A wave of warmth washed over me, like I had just opened the door to a bread oven. I tucked the note into the pocket of my fleece and went in search of my cinnamon roll dough.
• • •
The apple pie in my lap felt toasty against my legs on the short drive from the inn to the McCracken farm. Margaret had insisted that I bring along one of the new test pies for Dotty to try. I had spent the week after the fund-raiser channeling all of my frustration into perfecting my apple pie. Nutmeg, allspice, and cardamom were added and subtracted by the eighth of a teaspoon. Crates of apples from the McCracken farm were peeled, cored, and sliced into several pies, each with a different combination of fruit. Chef Al and I spent an afternoon discussing the benefits and drawbacks of cornstarch versus arrowroot. By the end of the week I was left feeling like a deranged mix of Sherlock Holmes and Christopher Kimball, my palate completely numb.
Salty sat up straight in the back and looked out the window that I had cracked open for him. Margaret glared at me from the driver’s seat.
“Henry requested that he come along.”
“He’s getting slobber all over my clean window.”
“You didn’t have to drive.” Margaret had insisted we take one car to the McCrackens’. Hers.
Salty hopped over the seat onto my lap, his tail brushing Margaret’s face, his paws just barely missing the pie box, and leaped out of the car as soon as I opened the door. He trotted over to the empty goat pen. I held the untrampled pie up in the air in triumph.
The scent of roasting chicken and pearl onions greeted us in the foyer. “We’re here,” Margaret called.
“Come on in,” came a muffled cry from the kitchen. Dotty emerged, gingham apron wrapped around her thick waist. “The bird is just about done,” she said to Margaret. “I wanted to get everything ready for supper so we wouldn’t have to rush back.” She turned her attention to me. “Hello, Olivia. How thoughtful,” she said, taking the pie out of my hands. “Henry’s been looking forward to your visit all week. He’s in the sitting room.” She and Margaret disappeared into the kitchen.
A wave of shyness washed over me as I stood alone in the hallway. I knocked lightly on the door before poking my head in.
“Hello,” I called.
“Come in, come in,” Henry said. He sat on the coach, wearing a robin’s-egg blue sweater that made his shock of white hair glow. A bright red afghan lay across his lap. Underneath, two shearling-slippered feet poked out. “Sorry not to get up. Not as easy as it used to be.”
“No need.”
Henry tilted to the side to look behind me. “So, no dog?”
“Crap!” I ran back to the front door. I returned with Salty at my heels. “Here he is. Where would you like us?”
Henry patted the couch. “Come sit beside me. It’ll be easier to show you what to do.”
Salty walked straight to Henry and wagged his tail, sniffing Henry’s outstretched hand. He gave it one lick, then lay down on the braided rug beside him.
The dulcimer sat on the coffee table in front of us. It was a beautiful instrument, its hourglass shape cut from pale polished maple, with four tiny hearts carved out in pairs at either end.
“You made this for Dotty?”
“Back when we were courting.”
“May I?” I reached for the dulcimer.
“Of course.”
I placed it on my thighs. The wood on the bottom was worn, and it rested on my lap like it belonged there.
Henry leaned over and spun it around. “Now, the tuning pegs are always on the left, and the area where you strum the strings is on the right. Just like a banjo, really, except on your lap.”
“How old were you when you made it?”
“Sixteen, I’d guess.”
My index finger tugged at the first string. “She must have been thrilled.”
“More like irritated. She was a feisty girl.” He grunted. “Dotty had been insisting that she didn’t have a musical note in her body, and I was determined to prove her wrong. Now,” he held up a small wooden dowel, “this is your noter.” He leaned toward me and took my left hand in his. He smelled like bay rum and those soft pastel wintergreen candies. “Hold it like this. Now press down on the third fret.” Henry slipped his hand into the pocket of his sweater and produced a brown plastic guitar pick. With a quick flick of his wrist, he strummed all four of the strings. The room filled with a satisfying chord. “See, the reason I chose the dulcimer for her was because it’s so easy to learn. You only use the noter on the first string, the one closest to you—all the other strings are drones. Let me show you.” Henry pulled the instrument onto his lap and with knotted fingers he began to play “Go Tell Aunt Rhodie.”
