The City Baker's Guide to Country Living

by Louise Miller

“Can I get you anything, Martin?” Al offered, a bit formally I thought.

  The croissant dough on my table had begun to rise, the rectangles puffed and billowy. I wanted to take Martin’s hand in mine, pick up where we had left off last night, and see what would happen next. I felt heat creep up my neck like someone had turned the flame up under a simmering pot. I turned my attention back to the croissant dough and chocolate batons.

  “I was just telling Livvy about practice next week, for the New Year’s dance. You up for it?” Tom asked.

  Martin was watching my fingers. “I brought the dulcimer,” he said, his voice low in a way that made me want to lean in toward him. “My dad said he expects you to practice every day before your next lesson.”

  “Well, I had better, then,” I said, my voice just as low. “I wouldn’t want another lecture from Henry.”

  The dining room door opened and Margaret marched in. “I pay you to work, not stand in my kitchen, flirting with every man in town, Miss Rawlings.” She glared at me as she walked straight into her office and slammed the door.

  Mortified, I bit my bottom lip to hold back the tears that were threatening to spill. Al placed a big pot under the faucet and turned on the water. Tom stood, brushing the crumbs off of his shirtfront. “Well, that’s a sign to get going if I ever saw one. See you kids at my place next Wednesday?”

  “Sure,” Martin and I said in unison.

  I wiped the flour from my hands with the edge of my apron. Martin cradled the dulcimer in both hands, as if it were a child. “Where should I put this?”

  I walked with Martin to the rocking chair at the other end of the kitchen, where he placed it gently. Frost still trimmed the grass across the field and into the apple orchard, making everything sparkle.

  “Thanks for coming by,” I said. “With the dulcimer, I mean.”

  “I thought you’d want to practice.”

  “Yes, definitely. Did Henry mention when our next lesson will be?”

  Martin leaned against the doorjamb. “He said you should come around every Monday afternoon.” He looked out across the field. “Does Salty stay in the cabin all day?” he asked.

  “Usually.”

  Martin rested his hand on the doorknob. He hesitated, glancing back over his shoulder at Alfred before opening the door. A gust of cold air rushed in. “Guess I’ll see you soon.”

  “Yes,” I said, clasping my arms behind my back to keep from touching him.

  I lingered by the back door and watched as Martin walked through the apple orchard.

  “So what was that about?” asked Al, startling me back into the present.

  “What?”

  He nodded toward the closed office door. “That.”

  “I guess one of us should find out.”

  “It’s too early in the day for that much negative energy. She’s all yours.”

  I straightened my apron and knocked on the office door.

  “Come in.”

  Margaret sat at her desk, head down, a stack of invoices piled high beside her. “What was Martin McCracken doing here so early?”

  “Martin?” I asked, surprised at the question.

  “You can do what you want in that cabin, but I’d appreciate it if you didn’t bring your personal life to work. It’s a small town. People talk.”

  “He was just dropping something off.”

  “At seven in the morning.” It was a statement, not a question.

  “Yes, at seven in the morning.” I ripped my ponytail holder out and began twisting my hair into a knot at the back of my head. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

  “Martin McCracken is the son of my best friend and certainly is my business.”

  “Then you’d know that he was dropping off Dotty’s dulcimer so I can practice between lessons.”

  Margaret leafed through the pile of invoices, uncovering a legal pad at the bottom of the pile. I sat down in the chair opposite her desk. “So what’s up?” I asked.

  Margaret adjusted her eyeglasses and leaned back. “It looks like we might have a wedding booked for June. The clients are coming today to walk through the inn and to talk about the menu. I want you and Alfred to make them lunch—something summery. It’s not an official tasting—I just want you to give them some ideas.”

  June. One of a baker’s favorite months. Strawberries would be available, and sour cherries. Rhubarb, of course. And lavender would be blooming. I could feel the sun on my cheeks and smell the green scent of cut grass.

  “Olivia.”

  I opened my eyes. “Sorry. But wait—we aren’t open for lunch.”

