The City Baker's Guide to Country Living (28 page)

I hated those corporate hospitality groups. Profit was all they really cared about. “And what will you do?”

“Haven't decided. Something new.” Margaret scraped the last flake of pastry off the plate with her fork. “I can only guarantee you through the summer, but if you make a good impression, maybe we can get you a contract with the new owners.”

“Margaret, I didn't come over here expecting—”

“Sap's stopped running, of course, so the cabin's free.” She pointed at my bulging tunic. “But sooner than later you'll want to be close to indoor plumbing. You can have the baker's quarters. The dog can sleep in the living room unless someone complains.”

My body suddenly felt buoyant, as if I were floating in Lake Willoughby. “If I stay for the summer, do you know what that means?”

“That you will irritate me for months with these impossible
questions?” Margaret collected our plates and brought them over to the sink.

I rocked myself out of the chair. “No, it means I'll be here in July. For the contest.” I stood in the middle of the kitchen, beaming. “What did you think of the pie?”

Margaret brushed her fingers across her pearls just once. “Good. Not as sweet.”

“Right?” I asked. “I backed way off on the sugar. Now you can taste the sweetness of the fruit itself.” I hugged my shoulders, trying to contain my excitement. “If this ends up being your last baking contest, wouldn't it be great to go out with a blue?”

The room was dark, but I swear I saw a hint of a smile cross Margaret's face. “Good night, Miss Rawlings. Let me know what your plans are so I can alert the staff.”

V
ermont in June is like Oz. The mud-caked slush of spring gives way to green fields dotted with yellow dandelions and black and white cows. On the road to the Sugar Maple I rolled down the windows to drink in the aromas of fresh dirt and cut grass. I felt full to bursting, like an overripe tomato, and connected to every living thing.

This was partly due to pregnancy hormones, I'm sure. I had passed into my third trimester with an inexplicable sense of relief. Every part of my life was in transition. It was like the turning of the seasons, when you can feel change hovering beneath the surface. The period between letting go of the old and diving into the new usually makes me restless and prone to terrible decisions, like the time I had a whisk and spatula tattooed on my butt. This time I felt happy to be returning to the inn and my little cabin between the orchard and the forest.

I don't know how long I sat in the Sugar Maple parking lot trying to work up the nerve to get out of the car. I had stayed on at Hannah's for a couple more weeks, wanting to make sure she had everything she needed, and getting a preview of what life was like with a newborn (or two). It was like attending baby boot
camp. But when Hannah's mother-in-law arrived, I knew it was time to go. Once I entered the inn, the news that I was going to be a mom would be all over town by nightfall. I leaned back in my seat, stroking Salty's fur, wishing I could just take a small nap and wake up after the baby was born.

Margaret and Alfred appeared in the parking lot. Alfred gaped when I hoisted myself out of the car, but he quickly recovered and grabbed all the heavy boxes of cake-decorating supplies I had ordered from Raphael. Margaret scolded me for spending so much money on a cake wheel but didn't say a word when Salty waltzed through her flower bed.

The kitchen was already bustling when I shuffled in, looking for decaf, the day before the wedding. I had filled and frosted the cakes the previous day, but they still needed to be covered in fondant, decorated, and assembled.

Alfred worked beside me, his long prep table covered with plates on which he artfully placed handfuls of baby arugula. “You know, Livvy, you really shouldn't have left the Maple Sugaring Festival so early.”

It was comforting to be back in the kitchen with Alfred. I hadn't seen him since I had arrived, and I'd been worried that he was avoiding me.

I rolled out a thin layer of fondant, a healthy dusting of confectioners' sugar on the table to keep it from sticking. “How come?” I said absently.

“You missed the talent show,” he said, suppressing a laugh.

I slid the layer of fondant over one of the cake layers, carefully tucking in the edges so the cake appeared to be completely wrapped in fabric. When the edges were straight and smooth, I
pressed a silicone mat with the raised double-wedding-ring quilt pattern into the fondant, then followed the lines of the impression with a spiked embossing wheel so that the fondant looked like it had been stitched.

“Did I?”

“They sang ‘Let the Sunshine In,'” he said, a small nest of arugula cradled in his hand. “You know. From
Hair
?”

