The City Baker's Guide to Country Living (23 page)

We curled up on the couch by the fireplace, and I told him everything—about the Sugar Maple, Margaret and the pie contest, meeting Martin and getting to know Henry. About Henry dying, and about learning of Sylvie.

“I feel like such an idiot,” I said, wiping my face on the sleeve of the bathrobe. “I should have known. I should have assumed he wasn't available in some way. Those are the only men I'm ever drawn to.” I grabbed the angora throw on the back of the couch and hugged it to my chest. “All those times I thought something might happen between us, I thought he was just being a gentleman.”

“It sounds like he was,” Jamie offered.

“Yeah, but now I don't know what to think. Maybe he never liked me at all. Maybe I was just a comfort, something to take his mind off everything. Wasn't that what I was to you?”

“Not quite,” Jamie said, his ears turning pink. “You never exactly made me feel comfortable, Livvy.” He stroked the back of my neck lightly with his fingertips. “I'd say you kept me on my toes.”

“Or on your back,” I said, squirming out of his embrace and hopping off the couch. “But you never loved me in that way people sing about.”

“I'm very fond of you; you know that.”

I paced the long length of the sitting room. “Do you think she knows? Your wife? Or is she really dumb?”

“Hush, now,” he said, scowling. “Agatha is a brilliant woman.”

“So how on earth could she not know that her husband was banging the help? I mean, seriously, Jamie, we had a good time together. You couldn't have been up for much when you got back to the mansion.”

“We did have a good time, didn't we?” The corners of Jamie's lips lifted a fraction, and his eyes lost their focus. “To answer your question, Agatha's and my relationship is . . . complicated. I think she sees what she wants to see and ignores what's inconvenient for her.”

“I wish I could do that,” I said, collapsing back on the couch.

“Wish you could do what?”

“Pick and choose what I see. Because all I can think about right now is Martin crawling into bed with his fiancée, and it's . . .” I was crying again.

“Come here,” Jameson said, and scooted over to sit next to me. He rested a warm arm over my shoulder. “You like this man.”

The church bells rang. Jamie glanced at his watch. He took back his arm and stood. “I'm sorry, Livvy. I really am. And I'm sorry I have to leave you like this.”

He stood and pulled on his shirt, buttoning it quickly. I sat watching him, knowing it would be the last time. I scooped up his cuff links from the coffee table and slid them into his cuffs.

“I am sorry I called you. I didn't mean to be a tease,” I said as I buttoned his vest, smoothing my hands over his chest.

“Stay as long as you like. I mean it. Order anything in the dining room. The manager knows it's on my tab.”

I walked Jamie to the door. “I meant what I said, Liv—the door is always open at the Emerson.”

“Thanks. I'm afraid it would feel like taking a step backward.”

“Well, that's probably the best perspective, at least for my marriage's sake.” He cleared his throat. “Let me know. I could make a few calls. Perhaps the St. Botolph Club?”

“I doubt I'll be in Boston for long,” I said, although the idea of moving even from the hallway back to the living room was exhausting.

Jamie hesitated in the doorway.

I gave him a small nudge. “Don't worry about me. I'll be fine.”

I
woke up from my nap to the sound of a fiddle being tuned. As a child I often drifted off to sleep under my Wonder Woman comforter, tapping my feet to the jaunty sound of my dad and his friends jamming in the living room. I knew in the morning I would find a stray musician asleep on the sofa and the scent of pipe smoke and whiskey lingering in the air. That meant cartoons all morning and a late breakfast at the diner—two of my favorite things. Now the sound of a bow drawing across open strings dug into a place inside of me I had been fighting hard to keep blocked off. I pulled my pillow out from under my head and squashed it to my ear.

Salty, who had been lying next to me on the cot, sat up, stuck his muzzle into the air, and let out a long, low howl—a perfect D. I threw the blanket over his head to shush him, but he was determined to match the fiddle note for note. I pulled on a sweater, zipped up my boots, and grabbed his leash.

“Come on, pup.” I crept through the storeroom, trying not to trip over the pizza boxes strewn all over the floor, and out the back door into the alley. I didn't want to be spotted by the music-shop guys. It wouldn't seem unusual for me to be working into the
night at the Friendly Eating Place—the neighbors knew a baker was using the space until the pizza shop was sold—but a giant Irish wolfhound mix emerging from a commercial kitchen was a little harder to explain. There was no getting around the fact that it was illegal to keep a dog in a pizza shop, just as it was illegal for a baker to be living in one. We needed to keep a low profile.

