The City Baker's Guide to Country Living

by Louise Miller

  “Starting to worry, Liv?” Alfred asked gently.

  I leaned into him. “A little. Sometimes, like when I wake up with leg cramps, or my back aches, this voice inside my head says, You don’t even know the meaning of the word pain yet.”

  “Well, every mother seems to forget all about it once the baby is born.”

  “Not me. I’m a total lightweight when it comes to pain. I’m planning on holding a grudge.”

  Alfred and I left the barn and found the maple creemee hut. I bought two cones and handed one to him. A young couple gave up their shady bench to us—one of the excellent fringe benefits of pregnancy, I was fast learning—and we sat down, licking away happily.

  “Have you given any more thought to my offer, Livvy?” Alfred asked, as if he were asking me if he needed to order more lemons.

  I blushed and took a deep breath. “I haven’t talked to Martin about the baby yet.” He had called several times, leaving panicked-sounding messages from all over Europe. “And I just think—I think the next thing I should do is talk to Martin.”

  “Martin is an idiot if he doesn’t come back for you.”

  “True.” I smiled up at him. “See, it’s a mess. You don’t want to get yourself stuck in the middle of all of this.” I took my napkin and wiped some ice cream out of Alfred’s beard. “You’re stuck with me, though. I’ve decided to hang around.” It felt good to say it out loud. Blue ribbon or red, with Martin or without, Guthrie had become what I’d always been looking for: home.

  “What about the inn?”

  “I have a little money stashed from the cookbook job, but I need to start making calls as soon as the inn changes hands. I’m going to need an income, especially after the baby comes. I can’t see Jane White’s cousins hiring me.”

  Alfred leaned over and kissed the top of my head. “Well, it’s happy news. You belong here.” He smiled. “Besides, it gives me the opportunity to wear you down.”

  I laughed and tried to stand but failed. Alfred stood and hoisted me up. “I’ve got to head back and get dinner prep started. You knocked it out of the park, Liv. It’s yours to lose.” I gave Alfred’s hand a thankful squeeze and watched him get swallowed by the crowd.

  I lingered on the midway, watching the families. A father soothed a red-cheeked girl who sat crying on the back of a carousel horse while a pair of brothers egged each other on as they whipped baseballs at glass bottles lined up on a shelf. A young couple, still maybe in their teens, walked hand in hand, the girl with a newborn strapped to her chest. They were probably making out on top of the Ferris wheel this time last year, I mused. I tried to picture myself last summer, working long hours in the hot kitchen of the Emerson. It felt like a lifetime ago. The baby did a little somersault. “A lot can happen in a year, young lady,” I said as I rubbed the spot on my belly where she felt closest. “All sorts of surprises. I’ll make sure you’re ready for them.”

  • • •

  I followed a trail of teenage boys—skinny, greasy frames in baseball caps and black concert T-shirts—over to the arena where the awards ceremony was being held.

  “Olivia,” I thought I heard someone say as I was making my way to the chairs near the stage.

  I turned and looked into the crowd gathered behind the contestants. Sarah waved at me, beckoning me over. “Hey,” I called, edging my way toward the front row, where I was sure Margaret was waiting.

  “Good luck,” Sarah shouted, and I gave her a wide smile in return.

  A hand reached out and grabbed my shoulder. I spun around and into a Tom Carrigan bear hug. The rest of the Beagles were standing behind him. “We’re playing the grandstand right after the demolition derby. Want to sit in?”

  “You know my Eagles rule, Tom,” I said, laughing into his shoulder.

  Melissa walked onto the stage and removed the mic from the stand. “Greetings, everyone.”

  “I’ve got to get up there or Margaret’s going to kill me.”

  Tom patted my arm. “Go, go, before she gets riled.”

  I passed Dotty in the ninth row, behind the contestants, flanked by at least two generations of McCracken children. She blew me a kiss.

  Melissa adjusted her sash. This was her last official act as Mrs. Coventry County before she had to hand over her tiara to this year’s winner. “As many of you know, this has been a record-breaking year for entries in the annual Coventry County Fair’s apple pie contest. Thank you, everyone, for entering.”

