“I have no idea, but it’s all I want to eat. That pizza from that shop. Jonathan won’t eat it, so I don’t feel right asking him to go.” Hannah kicked off her shoes and put her feet up on the couch.
“I’d have gone,” I said, pouring bubbly water into two cups.
“You’ve been busy.”
I could hear the note of hurt in her voice. It had been two weeks since I had seen Hannah at the diner. Between baking, practicing dulcimer, and having lessons with Henry—which always led to visiting with the McCrackens—I hadn’t had much time to do anything other than take Salty out for walks.
I handed her a warm slice and a glass of water and then plopped down on the couch beside her. She had taken off her coat and her belly was noticeably rounded.
“So, how do you feel?”
“Terrified.”
“And what did Jonathan say?”
“He was thrilled. He always wanted a big family, and we got a late start, as you know.”
Twins. Hannah’s and my friendship had weathered the changes of her marrying Jonathan and moving up to Vermont with little conflict, most likely because I had convinced myself they were temporary. Some part of me still believed that Hannah and I would always be partners in crime. You could still be a partner in crime with one baby, but with two? Now I couldn’t avoid the truth that things would never be the same.
“That’s great, sweetie,” I said, grasping her foot and giving it a little shake. “I’m so happy for you guys.”
“I just wish we could keep it to ourselves a little longer, but with my belly . . . Jonathan wants to announce it to his family on Thanksgiving. Thank God you’re going to be there.”
I stood up and went back to the stove to refill our plates. “Um, Hann, about that. I’ve been invited to the McCrackens’ for Thanksgiving.”
“But I assumed you’d be coming to my house. I need you as a buffer.”
I leaned against the kitchen counter. “I’d like to, but Henry is . . .” Like a father to me, I couldn’t say. And I was going to lose him too. “I just couldn’t say no to them.”
“But you can to me?” Hannah put her plate down. “Is there something going on between you and Martin that you haven’t told me about?”
“I honestly don’t know.”
“How can you not know?”
Because he hasn’t tried to get down my pants, like every other man I have ever been involved with. “Look—we’re just friends. But I’ve been spending a lot of time with him and his family, and . . .”
“I need you there, Livvy. The doctor is threatening bed rest. And Jonathan was talking about his mother moving in.”
“I’m sorry. I just feel like I need to be there.” I turned to face the sink and stuck my hands under the hot water.
“I thought that you moving up here meant that we’d see more of each other, not less. You can be so frustrating sometimes.” Hannah appeared beside me. She dropped her plate on the counter with a loud clang. “You know what’s going to happen. Henry is going to die, and Martin is going to go back west. And then you’ll be back on my doorstep, just like you are every time you get hurt, and—”
“Hannah, you don’t need to tell me that everyone leaves,” I said quietly.
“I never leave,” she said, her hand on the doorknob, “I just wish you would appreciate that.”
Chapter Ten
Thanksgiving had never meant Indians and Pilgrims, or football, or even turkey to me. For twelve years it had equaled long days and cramped fingers. The day before Thanksgiving was always a marathon—twenty-four hours of pie baking—and I spent the morning of Thanksgiving boxing them for pickup. By the afternoon I was capable only of icing down my forearms, trying to ease the pain of rolling out hundreds of piecrusts. When Margaret informed me that the Sugar Maple was closed for the holiday, I should have felt elated. Instead I was surprised to find that I was nervous instead of relieved. Hannah and I hadn’t spoken since our argument, and it left me feeling deeply unsettled.
