The City Baker's Guide to Country Living (19 page)

“About Margaret?” Martin asked.

“About our friendship.”

“You all set here? Do you need anything else?” asked the waitress with the world's worst timing. If I hadn't worked in food service, I would have stiffed her the tip.

“What kind of pie do your folks like?” I asked Martin. “We should bring them some.”

“Two pieces of orange chiffon, to go,” he said to the waitress. He stood, reaching into his back pocket for his wallet. “I'll go settle up.”

We listened to an old country music station all the way back
to Guthrie. I dozed for a while, until I was startled awake by the sensation of the tires crunching on gravel. Martin pulled into the space next to mine in the Black Bear Tavern parking lot.

“What time is it?” I asked.

“Nearly midnight.”

“I've been working at least twelve-hour days all week,” I said, stifling a yawn. “I never feel it until I slow down.”

“Thanks for staying out with me.”

“I'm glad you found me,” I said. I meant it in all the ways.

“My dad was asking for you.” Martin turned to face me and leaned his head back against the seat. “He wanted me to apologize for his missing the movie.” Martin closed his eyes for a long moment. “And . . . he asked me to make sure you would come see him this week. With the dulcimer.”

I brushed at my eyes with the back of my sleeve. “Of course. I'll come by as soon as I can get away. Should I call first?”

“Just come by anytime. Mom would love the company if Dad's resting.”

“When will you be there?” I asked, tugging at the drawstring at the bottom of my fleece jacket.

“If I'm not there, I'm selling trees. You could come by and see the lights.”

“I will.”

Martin caught my left hand in his before I made my escape. “Olivia . . .”

I turned back to face him, holding my breath.

“You asked me what I thought about our friendship.”

I nodded, wide-eyed.

“It makes me feel like I'm home.”

It was as if he had answered a question I hadn't known I was
asking. Speechless, I slipped out of the truck, closing the door quietly behind me.

 • • • 

The crush of holiday parties at the Sugar Maple kept me tied to my workbench from dawn until late into the evenings. I practiced deep breathing each morning while making my daily prep list, each day seeming more impossible than the last. We were just as busy as I had been at the Emerson, but at least there I'd had a staff. My arms ached from whisking giant vats of egg yolks for the chestnut buttercream to fill my bûche de Noël, and I had a permanent indentation of a gingerbread man pressed into my left palm from cutting out cookies. Alfred managed to keep his good humor despite his moonlighting as Santa on the weekends, and his relentless teasing made even the most stressful moments feel like we were the hosts of a never-ending party.

One afternoon in the middle of December, Margaret found me lying on my back on the storeroom floor with frozen bags of peas pressed to my forearms.

“What on earth are you doing, Miss Rawlings?”

“Just resting,” I answered, twisting my hips from side to side.

“Well, why don't you do that in the cabin, in private?”

“I'm helping with the hors d'oeuvres party.” Things between Margaret and me had remained chilly since the cookie-decorating party.

“Sarah can help Alfred tray everything up. Take the night off. I need you fresh for the hospital-board dinner at the end of the week.”

I pressed myself up. Standing, I eyed her carefully. “Are you going to use this against me at a later date?”

“Stay if you don't need the break,” she said.

“I'm out of here,” I called as I struggled to untie my apron strings while walking back to the kitchen.

“Don't forget about the brunch tomorrow morning. And what about these peas?”

I kept walking before she changed her mind.

 • • • 

By four o'clock I was standing on the McCrackens' front porch, my hair freshly dyed Manic Panic Atomic Turquoise, holding a bowl of homemade caramel corn in one hand and the dulcimer in the other. Dotty answered the door.

“You shouldn't be out in this cold with wet hair,” she scolded, ushering me into the foyer and closing the door. “Henry is reading in the sitting room. Go on in.”

I knocked lightly on the door before entering, dulcimer first. Henry was dozing, his head back, lips slightly parted. I was grateful he was asleep so I had a moment to compose myself. Henry had looked thin at Thanksgiving. Today he looked almost skeletal, his translucent skin pulled tight across the points of his cheekbones. I blinked back tears and cleared my throat.

“Hey, Henry,” I said softly as I clicked open the latches of the dulcimer case.

Henry's head snapped forward. He wiped at the corner of his mouth with a white handkerchief. “I was wondering when you were going to get around to seeing me.”

I laughed and bent down to kiss his cheek. “I was wondering that myself. I didn't think Margaret was ever going to let me out of the kitchen.”

“She's a slave driver, that one. Always was. Drove her husband
crazy with an endless to-do list.” Henry patted the spot next to him on the couch. I sat down. “Now tell me, have you had any time to practice?”

“None at all.”

“Well, let's hear, anyway.” Henry settled back into the cushions and closed his eyes.

I brushed the pick across the strings mindlessly a few times before I settled on a tune. I played it three times. When I stopped, he opened his eyes and smiled.

“‘Blackberry Buckle'?”

I nodded.

“I haven't heard that one in a long while. We should make a playlist just of songs about sweets.”

“Speaking of which”—I grabbed my messenger bag from the floor—“I made you some caramel corn, and I brought over these.” From my bag I pulled out two DVDs:
Swing Time
and
Shall We Dance
. “I thought we could watch them here since we couldn't make it the other night.”

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.