“Here’s to the pies,” Margaret said.
“Here’s to the winning pies,” I offered, clinking our glasses.
Margaret held her glass up. “Here’s to an honorable contest. Let the best pie win.”
“Here’s to destroying Jane White.”
Margaret actually laughed. She refilled our glasses. “Well. Here’s to friendship.” She put her glass down and looked at me. “Thank you for coming back. Olivia . . .” She paused, as if she were searching for the right words. “Guthrie is a good place to raise a child. And Dotty would help you with the baby. As would I. I hope you know you always have a home here.”
“But you’re selling the inn.” Margaret had told the staff the week before that she had verbally accepted the Bradford offer and would be signing the papers at the end of August.
“I’ll still be here. I’m going to stay with Dotty for a spell until I decide what I want to do.”
“What if we lose tomorrow?” I teased. “Will you still want me around then?”
Margaret looked at me kindly. “Well, I hope we won’t have to find that out. This seems like a Jane White–crushing pie to me.”
“Me too.” I pulled off my apron. “Margaret, can I ask you something?”
“Go right ahead.”
“Why did you start losing after all those years?”
Margaret sighed. I thought she was going to tell me to mind my own business. She straightened her back and looked over both shoulders to make sure we were alone.
“My husband did all the baking.”
Apple juice shot out my nose. “What?”
“The pie contest was a tradition in my family. The eldest daughter took over the baking when she married. My mother knew I was terrible at it, so she kept entering her pies, just under my name.”
It was really hard not to laugh, but I kept it together.
“Thankfully, she taught my Brian before she passed.” A tender expression settled on Margaret’s face. “That man took home twenty blue ribbons, just for me.”
I smiled, thinking of the elegant Irish man I had seen in photographs and trying to picture him in the apron with the leaping sheep, crimping piecrusts.
“So where does Jane come in?”
“Dotty told me what she shared with you; you don’t need to hide it.” Margaret looked out the back windows into the orchard. “For as long as I can remember, Jane has always wanted whatever I had. Altar-guild shift, seat on the gardening committee, first prize at the fair. You’d think she’d be content with her big family and her land and the business. She has everything.” Margaret picked up the two empty glasses. “I know it’s silly to care so much about a blue ribbon—but it felt good to have that one thing that was mine.”
“Well, I think we have the pie to put her in her place.” I wrapped my arms around Margaret’s neck. She smelled like lilac perfume.
“You get some rest now,” Margaret said, pulling back, her voice sounding a little tight. “Tomorrow is going to be a long day.”
• • •
The kitchen was warm when I walked in the next morning. Margaret had already boxed up the two better-looking pies for judging and was cutting into the third, lamb apron tied around her waist.
Alfred walked in, wearing his summer uniform of a tie-dyed T-shirt and a pair of cargo shorts.
“Pie for breakfast? My favorite.”
Sarah appeared with a tray of coffee cups, milk, and sugar. “Decaf is on the right,” she said to me.
Margaret handed us each a slice of pie and a fork. I stood motionless, watching their expressions, as Sarah, Al, and Margaret took their first bites.
“Mmm,” Alfred hummed. “This is so good. Did you change the spices?”
“I took away a tiny bit—maybe a quarter teaspoon of cinnamon. Do you like it?”
Alfred nodded. “You get a cleaner apple taste.”
I looked at Sarah. “How’s the crust?”
Sarah covered her mouth with her hand. “Fraky,” she mumbled through a mouthful.
“The bottom’s not soggy?” I asked, closing my eyes.
“Crisp and brown,” said Alfred.
I looked at Margaret. “Okay, what do you think?”
“Very good,” she said. “Now drink your coffee before it gets cold, and we can head down to the fairgrounds.”