“Did she?”
“What’s that?”
“Have a musical note in her body?”
“No.” The corners of Henry’s mouth twitched upward at the memory. “Not a single one. Now you give it a try.”
He slid the instrument back onto my lap.
Following Henry’s gentle instructions, I took a deep breath and plunged in, finding the notes with ease and allowing myself to get lost in the melody. The sound of clapping broke in from across the room. Dotty stood in the doorway, beaming, Margaret a shadow behind her, buttoning her coat.
“That’s lovely, Livvy! I’m so pleased to hear my dulcimer being played again.”
“She’s a natural,” Henry said.
I looked down at the dulcimer, trying to hide the fact that Henry’s compliment made me feel like I was eight and had just been given a gold star.
“We’ll be expecting a concert this afternoon,” Dotty said. “We’re just going out shopping for a bit. We’ll be back soon.” She blew Henry a kiss and ducked into the hallway.
When the front door clicked shut, Henry sat back, leaning into the couch. He pressed his palms to his face, covering his eyes. When he removed his hands, his face looked older, weathered, worn. We sat and listened to the growl of the car engine coming to life and the crunch of pebbles beneath the tires. When the room finally fell silent, Henry turned to me.
“Would you mind doing me a favor?”
“Sure,” I said, standing.
“In the barn, underneath a wooden bench, there is—”
“The cider?”
Henry laughed. “Marty gave away my secret to you already, did he?”
“We shared some of your secret last Sunday night,” I said, smiling down at him. “It’s delicious. I’ll be right back.”
The crisp air was a surprise in the abundant sunlight. Salty found his goat friends and gave them an affectionate sniff. I took down the red plaid thermos from the shelf and poured the cider in.
Henry was sleeping when I returned. I tiptoed out of the sitting room and made my way down the hall to the kitchen in search of glasses. The walls were covered with photographs hung randomly and with no regard for chronology. A black-and-white picture of Henry and Dotty dancing in the grange hall sat next to a faded color Instamatic of three skinny boys, shirtless and grinning, each holding up a fish the length of his arm. I recognized the smallest one. Even as a young boy, Martin’s face had had a look of seriousness and determination. I had known that Martin had brothers, and there was no denying the family resemblance, although the older two took more after Dotty than their father. At the center of the wall was a formal wedding picture of Henry and Dotty, with the wedding party lined up on a staircase. Behind Dotty stood her maid of honor. It took me a moment to realize it was Margaret. She looked like Gilda-era Rita Hayworth’s brunette twin, her long locks falling down her back in a loose wave, a short string of pearls around her neck. How she had remained unmarried until she was older I couldn’t fathom.
I grabbed two jelly jars that were drying on the enameled counter next to the sink and walked back into the sitting room. Henry blinked up at me, looking confused
for a moment before jutting his chin toward me in greeting. Salty had taken my spot on the couch, and Henry reached over to rub his belly. I sat in a chair across from him, placed the two glasses on the table, and poured them half full from the thermos.
“No need to be polite.”
I hesitated, then unscrewed the cap of the thermos, topped off both glasses, and handed one to him.
“That’s better.”
The cider was cool and tart. “Martin told me you make it?”
“Marty made this batch. Not bad. But yes, I taught all my sons. My father taught me. Makes good use of the bad apples.”
“Very good use,” I said, taking another long sip.
Henry drained his glass and placed it on the coffee table. I reached down for the thermos and refilled them both.
“Dotty didn’t like it. The boys would get into it from time to time when they were growing up, but they were just being boys. I always said it was better for them to get into trouble here than out in the town.”