The day after I had cried all over his tuxedo, Jamie—my knight in shining Brooks Brothers—had insisted that I spend Christmas week at the Parker House. I passed the first few days sleepwalking from room to room, my heart swinging wildly from numbness to panic. On New Year's Eve I dyed my hair Manic Panic Electric Banana. People say happiness starts from within, but I'm a firm believer in “fake it till you make it.” Desperate for distraction and something other than hotel food, on New Year's Day I took the train across the Charles into Cambridge. I had lunch at Café Pamplona and ran into Richard, my favorite friend from culinary school. When I told him I was taking a sabbatical from the high-stress world of fine dining, he asked me if I was interested in freelancing for him, testing recipes from his new cookbook. I almost broke down. If there were a patron saint of wealthy, gay chefs, I would burn incense in front of a statue of him every day and drape him in marigolds. It wasn't a glamorous job—Richard looked a little embarrassed to be suggesting it to me—but the money bought me some more time in Boston. I knew in my heart that it would be a while before I could let go of Guthrie and start someplace new. Now I just needed a place to live and a kitchen to bake in.

I did then what I always do when I am looking for something out of reach. I called my specialty-foods purveyor, Raphael. His
exceptional ability to hunt down ingredients like the world's thinnest phyllo dough, hand-rolled by elderly Greek grandmothers, made him privy to every piece of culinary gossip on the eastern seaboard: which bartenders were sleeping with which hostesses, which chefs were snorting up their profits, and who hadn't met payroll the week before. Despite having been in Miami Beach for the winter, he had heard that the owner of the Friendly Eating Place had closed its doors without warning and that the landlord was looking for someone to fill the space while he fought with the bank. The Friendly Eating Place was about the size of a train car—no seating up front, just a counter with an empty cash register and a straw dispenser. The kitchen doubled as an overflow storeroom, with open metal shelving crowded with cans of roasted tomatoes and rows of refrigerators that, thankfully, had been emptied of their old mozzarella and pepperoni slices. It was perfect for my needs—a large convection oven, an even bigger brick oven for bread baking, and just enough room to set up the cot from Goodwill in the corner. I papered over the storefront windows and got to work.

 • • • 

Richard's book was a treasury of American home desserts, each recipe rustic and comforting. Weeks passed as I let myself get lost in the dependability of baking. Measure correctly, use proper technique, and everything always comes out exactly how you planned. I took immaculate notes, washed the dishes in water hot enough to scald my skin, and tried to think only of noodle kugel or pear pandowdy. Martin, the McCrackens, the Sugar Maple—I felt their absence like a phantom limb.

One afternoon at the end of January, I returned home late
from walking Salty with ten pounds of apples and a pound of butter, feeling crabby. It was sleeting, and my mittenless hands were raw from lugging grocery bags. I had been avoiding the pies and tarts chapter of Richard's book the entire month, but I knew I had to face it sometime.

Peeling apples always calms me. It's satisfying, almost meditative, to run the paring knife right under the surface of the skin. I worked through the whole bag even though Richard's recipe called for only three pounds. When it was time to add the spices, I ignored his instructions altogether. I put what I was certain was a blue-ribbon apple pie in the oven and shut the door.

From the music shop I could hear the faint strains of a guitar being tuned. Perfect. Every Monday night—regardless of the weather, or if there was a broken-hearted pastry chef squatting next door—a group of old-time players gathered after closing to trade tunes. I turned the volume on the abandoned radio to ten, rolled up my sleeves, and clanged the metal bowls against the sink wall as I did the dishes. If I'd had to, I would've run the empty stand mixer on high. Anything to block out those dear old songs.

The oven timer had just buzzed when someone tapped on the front door.

“We're closed,” I shouted as I pulled the pie out of the oven, the filling bubbling out of the air vents and onto the floor. The tapping grew more aggressive—whoever it was had switched to keys against the glass. The sound plucked at the nerves in the back of my neck. I fumbled with the sticky dead bolts and whipped open the door. There, on the sidewalk, stood Hannah.

“You are going to tell me where your bathroom is,” she said, pushing past me, “and then you are going to get a piece of my mind.”

“In back to the left,” I said, locking the door behind her.

I waited for Hannah in the storeroom. When she squeezed her way out of my tiny water closet and I got a look at how big her belly had grown, it hit me how much I had been missing in Guthrie.

“Livvy,” Hannah said, throwing her arms around me and hugging me as tightly as the babies would allow. “God, I can't believe I found you.”

I couldn't either. “I can't believe how fast the babies are growing,” I said. “How do you feel? Do you want to sit down?” I looked around the room. The cot was the only place to sit. I shooed Salty off and ushered Hannah over.

“My back hurts like crazy, and I live on Tums, but that's the worst of it so far.” She put her hand on her belly. “We can talk about the babies later. What I want to know is
where
are we? And what are you doing here?”

“It's temporary” was all I could think to say.