  I scooted down the first row, carefully stepping over contestants’ bags and feet, whispering apologies and pointing to my enormous belly when someone gave me a scowl.

  “Do you do this on purpose?” Margaret hissed as I slid into the chair next to her.

  “Of course I do. The excitement keeps you young,” I whispered back.

  I looked up at the judges, sitting behind Melissa. They didn’t look too thrilled about the record-breaking number of pies. The horsey one looked a little green.

  “Pies are judged based on the following criteria: appearance, crust, flavor, and filling.”

  I elbowed Margaret in the ribs. “We have it all,” I said in a singsong voice.

  “Shhh.”

  “Olivia.” I searched the crowd but couldn’t pinpoint the voice. Hannah and Jonathan were standing at the edge of the crowd, wearing matching baby carriers. “You made it!” I called, waving. Hannah held a sleeping baby’s hands in hers and made him wave back.

  “Miss Rawlings,” Margaret hissed.

  “So, without further ado . . .” Melissa picked up a white ribbon and an envelope from the small table beside her. “In third place, a newcomer to the pie contest”—Margaret grabbed my hand and squeezed—“Ashley Laferrier, age thirteen. Congratulations, Ashley. Come on up here.”

  A skinny teenager with thin brown hair down to her waist climbed up the steps. Ashley looked overwhelmed as she gazed at the crowd.

  “Olivia!”

  I stood up and turned around.

  Margaret grabbed my wrist. “Will you sit down?”

  I plopped back into my chair, annoyed.

  “And now for the red ribbon. The judges said it was very difficult to choose between first and second place. The scores were the same, so it came down to the judges’ personal taste. Both of you should feel very proud today.” Melissa smiled in an apologetic way. She knew the second-place winner was not going to feel proud. “Okay, so our second-place ribbon this year goes to—Olivia Rawlings, baking for the Sugar Maple Inn. Come on up here, Livvy.”

  I sat motionless and, to my embarrassment, burst into tears.

  “Go on up there, dear,” Margaret said.

  I turned to face her. “I’m so sorry. I thought we had it.”

  “It’s okay. Now go on up and get your ribbon.”

  I stood on shaky legs. The people in my aisle stood up to let me by, patting my shoulders, uncertain whether to offer sympathy or congratulations. Someone took my arm and led me up to the stage.

  “Come on up here, Livvy,” said Melissa into the microphone. “Let’s give Miss Rawlings a round of applause.”

  The crowd began to clap. When I reached Melissa, she handed me the red ribbon and then pulled me into a hug. Tears ran down my face like icing over a too-hot cake. I slowly staggered across the stage and stood next to Ashley.

  “It’s only a pie contest,” she offered, and handed me a tissue out of her pocket.

  “And now, for our grand-prize winner, I am very pleased to award this to a long-standing member of our community, who is no stranger to this stage . . .”

  I groaned out load.

  Ashley looked alarmed. “Is it the baby? Do you need me to get someone?”

  “Margaret Hurley, also baking for the Sugar Maple Inn.”

  “What?” I cried.

  The crowd let out a roar, and everyone, including con
testants and judges, leaped to their feet, clapping.

  Margaret stood, smoothing down her skirt. Her hand went to her throat and she touched her string of pearls. A man offered to escort her to the stage, but she patted his arm away. Margaret walked up the stairs to the podium alone, her head held high.

  “Congratulations, Margaret. Good to see you up here again,” Melissa said, wrapping an arm around Margaret’s shoulder. She handed her the blue ribbon. “Would you like to say a few words?”

  Margaret stood for a moment, gazing at the ribbon, running it through her fingers. The crowd continued to clap and whoop. She looked out into the audience and gave a small bow, then took the microphone that Melissa offered.

  “I’m not one for speeches, but I would like to say thank you to the judges. I won’t lie—it feels good to have this blue ribbon in my hands again.” Several people in the crowd chuckled. “Baking pies for this contest has been a tradition in my family for generations. The Sugar Maple has been a place of celebration for many of you, and it’s been an honor to serve this community.” She paused, looking down the stage at me. “I’m looking forward to many more years of service and celebration, and I’m looking forward to seeing the next generation of blue-ribbon bakers carry on the tradition. Thank you.”