I tried to find a way to decline Dotty’s invitation, but excuses are hard to come by in such a small place. The closer we came to the day, the more I found myself with an anxious energy that could be released only by baking pies. I began with the basics—double-crust apple, sweet potato, bourbon pecan. A friend from the Cape had just sent me a crate of fresh cranberries, so I added a cranberry with crumb. Then an old-fashioned custard pie that I thought Margaret would enjoy. The custard reminded me of an old recipe for chess pie that I’d saved. I added a key lime and a lemon meringue after I woke up in the middle of the night thinking that all the flavors were too heavy. Then I started to worry that the pies were all too adult somehow. I knew that Martin’s nieces and nephews were coming, and children like chocolate, so I filled a cookie crust with pudding made from cornstarch and cocoa and piled it high with mounds and mounds of whipped cream and ribbons of milk chocolate. Everything would need to be accompanied by ice cream—vanilla. I spent an afternoon scraping the tiny black seeds out of fresh vanilla beans with the edge of a paring knife. I couldn’t help but make Parker House rolls when I had the original recipe—not the one found in magazines but truly the original, which I had teased out of the chef at the hotel while we drank sidecars in the very room where Jack proposed to Jackie. I was determined to dazzle the McCrackens with baked goods so that they wouldn’t notice that I lacked experience in the family department.
By Thanksgiving morning I had run out of pies to bake, so I dyed my hair. I must have been thinking about my walk in the woods when I chose the color—Enchanted Forest. It looked like the dark green balsams that lined the McCracken fields. When I was dressed, I grabbed my banjo and Dotty’s dulcimer and marched down the hill. By the time I arrived at the inn, Margaret had already loaded the pies into the trunk of her car and was waiting by the door.
“Green, Olivia? I thought crimson might have been a more festive choice.”
“Did you remember the ice cream?” I asked, ignoring her comment.
She nodded.
“And the pumpkin and the cream pies? Some of them were in the back of the walk-in.”
Margaret let out a breath. “Yes, Miss Rawlings. Now stop fussing. It’s a holiday.”
We pulled onto the dirt road that led to the McCracken farm. Cars were lined up along the road, and the parking area was full.
“That’s a lot of cars.” I knew from dinner conversations at the McCrackens’ that the extended family was large, but seeing it live and up close made my stomach churn.
“It’s usually just the kids and their families,” Margaret replied. “A stray friend or two.”
Three boys who looked about nine or ten ran by the car holding sticks in the air and shouting. Margaret stepped out of the car and called them over.
“Hi, Auntie Margaret,” said the tallest boy, stopping to kiss her cheek.
“Hi, Auntie Margaret,” said the smaller two.
“You boys drop those sticks for a minute and give us a hand.” Margaret popped open the trunk and handed each boy a tower of pie boxes. “Now, be careful. Go straight into the kitchen and give them to your great-grandmother.”
The boys held the boxes in front of them and walked as if they were carrying gifts for a king.
I carried the ice cream, leaving Margaret with just the apple pies. We were met on the porch by a handsome man with salt-and-pepper hair and Dotty’s hazel eyes. He wrapped his arm around Margaret’s shoulder and gave her a tight squeeze.
“Great to see you,” he said, kissing her on the cheek. “Mom’s in the kitchen. Tim!” he shouted into the open door. “Get your brothers and come out here.”
Three young men, all in their late twenties or early thirties, slipped through the door.
“I’m Mark,” said the salt-and-peppered man. He held out his hand. I balanced the ice cream awkwardly on one hip and shook his hand with
the other.
“Olivia Rawlings.” I didn’t know how to introduce myself. “I work at the Sugar Maple.”
“Do you go by ‘Livvy’?” Mark asked. “Henry mentioned you. Hope you brought your banjo.”
I nodded. “It’s in the car. Your mom’s dulcimer too.”
Mark handed the ice cream to one of the young men and took the box from Margaret and passed it to another. “Good, let’s go get them. Maybe we can have a tune before supper.”
The once-peaceful McCracken homestead was buoyant with sound. I put the instrument cases on the floor and wrestled out of my coat. I could hear Dotty and Margaret talking in the kitchen, as well as some younger female voices. In the sitting room someone tuned a guitar string while a couple of men laughed. Three boys stood in a cluster unarmed but arguing. From somewhere deep inside the house, a baby cried. All I could think was Thank God I didn’t bring Salty. I stood still in the foyer, not knowing where I belonged.