• • •
The road to the Coventry County Fair was jammed with a line of brightly painted cars headed for the demolition derby that would follow the pie judging. I had followed Margaret’s style advice and put on a pink linen tunic I had inherited from Hannah and a clean pair of black leggings. Silver glitter sandals, the only shoes I could cram my swollen feet into, completed the look. I was ready for my close-up in the Guthrie Town Crier. I shifted my weight from hip to hip, trying to find a comfortable way to sit, but it was no use.
“When’s the cutoff time for drop-offs?” I asked.
“We have plenty of time.”
“Yes, but what time do we actually need to be there?” I scooted my butt toward the edge of the seat and leaned back.
“Entries are submitted between nine and eleven.” Margaret looked at me. “Will you stop fidgeting? You’re making me nervous.”
“Okay, Zen master Margaret! How is it that you’re so calm?”
“The pies are baked; we’re on time; so long as we can manage to carry ourselves and them across the fairgrounds in one piece, there’s nothing more to be done. Once we put the pie down on the table, it’s up to the judges.”
“Very philosophical,” I mumbled under my breath.
Screams rained down from the roller coaster as Margaret pulled into the freshly hayed field that was serving as a parking lot. I stepped out onto the uneven ground and was hit with the pungent mixture of smells that can be found only at a country fair—frying onions, horse manure, cut grass, and apple cider. Margaret took out the two pie boxes.
“Are you sure we need to bring both? Shouldn’t we leave the backup in the car?” I asked.
“They can keep the extra in the kitchen. This way we won’t have to make a second trip.”
“We’d better each carry one,” I said, offering both hands. “It’s like when parents don’t take the same flight. This way at least one of the pies will make it to the grange.” Margaret handed over the top box. The judges had given strict instructions—plain white box, disposable metal pie tin. Nothing decorative, nothing to tip off the judges to our identity.
From every angle I could see folks headed toward the grange hall, clutching white boxes. Margaret and I got in the line, which already stretched the length of the hall and then some. Melissa, wearing her Mrs. Coventry County sash, was overseeing all the baking contests. She walked around with a clipboard, handing out entry forms. Margaret held the pies as I filled out the form. I looked behind us. There were at least twenty bakers lined up, and another thirty or so in front.
The grange was also where all of the arts and crafts were exhibited. Quilts hung from the high ceiling. Photographs lined the walls, and knitted and crocheted pieces were displayed on long tables. Margaret paid no attention to the exhibits, keeping her eyes trained on the back of the hall as we inched closer to a large glassed-in kitchen. She looked at her watch. “Dotty is expecting me to meet her in the flower hall. Will you go over there and tell her I’m running late?”
“Don’t I have to drop the pie off myself? Isn’t it a rule or something?” I wanted to size up the competition.
Margaret gave me a look that said, I think I can manage.
I sighed. “Where’s the flower hall?”
“On the other side of the fairgrounds. Bring her back here.”
• • •
Dotty stopped to admire the lace doily display while I ducked back into the ladies’ room for the zillionth time that day. When I returned, I found she and Margar
et had already settled in amid the rows of folding chairs set up in front of the glass.
“What’s our number?” I asked, taking a seat beside her.
Margaret looked down at a slip of paper. “Fifty-seven.”
Through the huge window I watched the bakers cross the kitchen, boxes in hand. “Good Lord. Do they cut it off, ever?”
“Not in my time. This certainly is a good turnout.”
I eyed the white boxes warily, wishing I had X-ray vision.
“Most get disqualified for having a soggy bottom crust,” Margaret offered.
Dotty rummaged in her large canvas bag. “I brought provisions. It looks like it’s going to be a long one.” She pulled out a thermos and handed Margaret a cup.
The edge of someone’s large purse bumped the side of my head. I looked up to see Jane White looming over us, the pink and yellow flowers of her blouse fighting to soften her hard face.
“You really are a glutton for punishment, aren’t you?” Jane asked, crossing her fleshy arms.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the president of the Coventry County Fair welcoming committee has arrived,” I said. “Feeling a little uncertain, Jane? There’s a lot of competition this year.” I was in a fighting mood.
