The City Baker's Guide to Country Living

by Louise Miller

  “How is it we all know these songs?” I asked. “My dad hated any music that came out after 1958. It’s not like I heard them in my house—but put on Frampton Comes Alive! and I’m singing right along.”

  “Do you think he’s right?”

  “Who? Peter Frampton?” I asked, trying to lighten things. I couldn’t stand seeing him so vulnerable. “I have to admit I kind of have a soft spot for ‘Baby, I Love Your Way’—”

  “Mark.” Martin leaned back and took a swig of bourbon.

  It was the second time I had seen his face without glasses. He looked like a blind pup.

  “Right about your dad, or about you?”

  “My dad.”

  “It’s hard for me to say,” I said gently. “I’ve never known Henry in full health. But it seems like he has good days and bad days, like you both were saying. What does the doctor think?”

  “That the treatment isn’t really doing anything.” Martin buried his face back in his hands.

  “Oh.” I felt a pinch in my heart. “I’m so sorry.”

  “The past couple of years I haven’t come back much. I just got caught up with work and the band and—he just made it hard, sometimes, you know? The constant pressure. What are you doing over there? When are you going to settle down? When are you coming home? It was easier to stay away. If I had known—but everyone is so fucking secretive.”

  “No one told you he was sick?”

  “Not until after his surgery. Dad didn’t want them to.”

  “That’s awful.”

  “Mark’s right. I should have been here. And now today, all day, all I could think was This will be the last . . .” Martin’s voice broke before he could finish.

  I reached tentatively toward him.

  “There isn’t enough time,” he said in a low rasp.

  “There’s never enough time,” I said, stroking his back.

  Martin turned to face me, his eyes glassy. “I don’t know how to do this.”

  “It’s okay,” I said softly. “No one does.”

  Martin turned to me and buried his face in my neck. I pressed my cheek to the crown of his head. His hair smelled like sweat and sleep and sweet, like bourbon. He wound his arms around my waist, holding me closer. I felt the scrape of his stubble against my collarbone, and the damp warmth of his tear-streaked cheeks. I stroked the hair at the nape of his neck, feeling the weight of him against me. The moon rose. I would have sat there all night, but at the first sounds of the barn door creaking Martin straightened, wiping his face with his shirtsleeve. Sam and Gregory appeared with Salty at their heels.

  “I should take you home,” Martin said to me.

  “We’ll take her,” Sam said. “We’re staying at the inn.”

  Martin looked at me for a moment, his expression a mixture of sadness and longing. He cleared his throat and put on his glasses.

  “Thank your parents for me,” I said.

  Martin nodded. He kept his eyes fixed on Salty and reached down to stroke behind his long, curly ears. I took his other hand in mine and, while squeezing it, kissed Martin on the cheek.

  Salty whined for a beat before following me down the driveway. When I looked back, Martin was still standing by the barn, watching us leave.

  • • •

  After building a fire in the woodstove, I made myself a cup of tea, too restless to sleep. Salty and I curled up under blankets on the couch and watched It’s a Wonderful Life, but I was only half paying attention. My mind guiltily traveled to the way the muscles in Martin’s back had felt under my fingertips, and the soft heat of his breath on my neck. I thought about how he had sought me out in the dining room before grace to hold my hand, and the way he had let it slip out of his hand after the prayer. Whatever was happening between Martin McCracken and me was apparently not going to happen in front of his family. But it didn’t stop me from staring at the door every time I heard a twig snap in the woods, hoping to hear a knock. When the screen faded to static, I burrowed under the afghan, remembering what it felt like to be in his arms.

  Chapter Eleven

  December

  The first fat flakes of snow fell on the afternoon of December 1. The kitchen was steamy; all of the stovetop burners were blazing under sauté pans, meat searing, greens wilting, garlic browning. The convection oven was stuffed with gingerbread men and women. Margaret had called an all-staff meeting, so the kitchen was filled with waitresses, dishwashers, and prep cooks. She pulled up one of the rocking chairs and sat in front of the crowd, much as she had the day I first interviewed.