“I’ll bring the instruments into the sitting room—it’s where we usually play,” Mark explained, and disappeared into the room. Not sure if I should follow, I waited in the hallway. When he didn’t emerge, I walked toward the room I had the highest chance of feeling comfortable in—the kitchen. It was as steamy as a sauna and every flat surface was covered with pans and dishes. Dotty stood at the center of it all, her face serene.
“Livvy, dear, glad you could make it.” She leaned over and kissed my cheek. “I thought I saw a custard in one of your boxes,” she whispered. “I might have to hide that for myself. Now, I put the ice cream in the freezer downstairs, and all the pies are on the back porch—it’s cool enough out there, don’t you think?”
“That’s perfect.” I rolled up my sleeves. “What can I do?”
A young redhead in her early twenties walked through the kitchen and handed me a baby. “Thank God. Could you take Dotty? I’m dying for a nap.” Without waiting for an introduction or an answer, she walked out of the room.
“That was my granddaughter, Nicole,” explained Dotty, reaching over to stroke the downy hair on the baby’s head, “and this fine young woman is my great-granddaughter and namesake, Dorothy.”
Dorothy let out a cry and all the women laughed. I looked down at the baby in panic.
“You know, I’d probably be a lot more useful helping in the kitchen,” I hinted.
“Nonsense,” replied Dotty. “She’s just like me—she likes to move. Just walk her around a bit and she’ll be fine.”
All the other women in the kitchen turned back to their tasks. Feeling out of place, I tucked young Dorothy’s butt under my arm and walked through the door. The baby radiated heat like a little furnace. I bounced her gently up and down as I walked her back and forth in the foyer, wondering where Martin was but feeling too weird to go in search of him. Dorothy reached behind me, grabbed my ponytail, stuck a curl in her mouth, and began to suck. A deep voice chuckled from down the hall.
“I see Nicole has already found someone to babysit my granddaughter.” I turned to see the perfect combination of Henry and Dotty at the end of the hall. He had Henry’s sharp nose and Dotty’s sweet smile. “Ethan,” he said, offering his hand.
“Livvy.”
“I figured. Marty told me about you.” Ethan tilted his head toward the sitting room. “Want to play? The boys are just tuning up.”
I held up the baby in Lion King fashion. Dorothy kept a tight grip on my hair, and a stream of drool escaped from her lips. “I’ve got my hands full.”
Ethan reached toward the baby. “I can take her.”
The baby felt like a security blanket—she was comforting and didn’t expect me to talk much. I felt shy playing music with all of these strangers. “I’ll just listen for this round,” I said, smiling. “But I’m sure I’ll get the urge to play as soon as this one starts howling.”
Ethan chuckled and held open the door.
“There you are,” Henry called out. He was sitting on the couch, fiddle in hand, flanked by two of the younger boys. His sweater hung off his frame loosely, but his eyes looked bright, and he looked happy being surrounded by so many generations. “Everyone, this is Olivia.”
I waved hello, noticing that one of them had my banjo on his lap.
“I hope you don’t mind,” he said, his fingers already twisting the tuning pegs.
“Not at all. Warm her up,” I replied as I settled into an armchair. The baby nestled her head into my shoulder and grew a tiny bit heavier as she sucked on my lock of hair. I rubbed my nose across her head.
Henry pressed his fiddle into the flesh beneath his collarbone, the same way Martin held his, and raised his bow. Counting under his breath, “One, two, three,” Henry began a slow version of the Shaker hymn “Simple Gifts.” Tim and Charlie, two of Henry’s grandsons, followed in time. I tapped my foot, singing the words softly into the baby’s hair.
’Tis the gift to be simple, ’tis the gift to be free
’Tis the gift to come down where we ought to be,
And when we find ourselves in the place just right,
’Twill be in the valley of love and delight.
I looked up to see Martin leaning against the doorframe, looking at me, his expression unreadable. I waved. He tilted his chin in a single nod. The tune wound around three times before Henry stuck his toe out from under the red afghan on his lap. After the last verse, the room felt silent. Baby Dorothy let out a piercing roar.