Margaret laid a hand on my arm. “Good morning, Jane. How did your pie come out?”
Jane pursed her lips. “Just fine, as always.” She hesitated before asking, “And how is yours?”
“Just fine,” Margaret replied. “Oh, look, they’ve handed out the last number.”
“Okay, bakers. We’ve got a record number of entries this year—eighty-two. It’s going to be a long judging. Go stretch your legs.” Melissa walked into the glass room and locked the door behind her.
I turned to see that all of the folding chairs had been claimed and a standing-room crowd had formed all the way to the back wall. Someone had dimmed the lights, and the glassed-off kitchen glowed like a fish tank in a dark apartment. Behind the glass sat the three judges, two women and a man, each grasping a fork, with scorecards in front of them. Melissa served the judges small glasses of water and then carefully sliced the first pie. The male judge wedged his fork under a slice and tilted it into the air. He peeked at its bottom, then pushed the plate away without even taking a bite. A woman at the end of the row stood and walked out of the hall, sobbing.
“Ouch,” I said. “That was harsh.”
“Shhhh,” Margaret said, scribbling a series of numbers on a yellow legal pad. From our side of the glass you couldn’t hear a word of the judges’ discussion.
One of the female judges, a horsey-looking woman wearing slacks and a T-shirt that read, “Good apple pies are a considerable part of our domestic happiness,” took a bite of the next pie and tossed her fork onto the table. The third judge, a chubby redhead in a beautiful green cotton dress, discreetly spit her bite of the same pie into a paper napkin.
“God, these judges are rough.”
“They’re being particularly ruthless this year,” Dotty whispered. “I think it’s because there are so many entries.”
“What’s our number again?”
“Fifty-seven.”
“And what number are we on?”
“Three,” Dotty replied, and handed me a bag of kettle corn.
I looked over at the legal pad Margaret had balanced on her lap. On the left were the numbers one through eighty-two, followed by a series of figures. It looked like she had been writing down the lucky lottery picks. I reached over and pulled a slip of white paper, worn from years of folding and unfolding, from between the pages of the pad.
“Where did you get this?”
“Hush now,” Margaret said, studying a judge as she slowly chewed a forkful. “And keep that out of sight. Don’t want to start a riot.”
It was difficult to take your eyes off the judges, who chewed, sniffed, and swallowed bite after bite, their expressions moving from curiosity to delight to disgust. It was like watching silent-movie actors eat.
I turned and scanned the crowd, looking into all of those hopeful faces like sunflowers turned toward the sun, and realized that I was one of them. I had been so focused on how much I wanted Jane White to lose, but in truth all this time I had wanted to win. I wanted to win for the Sugar Maple and its long-standing legacy. For Margaret, who deserved every ounce of pride and admiration that the blue ribbon stood for, whether she had baked the pie or not. And I wanted to win for me, because Margaret was my family, and I hoped to carry the Hurley family torch for years to come and, someday, to hand it down to my daughter.
“The next one is ours,” Margaret whispered, and with her strong, thin hand she gripped my arm.
“Margaret, I need to tell you something.”
“Not now, Olivia,” she said, craning forward.
I placed my hand over hers and squeezed. “I want to stay. And I think you should stay too.”
“Miss Rawlings, that’s our pie.” Margaret pointed to the kitchen. Melissa brought the whole pie to the table. It looked as good as I remembered. Around pie forty-six I had begun to worry about the color. But here was ours, golden brown, with a slight sheen from the watered-down egg wash. Edges perfectly crimped. No visible filling spillover. Plump, even body. The judges hunched over their score sheets, faces serious.
“Don’t sell the inn,” I whispered into Margaret’s ear.
“Look,” said Dotty. Melissa cut into the pie with a chef’s knife.
“I can help you,” I said to Margaret.
“This is it,” Margaret said. “They each have a slice.”