“Well, at least now the boys are old enough for her to worry less about them.”
“You must not have children.” Henry tapped a fingernail on the side of the jelly jar. “Marty may be on his way to forty, but that doesn’t mean we don’t worry about him, Dotty and me both.”
“Martin? Why?” I asked. I drained my glass and busied myself with the thermos lid, not wanting to seem too curious. I leaned over to refresh Henry’s glass, hoping to distract him from my nosiness.
“I have no idea what that boy is doing in the city.”
“He’s teaching, right? What’s wrong with that?” I offered.
“When Marty was a boy we couldn’t keep him indoors long enough to bathe and feed him. He spent more hours in the woods or in the fields than he ever did in the house.”
I leaned forward, wanting more.
“All my sons work well with their hands, mind you. Mark has a small dairy over in Shelburne.” Henry tilted his glass back. “Ethan took over the apples and the Christmas trees and grows vegetables for some sort of co-op—what do they call it now? Folks give him money up front and collect vegetables every week? But Marty”—he wiped his lips with the sleeve of his sweater—“he was a natural. Gentle with the horses. Could make anything grow in any weather.” Henry looked out the window through the lace curtains. “I thought he’d be the one.”
I looked down at my glass. “The one?” I asked gently.
“Don’t be shy, girl. Have another. I would but they’ve got me on all sorts of medication.”
I emptied the thermos into my glass.
“So, why did you leave?” Henry asked.
“Leave?” I asked, confused. “Home? It was just me and my dad. When he died I was the only one left. And we didn’t have a house or anything, we just rented an apartment, so it didn’t really feel like leaving.”
“How old were you?” he asked.
“Sixteen.”
Henry looked as if he was deciding among a hundred questions, but he settled on a simple one. “What brought you here to Guthrie?”
“Oh.” The room suddenly felt warm. “I was just looking for a change of scenery.”
“Well, this must be quite a change.”
“You could say that,” I said, smiling.
“You had to have left a lot of friends behind.”
“Not really.” I picked at a patch of pills on my sweater. “So, I thought Martin was here to help on the farm, but it sounds like Ethan took over.”
Henry tilted his head. “Yes, well.”
I kept picking.
“So no friends?”
“I didn’t really have time for them. Just coworkers. I worked all the time.”
“Any special coworker?”
“Nope.” The cider had warmed a little, but it still went down easy.
Henry leaned forward. “Not even a special coworker with plaid pants?”
“Aha!” I shouted, pointing my finger. “Henry McCracken, have you been gossiping?”
“Young lady, all town gossip gets filtered through this sitting room. I couldn’t avoid it if I tried.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I mumbled into the jelly jar.
“Well?”
“Well, what?”
“The special coworker?”
“Nope.” I stood up and walked across the room to the fireplace. My head spun for a moment, and I grabbed the edge of the mantel to steady myself. “No special anything. It makes it easier to leave that way.” I walked over to the window and peeked out.
Salty stood up on the couch, circled three times, and lay back down, this time with his head in Henry’s lap. Henry stroked the velvety fur behind his ears. “Sit down, dear. You’re making me nervous.”
My head felt thick with cider. “I kinda had to leave,” I mumbled.
Henry looked into my eyes, waiting.
“My last night at the Emerson—my old job—there was a big gala, and I had been asked to present a baked Alaska in the traditional way, which means on fire. I was standing in this banquet room, with hundreds of guests—people whose birthdays and weddings and christenings and anniversaries I had helped celebrate—and it just hit me.” I placed my head in my hands, leaning forward. “Standing there all I could think was This isn’t my life. And Jamie—that’s Mr. Plaid Pants—was there with his . . .” My voice trailed off. I looked down at the ground.
“With his family?” Henry offered.
I looked out the window, avoiding Henry’s gaze. “I felt like such an idiot. Like, of course, this was his real life, and I was just some foreign country he visited from time to time.” I pressed my palms into my eyes. “Everything became clear to me all of a sudden.” I looked up at him. “Do you know that scene from Dickens, where the kid has got his face plastered to a bakery shop window, looking in?”