  “Miss Rawlings.”

  “How about an orange Chiboust with strawberry rhubarb compote? Or I could do my sour cherry napoleon. Ooh, or how about lavender honey Bavarian torte? With a blueberry coulis?”

  “That sounds fine,” Margaret said.

  “Fine? That sounds fabulous! But I’ll have to stick to just the napoleon. I could have done more with, you know, some notice.”

  “That will do,” Margaret said, distracted by the invoice in front of her. “Tell Alfred I’ll be in to discuss the menu in a few minutes.”

  “What’s all this fuss about, anyway? We had a couple come in to check out the place last week and you had them order off the menu. At dinner.”

  Margaret didn’t say anything.

  “Who’s coming in?” I prodded.

  “Jane White,” Margaret said to her pile of paperwork. “It’s her granddaughter Emily who’s getting married.”

  I sat back down. “Seriously?”

  “At one o’clock.”

  “But—she’s Jane White.”

  “Yes, and?”

  “You’re the owner. You can do whatever you want. Just tell her—”

  “That may be the way you did things down in Boston, Ms. Rawlings, but that’s not how we conduct business here. You should keep that in mind. Now—”

  “Is this like a ‘keep your friends close, your enemies closer’ kind of thing?”

  “You only have a couple of hours, Ms. Rawlings. Shouldn’t you be getting to work?”

  I kept my seat. I could hear the clang of a heavy metal pot being placed on the stovetop, Alfred’s smooth cadence, and Sarah’s laughter through the wall.

  “Bring me to the meeting.”

  Margaret eyed me over her reading glasses. “Excuse me?”

  “Bring me to the meeting. Brides love me. I’ll do the walk-through with you, sit down with them at lunch, talk menu. You can just say you’re showing me the ropes, since I’m new, which would be true. I’ve got lots of experience with brides-to-be and their families, trust me. Besides.” My eyes fixed on the red ribbons in the case behind her head. “It will level the playing field. Two Sugar Maples against two Whites. No one should have to spend all afternoon with two Whites alone.”

  Margaret eyed me with suspicion. “One o’clock. Be sure to give yourself some time to get cleaned up. They’ll be prompt.”

  “No problem. I’ll tell Al you’ll be right out.” I walked straight from the office into the walk-in freezer, praying the chef had frozen some of last year’s cherries.

  • • •

  I stepped into the foyer, buttoning the chef’s coat that Margaret had bought for me. Margaret was pacing around the sitting room with a clipboard clenched in her hand. The front door opened, and a young woman with loose blond curls walked in, followed by the thick form of Jane White swaddled in a red wool cape.

  “Hi, Mrs. Hurley,” the young woman said.

  “Hello, Emily.” Margaret walked into the foyer to greet them. “Jane.”

  Jane regarded the sitting room, frowning. “The light in here isn’t very good, is it?”

  Margaret looked like she was ready to throw the first punch.

  I stuck my hand out t
o the young woman. “Olivia Rawlings, the inn’s pastry chef. Congratulations on your engagement.” The young girl beamed.

  “You’re supposed to congratulate the groom,” Jane said.

  I smiled at her warmly. “May I take your coats?”

  Jane and Emily peeled their coats off and handed them to me. I draped them over the edge of one of the love seats, not knowing what else to do with them.

  Margaret cleared her throat. “You’ve been here plenty of times, Jane. What do you need to see?”

  “Well, there are going to be at least seventy-five guests. All of Emily’s cousins will be coming; she has dozens of cousins from the Bradford side of the family. And her friends from college.” Jane was puffed up with pride. “Did you know Emily graduated with honors from UVM? And of course, all of John’s family will be there.” Jane turned to me. “John is my late husband. He came from a large family.”

  “Our dining room only seats forty, so it looks like we won’t be able to help you,” Margaret said, turning away from the group.

  I grabbed her elbow. “Unless you were planning on having the reception outside, where we could set up tents. It’s a June wedding, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” Emily gushed. “That’s what I’ve been picturing since I was a girl.”