  I wobbled across the stage and threw my arms around her, squeezing her as tightly as my belly would allow. And in front of all those people, Margaret did the most surprising thing. She hugged me back, just as tightly.

  “When?” I asked.

  “Early this morning, before you got up. You’ve been sleeping in lately.”

  “How?” I asked.

  “I’ve been practicing,” she said, pulling away but taking hold of my hand.

  I bit the inside of my cheek. “You really won’t sell?”

  Margaret smiled. “Not if you’ll help.”

  “Can we get a picture of you ladies for the paper?” asked the town photographer.

  I put my arm around Margaret’s shoulder and leaned my head against hers. We held our ribbons to our chests and smiled our biggest smiles.

  “How about one of just you, Mrs. Hurley? And can we ask you a few questions about how it feels to win again?”

  Old friends and well-wishers stormed the stage. I stood back and watched as person after person shook Margaret’s hand and patted her shoulder. Margaret stood as tall and graceful as she always did, but she couldn’t hold back the joy in her eyes. I stepped out of the crowd that was enveloping Margaret and walked to the edge.

  “Woo-hoo! Go, Margaret!” I hollered from the top step. Margaret met my eye. Grinning, she held up the blue ribbon and gave it a little shake. I blew her a kiss.

  “Olivia,” someone behind me said. I turned and looked down. There, at the bottom of the steps, stood Martin McCracken.

  So this is what it feels like, I thought to myself, breathless as my lungs collapsed to make room for my rapidly expanding heart, to commit.

  “Hey.”

  Martin held out his arm to help me down and then caught me in a tight embrace.

  “Oh, Livvy,” he said, resting his cheek against the top of my head. “Seriously? A voice mail?” he asked into my hair, his hand resting gently on my belly.

  “I didn’t want to tell you,” I said into his armpit, burrowing in with my nose. He smelled like an old pillow I slept with every night, mine and no one else’s. “And ruin everything.”

  The baby gave a swift kick.

  “Livvy, I knew before they stamped my passport where I really belonged.”

  I raised my face to look at him. He smiled at me then. Not the lopsided one but the blue-ribbon one. The one that showed both rows of teeth. Martin wound his fingers into my hair, tilted my head back, and kissed me.

  “Come on, Liv,” Martin whispered into my ear. “Let’s go home.”

  No words had ever sounded so sweet.

  Chapter Twenty

  July, One Year Later

  I pressed my feet into the floor and rocked back, hoping the gentle sway of the chair would soothe the baby nudging me from within. No luck.

  “Start the rolling pin at the center of the dough and roll outward,” I said. “Never back and forth.”

  “That develops the gluten. Makes a tough crust,” Margaret added from the chair on my left.

  Sarah pressed the wooden pin into the dough and rolled it away from her, brought it back to the center, and rolled it back.

  “Perfect. Now just turn the dough a quarter turn.”

  A little muffled snore escaped from Dotty, who was asleep in the rocking chair to my right.

  Margaret stood up to inspect Sarah’s work. “Make sure you have enough flour under there so it won’t stick. But not too much.”

  Sarah looked across the table at me, her eyebrows raised, and tentatively dusted the table with more flour.

  “That’s it,” Margaret said, and went to put the kettle on to boil.

  Sarah was baking her own entry for the Coventry County Fair apple pie contest. Margaret and I each planned to enter our own pies, and we were harboring a serious fantasy of the Sugar Maple taking all three ribbons. “It would be great advertising,” Margaret insisted. Not that we needed it. The Associated Press had somehow picked up the story the Coventry County Record ran, and several larger newspapers had published it. By the time the piece in Food & Wine came out, Margaret and the Sugar Maple were already all over Facebook and Twitter. Margaret handled herself with grace in every interview that followed and never once mentioned Jane White in the retelling, no matter how tempting it must have been. I’m pretty sure that’s why Margaret sent me on an errand every time a reporter came by.