“Oliver Twist.”
“Exactly. And he’s just burning to eat one of those cakes. He’d do anything. That’s how I’ve felt since my dad died.”
“Like you wanted cake?” Henry asked. “Is that why you became a baker?”
“Like I’m on the outside—of everything. Being at the Emerson just made me feel more like that. I wanted out.”
“Sounds like a good reason to leave.”
“Yeah, well. Tell that to the fire department.”
Henry tugged at the afghan on his lap, pulling it higher. “Do you think you belong in Guthrie?”
I blew out my breath. “I don’t know. You’ll have to ask Margaret. Seems like she’s the one who will be deciding that one.”
“You have a say, young lady. Don’t you forget it. And don’t wait too long to decide. Not making a decision is making a decision. Besides, you’ll be surprised at how much can happen once you settle down.”
The front door opened, startling us both.
“Hey, Dad,” Martin called. He walked in, carrying a tall wooden pole that was marked with faded painted stripes—one green, one yellow, one blue, and one red. “I finished tagging all the trees.” He eyed Salty, who was still resting his head in Henry’s lap. “Dad, did you find him with the goats?”
“Were there enough twelve-footers?”
“At least four dozen. That dog—”
“You’re sure you measured them right? You’re out of practice. We don’t want people saying we’re overpriced.”
“I used the stick, Dad. It’s not—”
“I’ve been giving Olivia here a dulcimer lesson.”
Martin scanned the room, and found me sitting in the corner. I gave him a weak wave. “Hey.”
Having Martin in the room woke me up to the fact that I had just been spilling my secrets to his father. And that maybe his father wouldn’t be thrilled with his—friendship?—with a pyromaniac adulteress, no matter how many stringed instruments I played.
Martin’s gaze fell on the empty jelly jars and the thermos that sat on the floor beside my feet. “Dulcimer lesson. Right. I can see that.” He turned to his father. “How’d it go?”
Henry smiled at me. “She’s a natural. Livvy, take her home and practice. Next time we can work on the strumming.” He stretched his back a bit and turned to Martin. “I think I’m ready to lie down for a spell before supper. Would you see Olivia back?”
“Of course.” Martin reached down for the jelly jars.
“Let me do that,” I said, jumping up. I bent down and gave Henry a small kiss on the cheek. “Thanks so much for the lesson.”
“Thanks for the good company.” He grasped my arm and squeezed. “Come by anytime.”
“I will,” I promised.
“And bring the dog.”
• • •
Dotty arrived as I was rinsing out the glasses. She sat me down at the kitchen table, peppering me with questions. By the time Martin came back downstairs, I was drinking my third cup of coffee and eating my second piece of apple pie.
“So, Livvy, is your mother down in Boston?” Dotty asked.
“No,” I said. “She died a couple of years ago.”
Martin poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down next to me at the kitchen table.
“The thermos?” he whispered.
“Back in the barn.”
Dotty cut a thick slab of pie and placed it in front of Martin. “I’m sorry about your parents,” she said. “Any relatives?”
I watched Martin carefully as he took his first bite. His eyes closed as he chewed, and a small sigh of pleasure escaped his lips as he swallowed.
“Nope, it’s just me.”
“Well, that settles it. You’ll spend Thanksgiving with us.”
“Um . . . ” I said as I watched Martin take another large forkful. “I’m not really a family holiday kind of person.” I had spent last Thanksgiving sitting on a bench next to Plymouth Rock, eating a turkey sandwich.
Martin pierced a piece of apple that had slipped off his fork.
“Too much nutmeg?”
His eyes met mine for a brief moment. “No.”
“Nonsense,” Dotty said over her shoulder as she walked out of the kitchen.
The City Baker's Guide to Country Living Page 12