“You better keep playing.” I laughed as I soothed the baby’s back. One of her uncles strummed a chord on his guitar and the baby responded with a thundering “Ga,” waving a chunk of my hair in the air. The front door opened and a male voice called hello. Martin stepped back into the hallway. The house seemed to expand with the addition of each new guest. Ethan walked in and placed a glass of wine on the table next to me. The baby reached her hands out to him and squeaked.
“Ready for a break?” Ethan offered.
“Livvy, where’s that dulcimer?” Henry asked. “Come show me how you’re doing.”
I handed Ethan his granddaughter prying my hair from her tight grip. I grabbed the glass of wine and settled myself beside Henry on the sofa.
“Have you been practicing?”
“Of course,” I said as I removed the dulcimer from its case. “Will you play with me?”
Henry tucked the fiddle into his chest. “How about ‘Shady Grove’?”
I tucked the noter under my left finger and strummed the strings with the pick in my right.
“You start.” I closed my eyes and sang along to the sweet notes of Henry’s fiddle. The difference in his and Martin’s playing was slight but palpable. Henry had a way of teasing out the notes, almost as if he were lazily waiting for them to find him. When Martin played, I could feel his urgency deep in my belly, the feeling that each note was almost out of reach. I pressed the noter behind the second fret and joined in on the chorus. A low mumble that sounded more like a harmonium than a voice sang the next verse. I opened my eyes and found Martin sitting across from me with the guitar in his lap. I beamed at him. His face broke into an unguarded smile. We played until Henry stuck out his slippered foot, ending with a whoop and a shout.
“Dinner is ready,” Dotty called. “We’ve been blessed with a good crowd this year. If you could all join us in the dining room for grace, then we’ll find everyone a place to sit down and eat.”
Martin and Charlie hung back to help Henry up off the couch. When Henry took his seat at the head of the table, the family gathered around. “Now, if you could all join hands,” Henry said as he reached over and took his wife’s in his, smiling up at her. She kissed the top of his head and reached over for Margaret’s hand beside her. Martin slipped in quietly behind me and took my hand in his. My heart sped up as his fingers wove themselves through mine. I could have sworn Margaret was staring at us from across the room. She seemed
to be looking at our hands. “Now, I hate to put you on the spot, Livvy,” Henry said, and a few people tittered. “But it’s custom in this house to have our newest guest offer the blessing.”
“Wouldn’t that be little Dorothy?” I asked.
Henry laughed. “No—it’s your first Thanksgiving with the McCracken brood, not hers.”
“Well, then.” I thought for a moment. “I don’t know many prayers. But I do know a poem. It’s Emerson.
For each new morning with its light,
For rest and shelter of the night,
For health and food,
For love and friends
For everything Thy goodness sends.”
“Amen,” Henry said, his eyes warm.
“Amen.”
“The food is laid out in the kitchen.” Dotty announced. “Adults in the dining room, everyone under thirty in the living room.”
“Ha. You’re still stuck in the kids’ room,” Charlie said to his cousin, who rolled his eyes.
“It’s easier to wait,” Martin said into my ear, eyeing the crush of children trying to push their way into the kitchen. “Come with me.” I followed him through the room and out the front door onto the porch. Ethan was already out there on the swing with his arm around a tiny woman with a dark brown bob, a cooler at their feet. Martin grabbed two beers and handed one to me.
“Hi,” I said, giving a half wave to the woman on the swing. “I’m Livvy.”
“Jessie,” she said, placing her palm on Ethan’s thigh. “Ethan’s wife.”
“Good to meet you.” I sat down next to Martin on the steps. He reached over and popped the top off my beer bottle with an opener.
“Glad you could make it, Martin,” Jessie said. “Not spending the holiday with—what’s her name? Sylvie?”
Martin looked up at her. I looked from Martin to Jessie and back as the silence stretched.
Who was Sylvie? A girlfriend? A lot can change in a year, I reminded myself.
“He’s here now,” Ethan said. “That’s all that matters.”
The City Baker's Guide to Country Living Page 15