Salty climbed back on the cot and proceeded to lick Hannah's hand. I felt a wave of shame wash over me, seeing the room through her eyes—the torn pizza boxes I hadn't bothered to clean up stacked into a life-sized game of Jenga, the fifty-pound bags of flour leaning against one another, the yellowed walls of the windowless room, the dog hair–covered sleeping bag that I had been crawling into every night.

“How did you find me?” Other than going to the grocery store and walking Salty, I barely left the pizza shop.

“I called Raphael. Margaret gave me his phone number off an old invoice. I figured no matter where you were, you'd be ordering from him.”

Raphael. Why is it that when someone lets me have all the dirt, I never think that they would also spill about me?

The sound of men's laughter filtered in through the wall, along with the cat cry of instruments being tuned. I winced.

“Let's get out of here,” I said, extending my hand to help her up.

 • • • 

We passed several taverns serving more familiar fare before Hannah chose a Tibetan restaurant. We sipped masala tea, studying the menu, avoiding each other's eyes.

“I hear the yak is good,” I offered.

“We've all been worried sick, Livvy. You shouldn't have just left like that. Alfred has been threatening to hire a private investigator.”

That might cure him of his crush on me in a hurry.
“What about Margaret?”

Hannah unfolded her napkin and draped it across her belly. “Margaret's pissed, of course. You can't really blame her. You bailed out on her in the middle of the holidays.”

My belly churned as if I had drunk the buttered tea the restaurant was known for. Walking out on a job during the holidays was breaking serious culinary code, and I still felt deeply guilty.

“And Martin?” I tried sounding nonchalant and failed.

“He's gone, honey.”

It wasn't a surprise. Martin and I were alike in that way. But that didn't stop the tears from spilling down my face and onto the tablecloth.

“I should have called. I'm really sorry, Hannah. I just needed . . .” To let the skin form over my pudding-soft heart. “I just needed to get out of there.”

Hannah reached across the table and took one of my hands in hers. “I'm sorry. We got into that argument before Thanksgiving,
and we hadn't talked. I had no idea things had gotten serious between the two of you.”

“It wasn't serious, exactly.” I traced the mandala pattern of the tablecloth with my index finger. “But it felt like it could be. It was like he saw me differently than other men. And when I was with him, I saw myself differently. I liked who I was when I was with him.” I shrugged. “I should have listened to you. You were right. Henry has died and Martin is gone and here I am.” I took the cloth napkin off my lap and pressed it to my face, trying to dam the tears I couldn't control.

Hannah got up and took the seat beside me. “I hate seeing you like this. And I can't bear the thought of you living in the back of that kitchen.”

“It's fine, really,” I said, giving my eyes a final wipe. “It's just a place to land while I weigh my options. I have a freelance gig that's keeping me busy. You know me, Hann,” I said, giving her a weak grin, “onward and upward.”

When I had regained my composure, the waiter came over and took our order. Hannah told me all of the gory details about being pregnant and about how insufferable her mother-in-law had become.

“The worst part is that I'm so tired all the time. And you can't drink coffee! Every day my to-do list gets longer and longer, and all I want to do is lie on the couch and watch
Real Housewives
reruns.”

I had been feeling tired too. Like, someone-pulled-the-plug exhausted. I chalked it up to heartbreak. After my dad had died, I had been able to fall asleep wherever I could be semihorizontal, and at any time.

“So far the only good thing I can think of, other than the
babies, of course, is not getting my period. I'm not missing that
at all
.”

A chill passed through me, as though the restaurant door had blown open. I searched my memory for some detail—a day baking, bent over with cramps, needing to run to the pharmacy down the street—and came up with nothing.

“So, speaking of babies, Livvy, I have something important I want to ask you.”

I quickly did the math in my head. It had been five weeks since Martin and I were together. Maybe I was just late.

“I want you to be the boys' godmother.”

“Boys?”

Hannah patted her belly. “Yup. Two of them. It's going to be the house of testosterone.”

“Do you really think I'm the best person to be left in charge of their religious education?”

Hannah laughed. “Better than Jonathan's cousin, the Scientologist.”

“Of course I'll be the babies' godmother. I'd be honored.” I put my credit card on top of the check. “Can you come back for some pie? I just made an apple.”

“I would have thought you'd have made a vow to never bake a pie again.”

“It's a hard habit to break.”

Hannah glanced at her watch. “I wish I could. Jonathan is going to pick me up in a few minutes. You'll have to bring me a piece when you come to the shower. Although you know key lime is my favorite,” she said in a singsong voice.

The baby shower. Blue crepe paper and silly games and every
woman in the town of Guthrie knowing I'd been played by the town fiddler.

“Oh, Hannah, please don't ask me to come to Guthrie.” I pushed the leftover rice around my plate with a fork. “It's too soon.”

“You're my family. I need you there so I can feel like something other than an heir-bearing vessel for the Doyle clan.”