  “It will be lovely,” I said. “A warm breeze, fireflies blinking at the edges of the field.”

  “Mosquitoes biting the grandmother of the bride,” Margaret murmured.

  “The wedding is at noon,” Jane interjected.

  “I’m sure the guests will be dancing until dawn. And before the fireflies light their tails in celebration, the guests will enjoy gazing down at the beautiful view of the valley.”

  Emily sighed. Jane coughed. “What if it rains?” she asked.

  “We’ll have tents over the dining area and over the dance floor. And your guests could come in here as well to have drinks and to relax.” I waved my arm around the sitting room. “We have twelve guest rooms, so some of your bridesmaids could stay right here. You could even reserve a room for yourself to get ready in.”

  Margaret rolled her eyes.

  “Why don’t we talk about this over lunch? Chef Alfred and I have made some summery dishes for you to try.”

  We made our way through the inn into the dining room. Margaret and Jane ignored each other as Emily described the color scheme of the flower arrangements in breathless detail.

  Sarah arrived a few moments later carrying a tray of arugula salad with fresh burrata and cherry tomatoes, drizzled with a basil vinaigrette. I ran my tongue over my lip. Al’s burrata was the creamiest I had ever tasted. Margaret waved her salad away when Sarah tried to serve her. “None for us, Sarah.”

  “You’re not eating?” asked Emily.

  I looked at Margaret with questioning eyes.

  “No, we’ve already had lunch.”

  My stomach rumbled in protest. I straightened in my chair and looked at my legal pad, trying to stay professional. “These are just ideas for an early-summer menu. When you’ve had a chance to look at the banquet menu, we can arrange a formal tasting.”

  Emily took delicate bites of her salad. Jane speared a cherry tomato into her mouth and pushed the cheese around the plate with her fork.

  “This is delicious,” said Emily. She was a polite girl. It was hard not to like her, even if she was a White.

  “Your grandfather would have loved this.” Jane smoothed Emily’s blond curls out of her face. “I wish he were here to see you getting married.”

  Margaret shifted in her chair. Sarah cleared the salad plates and served two small cups of vichyssoise. “The price includes soup or salad. You’ll have to choose.”

  “Unless you want to go with four or five courses,” I added.

  “For an additional price,” Margaret said.

  “Price isn’t an issue,” Jane said, dabbing at the corner of her lip with the cloth napkin. “John set up a trust for precisely this occasion. He wanted the best of everything for Emily.”

  Even I was getting tired of hearing about John. Margaret’s face was inscrutable, but I could see that under the table she had twisted her handkerchief into a tight knot.

  “I do have one important question,” Jane said, looking directly at Margaret. “Are you sure the inn will still be under the same management? We wouldn’t want to commit if there’s a chance that strangers will be running the place. Unless, of course—”

  “I honor my commitments.” Margaret looked like she was ten seconds away from stabbing Jane with the salad fork. She needed help.

  “Margaret, do you know where I left my cake portfolio?” I asked lightly.

  Margaret’s chair scraped loudly against the floor. “I’ll get it.” She walked quickly through the swinging doors and into the kitchen. She didn’t return with the leather-bound binder until Sarah was clearing the entree.

  “Now, I know you’ll want to have cake, but most weddings in Boston also feature a plated dessert, and the cake cutting takes place later in the evening.”

  Sarah served the napoleon I had prepared, along with several other desserts I had whipped up. A tall wineglass held fresh berries bathing in a champagne sabayon. A crepe stuffed with white chocolate and mascarpone mousse was topped with strawberry and rhubarb compote. I sat back, pleased with what I had accomplished in late November with only a few hours’ notice. Jane took small bites of everything without comment. Emily licked the spoon clean after each taste. When she pressed her fork into the crepe for a third bite, Jane patted her wrist and said, “Don’t forget about your dress, dear. You’ll want to fit into it.”

  Emily put down her fork.