  “Okay, everyone, find a seat and quiet down for a moment,” Margaret called.

  I dipped a square of cheesecloth into a bowl of brandy and wrapped it around a loaf of fruitcake like a present. Only ninety-nine more to go.

  “Listen up. The dining room is booked solid, as are the bedrooms, from this weekend until Christmas week. Sarah, did you order extra table linen?”

  “Done,” Sarah said, biting off the head of a gingerbread man.

  “Santa’s first visit is scheduled for this Saturday, and he will be seeing children from two until six every weekend day until Christmas. Al, did you get the suit back from the cleaners?”

  “You’re Santa?” I said, laughing.

  “Every year,” Al said, rubbing his whiskers. “All set,” he called over his shoulder.

  “Don’t forget to give out the ten-percent-off coupons for the McCracken farm when the parents pay for Santa. Miss Rawlings, be prepared to have about thirty dozen cookies per weekend.”

  “Thirty dozen?” I asked.

  “That’s not a problem, is it?”

  “Of course not,” I replied. I would have to start sleeping on a cot in the corner of the kitchen, but no problem.

  “The hospital’s annual dinner for the board is on the eighteenth, and it’s the biggest event of the season. I expect everyone to be available at all times during the next four weeks, no exceptions.” Margaret looked out the window that faced the orchard. The dark limbs of the apple trees were already trimmed in a thick coating of snow. Together they looked like layers of cake and frosting.

  “If this snow keeps up, it looks like we will be hosting a lot of sleigh-ride parties as well.” Margaret pressed into her knees and hoisted herself up. “Well, I expect we will have a festive season, and that all of you will do your best work. Now let’s get back to it.”

  The staff were clearing out of the kitchen when the back door opened, and with a rush of cold air, in came a snow-covered Martin McCracken.

  “It’s snowing,” he said, beaming at me from under fogged glasses.

  I smiled back and, without thinking, reached over and pulled the blue knit cap off his head, shaking it out on the floor.

  “What time do you finish?” he asked.

  I looked at the tray of eighty unwrapped fruitcakes. “Maybe five? Six?”

  “Are you free this evening?” Martin looked almost giddy. It was adorable.

  “I am.”

  “Pick you up at six thirty at your cabin.” He took the cap out of my hands and tugged it back onto his head. “Wear something warm,” he called over his shoulder as he slipped back out into the storm. I watched him walk across the snowy field and up into the orchard, his dark silhouette striking against the expanse of pure, glowing white. When I turned, both Al and Margaret were standing perfectly still, watching me. I made my way to the walk-in. After I made sure the door was closed tightly behind me, I hopped up and down as if I were back in a mosh pit, pumping my arms in the air, silently shouting, Yes.

  • • •

  I had yet to master the art of dressing for winter and looking cute, but knowing Martin, I decided it was safer to choose function over form that evening. Wool stockings under jeans under knee-high rubber boots. I layered a silk long-sleeved T-shirt and a green cashmere turtleneck sweat
er I had scored at Filene’s Basement (wrestled out of the hands of a very tough old Russian woman). Martin knocked on my door as I was digging around in a basket for a second mitten.

  “Come in,” I called.

  “Hey.” Martin’s cheeks were red from the cold, but he looked toasty in a down jacket and fleece hat. “Almost ready?”

  I held up the missing mitten and said, “Yes! Found it.” I pulled on the pair of mittens and zipped up my long wool coat. “Do you think I’ll be warm enough?”

  Martin looked me over from the pom-pom on top of my head to the tips of my rubber boots. My cheeks flushed. “I think so. Come on.”

  He stepped out in front, stopping at the bottom of the steps next to two enormous chestnut horses.

  “Olivia, I’d like you to meet Rick and Ilsa.”

  Ilsa flicked her tail and huffed out a strong breath. Steam rose from her nostrils. Attached to the horses was a wooden sleigh, painted cherry red.