With tweezers I carefully tucked tiny sugar pearls into the spaces where the stitches met. “Oh my God, they weren't naked, were they?” I dropped the tweezers.

“Yes, they were. You should have seen the postmistress.”

“No! Enough! No more visuals!” I said, laughing.

“Good afternoon, Miss Rawlings,” Margaret said as she walked through the kitchen and into the dining room, the door swinging in her wake.

“I know about the sale,” I said quietly to Alfred, pressing the rolling pin into a fresh piece of fondant. “Although I still can't believe she's selling to anyone connected with Jane. What are you going to do?”

Alfred's expression sobered. “I'm hoping to stay, but if they decide to change things up, I'll find another place. Don't worry about me.”

Alfred finished the salads and turned his attention to the stovetop, where he started sautéing something with leeks that made my mouth water. I covered the final layer of the cake. It was time for my least-favorite part: assembly. Each cake layer was already supported by stiff cardboard. I pressed several wide plastic straws through the layers for stability, trimmed them with scissors, then held my breath as I carefully set the chocolate
layer on the coconut with passionfruit curd, the lemon-raspberry on top.

“It's stunning, Livvy,” Alfred said behind me.

I turned to face him, smiling. “Now the hard part—getting it into the walk-in.” At the suggestion of motion, the baby flipped over. “Stop squirming.”

“What's that? Are you all right?” Alfred looked alarmed. “Do you need to sit down?”

“I'm fine,” I said, rubbing my side. “It's just the baby. She's squirmy this morning.”

“She?”

“That's what Margaret said. I'm going with it.”

Alfred came to stand beside me. “May I?” he asked before he set his hand on my belly. He started when he felt her move. “Wow. She's strong, like her mother.”

“Either that or grouchy like her mother,” I mumbled.

“Livvy,” he said quietly, “I could make an honest woman out of you.”

“I think it's a little too late for that,” I said, laughing.

Alfred removed his hand. He looked hurt.

“Alfred?” I asked tentatively.

“I know you probably still have feelings for Martin—it's Martin's baby, isn't it?—but we're a good team, Liv. And I've always wanted children. I'd treat her like she was my own.” Alfred kept his gaze steady. He was serious.

I grabbed his wrist. “That is pretty much the kindest thing anyone has ever offered me.”

Alfred's eyes moved from mine to the floor. “That sounds like a no.”

“I still can't wrap my mind around the fact that I'm going to be a mother. I can't think about being a wife now. It
is
marriage you're talking about, right?”

“I'm more of a traditional guy than I look,” he said. “You don't have to do this alone.”

“That's not a good reason for marriage, Al,” I said softly.

“I don't think it's so bad.”

Margaret walked back in, her arms full of white lilies, gripping a pile of papers. “Lilies for a wedding,” she scoffed, plopping them down on a table. “It smells like a funeral parlor out there.”

My stomach roiled. Alfred turned back to the stove, but not before I saw the crestfallen look on his face.

Margaret came and stood behind me, assessing the cake.

“All three flavors?” she asked.

“Three flavors? I thought she wanted all chocolate,” I said, throwing my hands up in mock horror.

She smacked my hands with the seating chart. “Now, how are we going to move that thing?”

“I'll do it,” said Alfred, and effortlessly, he picked up the three-tiered cake and carried it into the walk-in.

“You could do worse,” I heard Margaret mutter behind me.

 • • • 

The day of the wedding was bright and sunny, as if Jane White had made arrangements with God himself. Puffy clouds dotted a sky so blue it looked spray-painted on. The white tents were set up in the field overlooking the valley below. I spent the morning helping Sarah and Margaret tie white tulle onto the backs of the chairs in the dining area while a team of men laid down the dance floor under the adjacent tent. It was only eleven in the
morning but the sun was blazing, and a fine sheet of sweat had formed on my forehead.

The women of the wedding party were giggling in the sitting room in their matching pink gowns, bouquets of miniature lilies clutched in their hands. They were all in their early twenties, fresh-faced and hopeful. I heard a gasp from the group, then a squeal, followed by a chorus of sighs. I looked at the top of the stairs to see Emily White standing in her wedding gown, white lace dotted with tiny crystals. She looked like a confection. Jane White stood behind her in a suit made of teal silk, a choker of pearls tight at her throat, fussing at the back of Emily's gown and frowning. She looked down at me, her eyes trailing from my face to my belly. My hand protectively cradled my bump. I turned and scuttled back into the safety of the kitchen.