  Margaret stood up. “Miss Rawlings, I trust you can manage to talk about the cakes without me?”

  “Of course,” I said brightly.

  “We won’t hold the reservation until we have received a fifty percent deposit. I’ll send over an estimate.” Without even a good-bye nod, Margaret walked purposefully out of the room.

  I picked up the portfolio and stood. “Let’s have coffee in the sitting room and look over the options for the cake.”

  Emily and I sat by the fireplace paging through my portfolio while Jane walked around the room, picking up the small statues that perched on mantels, flipping them over to see what was underneath, and peering at the paintings, photographs, and decorative plates that hung on the walls, as if she were searching for clues.

  “Look at this one, Granny.” Emily held up the binder, open to a photograph of a three-tiered cake wrapped in fondant, the surface worked with quilting tools to make it look as if it were sewn. “It reminds me of the quilts in your house.”

  Jane was standing by the wall of photographs, her head leaning forward, peering at one over the rims of her glasses.

  “Do you sew as well as bake, Mrs. White?” I asked sweetly. “I’m surprised you would trust anyone else with your granddaughter’s cake, you being such an accomplished baker yourself.”

  “I’m not much of a cake decorator,” Jane said, her voice distant and faltering. She eyed me cautiously. “Pie is my specialty. Apple pie.”

  “We have that in common,” I said.

  Jane gave me a level look. “All right, Emily, I think we’ve seen enough. We’d better be on our way.”

  As Jane and Emily buttoned their coats, I planted myself where Jane had been standing, taking quick glances at the photograph she had been studying. It was one from Dotty and Henry’s wedding, a candid of the wedding party coupled off on the dance floor. “Let us know if you have any questions,” I said, smiling brightly. “Chef Alfred is looking forward to hearing your menu ideas.”

  Jane walked past me and into the front yard. Emily stopped and shook my hand. “It was nice to meet you,” she said.

  I gave her hand a small squeeze. “You too. And congratulations. Or whatever I’m su
pposed to say to the bride.”

  Emily laughed. “I like being congratulated. I’m getting what I’ve always wanted.”

  “What is that?” I asked. When I was her age all I wanted was to score some pot.

  “My own family.” Her eyes softened, and she looked shy all of a sudden.

  I pictured myself sitting at the McCrackens’ kitchen table, Dotty and Margaret gossiping about the people in the church basement while Henry and Martin talked about the Christmas-tree crop. That led to thoughts of Martin’s breath on my cheek that night in the woods, and how natural his hand felt in mine. I looked over at fresh-faced Emily, who looked like she was born to be a bride, and pushed the thoughts aside.

  “Well, congratulations, then,” I said as I closed the door behind them.

  • • •

  I walked back to my cabin after the Whites left. I needed a break from the tension that was radiating from the closed door of Margaret’s office. Expecting a chilly cabin and an anxious dog, I was surprised to find Salty sleeping heavily by the woodstove, which held a roaring fire. A small pile of wood was neatly arranged beside it. When I peeked out the back door, the cord of wood that had been a sprawling mess was stacked under the eaves and tucked under a blue plastic tarp. On the kitchen table was a note.

  Salty was on the porch with the door open when I walked by. Noticed the woodpile. Let him play while I stacked it. Hope you don’t mind. Martin

  I kicked off my boots and put the kettle on to boil, humming an old tune whose name I couldn’t remember.

  • • •

  Hannah arrived at the sugarhouse a couple of hours later, a large pizza box balanced in one hand, a sonogram clutched in the other. She pushed the box at me and collapsed onto the couch. “Twins,” she said, waving the sonogram in the air. “I’m having twins. I just found out.”

  I dropped the pizza box onto the counter. “Seriously?” One baby seemed impossible. Two babies—at once—seemed catastrophic.

  “Can you heat that up? I drove all the way to Littleton to get it. I’ve been dreaming about that pizza for days.”

  I turned on the oven and flipped open the box. It was just a cheese pizza. “What makes this so special?” I asked.