  “After it snows, we have to take the sleigh out to pack down the trail, so it’s easier to take the tourists out,” Martin explained. He looked down at his feet. “I thought you might like to come with me.” Martin kicked at the snow. One of the horses whinnied.

  I ran my palms across Rick and Ilsa’s long faces, feeling the strong bones beneath.

  “How do we get on?” I asked.

  Martin wove his fingers together and leaned down. “I’ll give you a lift. Step up.”

  I held onto his shoulder and climbed onto the sleigh. Martin hoisted himself up and took the reins. The bench was small, and I found myself pressed against his side, his leg warm against my own. Martin reached behind us and tucked a plain red blanket over our laps.

  “I didn’t know you had horses,” I said.

  “These are Mark’s. We used to keep our own. Dad did, that is. Fred and Ginger.”

  I laughed. “Did Dotty get to name them?”

  “How could you tell? So you’ve probably guessed that Mark let her name these two as well.” Martin tightened the reins. “Rick, Ilsa—walk.”

  The horses stepped forward. It was slow moving at first, but as they warmed up they picked up speed, and it felt like we were gliding on the snow’s surface. As we reached the inn, Martin made a circular path around the building, then turned back toward the cabin. It had stopped snowing. A half-moon peeked out from behind the thin cover of clouds and the ground glowed an icy blue, as if it were lit from within. It was silent except for the breath of the horses, the soft swoosh of their hooves, and the icy chink of the bells that trimmed their harness. When we got to the edge of the woods, Martin pulled on the reins. He reached under the seat and handed me the red plaid thermos. “Here.”

  “Cider?” I asked, untwisting the top.

  “Hot chocolate,” he said. “After Thanksgiving, I didn’t want you to think I . . . Well, I had a lot to drink.”

  “We all had a lot to drink in the barn,” I said, pouring the steaming liquid into the red plastic lid.

  “Yeah. I’m sorry that I—”

  I handed him the cup. “Please don’t apologize.”

  “But I broke down. All over you.” Martin puckered his lips and blew to cool the cocoa.

  “Not a big deal,” I said.

  “But—”

  “Please don’t say you’re sorry. If you do, it sounds like something you regret, and I’m not sorry. I mean, I’m not glad you broke down, but . . .” I sipped at the cocoa, trying to gather my courage. “I’m glad you could talk to me. I want to be there for you.” I busied myself with tightening the thermos cap.

  “I’ll say thanks, then,” Martin said, studying the straps of leather in his gloved hand.

  I leaned back, letting my shoulder press against his. The field stretched out in front of us, looking as if it had been covered in a smooth layer of marzipan. “It’s so beautiful,” I said, smiling up at him.

  His face mirrored mine. “It’s in moments like these that I can’t imagine being anywhere else.”

  “I can’t imagine having grown up here.”

  “You always lived in a city?”

  “Grew up in Boston, and I’ve lived in Chicago, San Francisco, London, Paris, and DC. I did go to school in New York State, but I never left the kitchen. How about you?”

  “Seattle is the only place other than here.” Martin picked up the reins and we started moving again.

  “Do you miss it?” I asked.

  “Sometimes. Mostly when I want to go eat somewhere other than the Miss Guthrie.”

  “I dreamed about pita stuffed with falafel and baba ghanoush the other night.” I sighed. “Made by a Lebanese man with a little silver cart on a street corner. And those spicy pickles.”

  Martin laughed. “In Seattle there’s a pho shop on every block. That’s my dream meal right now—spicy beef broth and noodles.”

  “I’d love to see Seattle. Or better yet, Vietnam,” I said.

  “At least you’ve actually traveled some. I’m dying to go to Japan.”

  “Me too. And Alaska. A friend went and got to see grizzly bears salmon fishing.” I pulled the blanket up higher. “Where else?”

  “Anywhere. India. Scotland. Australia.”

  “Those all sound good.”

  “You were in Boston last, right? Why there?” Martin asked.