  Salty nosed his way into the kitchen, followed by a crawling Maggie, who was never far behind, and then her father. Martin swooped down to pick her up, and she squealed in delight. He stood behind my chair and kissed the top of my head as he deposited Maggie in my lap.

  “Not too rough, Mags. Don’t hurt your baby brother.”

  Maggie rested her head on my belly, which had just started to show.

  “Hey,” I said, looking up and back at Martin’s upside-down face. He leaned down farther and kissed me once on the lips.

  “Hey,” he said, one hand on my head, the other on Maggie’s. “I’m on my way to the house. Do you want me to take her with me?”

  Margaret reached over and lifted Maggie off my lap and onto hers. “We’ll mind her.”

  After the fair, Martin and I had moved in with Dotty, at her insistence. She acted as if we were doing her a favor, but that couldn’t have been more untrue. Dotty taught me how to take care of a baby, which ended up being much scarier, in my opinion, than actually giving birth, and I wasn’t alone while Martin finished the U.S. leg of his tour. Margaret joined us for supper most nights, and usually a few members of the extended McCracken family would wander in. Martin and I still slipped away to the sugarhouse from time to time, in search of some privacy, not having had much time for it to be just him and me. That explained Henry Junior, due on Christmas.

  “Livvy, what do I do when the dough tears?”

  I rocked myself up and sat down on Tom’s stool, propping my foot on Nancy Drew and the Hidden Staircase. “It’s okay, you can patch it, especially if it’s the bottom crust. Just try to roll it a little thicker next time.”

  Sarah carefully folded the dough into quarters and pressed it into the pie tin. She was proving to be an excellent baker. After our double win at the fair, Margaret and I had been discussing the best place to hang our ribbons when she asked if I wanted to be part owner of the Sugar Maple. I said yes without hesitation, complete in the happiness of knowing that I could keep my family—my whole family, Margaret and the McCrackens, and Alfred and Sarah too—close at hand. Margaret taught me how to do the bookkeeping, and I still did almost all of the baking. Margaret took over the pies, of course. We co
uldn’t take her apple off the menu.

  Just as Sarah closed the oven door, her pie safe in the oven, Salty gave a deep woof at the back door.

  “I should head back. He needs a walk and she’ll be waking up soon.” Maggie lay sleeping on Margaret’s chest. I reached out to pick her up.

  Margaret looked over at Dotty. “Why don’t you walk him back? I’ll run her home when they’re both awake.”

  “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” I whisper-sang, kissing Margaret and her namesake on the cheek.

  Salty and I burst through the back door and into the apple orchard. The branches were heavy with ripening fruit. Honeybees flew in lazy patterns among the trees under the warm late-afternoon sun. Salty bounded ahead when the sugarhouse came into view, waiting on the porch for me to catch up and then following me into the maple grove, tail high and wagging. A few leaves had turned a faded yellow, but the canopy above still glowed green. Salty herded the squirrels, which squawked back up into the trees. The air was cooler here and felt fresh against my skin. I ambled along, enjoying the rare moment of being with just Salty. For years I had thought it would always be just the two of us. Wife and mother were two roles I had never thought would be mine, but now I couldn’t imagine not being both. Not to mention a business owner, an aunt, and a sister-in-law. But it was being a daughter again that I found the most surprising. Margaret and Dotty teased me and comforted me and pestered me like I was one of their own. I knew both Henry and my dad would have approved. Wherever they were, I hoped that they had found each other and spent their days swapping tunes.

  We walked the carriage path up the hill. The maples thinned, replaced by oaks and pines. When we came to the clearing, I sat down on the grass and Salty scratched at the ground, turned three circles, and lay down next to me with a sigh. Puffs of cloud moved across the deepening blue sky overhead. Before us lay the farm, now so familiar, white farmhouse dwarfed by the big red barn where the cider was kept, a shaggy vegetable garden that Martin, Dotty, and I had planted in the spring. Mabel and Crabapple in a pen. Home, I said to myself, the word still new on my tongue. I stood and patted my thigh with my palm. “Come on, Salt.”