think about how alone Dotty would be without Henry.