  “The Emerson was a good gig—they gave me full creative control. And there are little things I love about Boston. My old apartment was near Fenway Park, and on game days I could hear the crowd cheering from my living room. Good, strong coffee on every corner. The nut roasters on the Common. The ocean. Sunday afternoons at the bookstore.”

  “There are some great bookshops in Montreal.”

  “I’ve never been.”

  “Maybe after Christmas?”

  “I’d like that,” I said, my heart expanding at the idea of time after Christmas, of future plans. A perfect dome of stars capped the field. The horses picked up their pace as we reached level ground. When I closed my eyes, it felt as if we were flying.

  We had reached the farmhouse. Martin guided the horses into a turn. “How about we head down to the tree shack, then make a loop back into the woods. Are you warm enough?”

  I nodded. Our legs were touching underneath the blanket. Martin’s body radiated heat. “It’s funny. I think some of the things I loved the most about the city were country things—like going to the farmer’s market. I always dreamed about living in the country.”

  Martin adjusted the reins in his hands. “Could you picture yourself staying here?”

  “Yes,” I said, surprising myself with the clarity in my voice. “Especially if I get to ride in a horse-drawn sleigh through the woods on the night of the first snowfall.”

  “You like it?” he asked shyly.

  “It’s a million times better than anything I could have dreamed up.”

  The horses trotted at a fast clip, their bells chiming cheerfully in the darkness. When we’d arrived back at my cabin, Martin jumped down, took my hands in his, and helped me off the sleigh.

  “I know it’s crazy at the inn,” he said, “but if you can get away, the film society is showing a double feature next Saturday night at the grange hall—Swing Time and Shall We Dance. Henry and Dotty are planning on going.”

  “I’d love to come, if Margaret will let me.” I laughed. “I always feel like a teenager around her. A bad one.”

  “She’s always had that effect on me as well. Doesn’t matter how old I get.”

  I pulled off my mittens and stuffed them into my coat pockets. I reached a hand out to Rick and Ilsa, stroking their smooth necks. “Thank you for the sleigh ride,” I said.

  Rick snorted.

  “He says you’re welcome.” Martin placed a hand next to mine, stroking Rick’s neck. “I’d better get the horses back to the barn,” he said q
uietly.

  I turned to face him. We were inches apart. I could smell the chocolate on his breath. “You know, I think you like it here more than you let on. Do you ever think about staying?”

  He gave me a long look, his expression unreadable, and for a moment I thought he was going to lean in and kiss me. “Sometimes,” he said, and climbed back onto the sleigh.

  Chapter Twelve

  It took thirteen pounds of flour, two quarts of buttermilk, two pounds of butter, four pounds of molasses, forty eggs, ten pounds of confectioners’ sugar, more than fifteen pounds of candy, and every second of my free time that week, but I managed to finish my gingerbread house before the children’s cookie-decorating party, with an hour to spare. It was an exact replica of the Sugar Maple, including the barn and grounds. I fashioned the iron benches out of black licorice and cats to sleep upon them from softened Tootsie Rolls. Trees of upside-down ice cream cones covered in sliced green gumdrops lined the property. I even made a little sugarhouse, complete with fruit-leather curtains and a stone chimney built from jelly beans. A marzipan Salty stood alert on the porch.

  The couches were pushed off to the side of the sitting room, and long tables were set up, covered in small dishes of sprinkles and candy, plates of naked gingerbread people, and piping bags of royal icing. I kept fingering the bags, worried the icing would set up too quickly in the cool room. When I asked to turn the heat up, I got a pained look from Alfred, who was already sweating in his red velvet suit, a child on his lap tugging at his all-too-real beard. Children poured through the door in waves, stuffing fistfuls of candy into their mouths and screaming for their mothers to take them over to see Santa. I directed the exhausted-looking parents to Margaret, who was pouring wine, and joined the children at one of the tables, demonstrating how Red Vines make the best lips while Froot Loops create a convincing head of curly hair. When all the gingerbread people were modestly dressed and I was sticky from head to toe, I went over to join Margaret at the back of the room.