Margaret stood leaning over her checklist and drinking a cup of tea. Alfred was giving directions to a couple of young new dishwashers while Sarah poured iced tea into glass pitchers. There is nothing worse than feeling idle in a busy kitchen. I waddled up to Alfred. “Give me a job. I feel useless and in the way.”

Alfred's lips attempted a grin, but his eyes told another story. “Everything is under control here, Livvy. Why don't you get off those feet for a little while,” he said, tilting his head toward the rocking chairs.

I did as he said. It actually felt good to sit down. Alfred sang along to Frank Sinatra on the radio as he sliced the fingerling potatoes. Margaret was right. I could do worse, a lot worse. He'd make an excellent, doting father. Husband too. I shook my head. Someone opened the back door, and a warm breeze filtered through the kitchen. I was surprised when Dotty appeared, her
gray hair piled high in a loose bun on top of her head. My eyes immediately filled with tears. I pressed my hands into the armrests of the rocking chair and tried to hoist myself up. Dotty made a clucking sound and shook her head. She leaned over and kissed me on the cheek.

“I'm pregnant,” I blurted. My cheeks blazed and I began to cry in earnest.

“I can see that,” Dotty said, laughing. “That's wonderful.”

“Kinda,” I said, rubbing at my eyes with my forearm. Dotty dug around in her handbag and handed me a packet of tissues.

“You'll be a good mother. I always thought so.”

I blew my nose loudly into the paper tissue. “I'm so sorry I didn't tell you.”
That I'm carrying your grandchild
. “I haven't really known what to do. Did Margaret say anything?”

Dotty rocked back in her chair. “She mentioned it a couple of days ago. But don't be cross with her. She was just sparing me hearing it at the grocery store.”

I leaned back into my chair. “Did she tell you who the father is?” I asked quietly as I watched my feet leave the floor.

“She didn't have to.” Dotty reached over and took my hand in hers. “Now,” she said, looking serious. “Martin hasn't mentioned it. He's always been a private boy, but I'm pretty sure he wouldn't have kept this from me.”

“I haven't told him yet.”

“What on earth are you waiting for?”

“I don't know. I don't want to be the reason he gives up his dream. He's out there on the road. I figure the baby is going to come whether or not he's on tour.”

“People can have more than one dream, dear,” she said. “And
it's not for you to decide which one they should follow. Tell the truth and step aside, I always say. But I won't mention it. Just do an old woman a favor and tell him soon, before someone like Frank Fraser does. If he asks me, I won't be able to lie.”

“Thanks, Dotty,” I said, suddenly feeling shy. Dotty and I would be bound by this newest member of her family growing inside of me.

“I wish Henry could have been here to meet her,” Dotty said, her face softening.

I squeezed her hand. “Me too. Although don't you think he would have been angry?”

“Oh, he'd be angry at Martin for not marrying you yet. But he already saw you as family, dear. I think he would have been very happy.”

Margaret came over and handed us each a glass of iced tea. She looked down at her watch. “I'm looking forward to twelve hours from now, when the entire White family is off my land.”

Dotty raised her glass in the air and said, “Amen.”

I clinked glasses with her and took a long sip, trying to quench the burning urge to point out that this wouldn't be
her land
if she went through with the sale.

Sarah pushed in through the swinging doors. “The first group has arrived. Can someone bring some more ice out to the bar?”

I hoisted myself up out of the chair and pulled one of my old chef's coats over the Clash T-shirt I was wearing. “I'll start traying up the canapés.”

The staff moved smoothly from hors d'oeuvres to the first course, and the entrées were served on schedule. We were just wiping down the tables when Sarah came rushing back in.

“Alfred, two of the dishwashers are having a fistfight out
back—can you deal with them before they bleed on a bridesmaid?” Alfred dashed out the back door. “Oh,” Sarah added as she reached for the silver coffee pots, “Mrs. White is demanding the cake.” It had been too humid earlier in the day for us to set out the cake for display. I looked over at Margaret. I hadn't known it was possible for her back to get any stiffer. She marched into the pantry and returned pushing a large steel cart on wheels. “We can wheel the cake down to the tent on this.”