I leaned forward. “The filling is nice and thick.”
Margaret leaned toward me. Her fingers dug into my arm a little deeper. “And it didn’t shrink. It reaches all the way to the top of the crust.”
I reached over and took Dotty’s hand.
The judges each took a bite. The male judge closed his eyes and leaned back, chewing slowly.
I fought the urge to jump up and scream, Yes!
The judge in the T-shirt took dainty bites while jotting down numbers. The redhead picked her piece apart with the tines of her fork before tasting it. She looked thoughtful as she filled out her form. When Melissa reached down to take her plate, the judge grabbed her wrist and said something.
“What’s happening?”
Margaret didn’t answer me. All of her focus remained on the judge, who was picking her fork back up. With the edge of the fork, she broke off one more bite. She raised it to her nose first, breathing it in, before popping it in her mouth. Margaret, Dotty, and I leaned forward in our seats.
The judge reached for her pencil and, with long vertical strokes, erased all of her numbers. She took her time refilling in the form. A murmur like a hundred violins being tuned at once rose up from the crowd behind us. I looked over at Margaret. “That was good, right?” I asked, standing up and pressing my fists into my lower back.
“We’ll see,” said Margaret, but she looked hopeful.
“I need a bathroom break.” I stepped around Dotty’s feet, making my way down the aisle.
“You’re going to miss the next pie,” Margaret said.
The truth was I needed a break from the tension. “Fill me in. I’ll be right back.”
• • •
When the last plate was cleared, the judges stood and shook one another’s hands. Melissa opened the glass door and stepped outside. “Phew, that was a long one, wasn’t it?” she said warmly to the crowd. “It’s going to take some time to tally all the scores, but the awards ceremony should start right on time. I’ll see you all at the grandstand at five. Now go get something to eat and enjoy the fair.”
The crowd seemed to stand up as one, and the room teemed like a beehive in summer. “Lunch?” Dotty asked.
“I’m too nervous to eat,” I said.
Alfred joined us fr
om the back of the room.
“I kind of just want a maple creemee,” I said.
“You had pie for breakfast.”
“And now ice cream for lunch. Maybe after the contest we could all go for a slice of cake at the diner.”
“I’m with Margaret,” said Dotty. “Please go feed my grandchild some vegetables.”
“I’ll make sure she eats something healthy,” said Alfred.
“Fine. But I’m having ice cream afterward.”
“Be careful,” said Margaret.
I raised my eyebrows at her.
“It’s crowded. And you’ve been a little less than graceful the past couple of days.”
I thought about the open sack of flour I had managed to drop to the floor the other morning. “I’ll be fine. I just want to pet the piglets.”
“Don’t forget to use hand sanitizer afterward.” Margaret had become the baby’s guardian, which would have been adorable, except that she kept feeling the need to protect the baby from me. “Be back by four thirty. I’ll save you a seat. Try not to get too wrinkled. You’ll be representing the inn if you win.”
I rolled my eyes as I grabbed the map. “Yes, boss.”
“Want to take a turn in the goat barn?” Alfred asked.
“I’d love to,” I said, linking my arm in his.
The sun warmed the paved road of the fairground, and the warm smell of popcorn and candied apples hung in the air. Children walked by clutching newly won stuffed pandas with their sticky fingers. The mothers all smiled at us when they noticed my swollen belly. I let myself pretend that Alfred was my husband, that this baby was just another step in our carefully laid-out lives.
In the center of the poultry barn, among the many stacked cages, was a glass-domed incubator where chicks were hatching. I walked over and pressed my cheek against the glass. Every few minutes an egg would move and a tiny beak would appear, only to retreat, tired from all the pecking.
“Sometimes I wish the baby would come like this.”
“Pecking its way out?” Alfred asked.
“No,” I said, laughing, “outside of me. Then I could watch it happen without all the pain.”
The City Baker's Guide to Country Living Page 28