The City Baker's Guide to Country Living

by Louise Miller

  I spent the evenings wrapped up in an afghan, trying to read, but I couldn’t focus on anything more demanding than travel magazines. I went to bed early, snuggled up with Salty, and gazed at the Christmas lights, thinking about Martin—and sometimes, guiltily, about his kiss. But then my thoughts would turn to Henry and the fact that I would never see him again, and I would be lost in grief. I couldn’t help but think back to my own father and the days that followed his death. The empty house after the funeral. Sitting in the living room, hugging one of his quilted flannel work shirts. How even now, after so many years, I still felt like something was missing. I didn’t want Martin to have to know that the pain never goes away, that it just becomes a part of who you are.

  • • •

  A blizzard was forecast for Thursday, and Margaret sent me home early, telling me she didn’t want to have to worry about my getting blinded by the snow and lost in the woods. I walked to the cabin reluctantly, not wanting to spend another evening at the cabin alone, hoping that Martin would come by. But the sky was dim, the smoke from the chimneys at the inn white against the dark clouds, and I knew that even if I had wanted to go out, most of the town would be closing early.

  The cabin was dark except for the blue glow of the television when I was awakened by the sound of sharp knocking. I had no idea what time it was. I didn’t see anyone when I opened the door. Then I peeked out onto the porch. Martin was standing there, looking out into the orchard, snow clumped in his hair and on his shoulders, his fist wrapped tightly around the handle of his fiddle case.

  He turned to face me. His eyes were wide, his mouth slightly open. He wasn’t wearing a coat.

  “Hey,” I said.

  Martin held up the fiddle. “I thought you would play with me. Mark and Ethan wouldn’t. They said . . .”

  “Of course. Come in.”

  His glasses fogged in the warmth. He placed the case on the coffee table and began to unhitch the latches.

  “Martin, you’re soaked through. How long have you been outside?”

  “I don’t know.” He began to tighten the horsehair of the bow. His hands were shaking.

  “Let’s get you warmed up first.” I turned toward the woodstove. It had cooled down as I slept. I grabbed a couple of towels off a shelf and handed them to him. “Take off those wet shoes. I’ll get the fire going.”

  Martin ignored my instructions and drew out a long, slow note on the fiddle, then a double stop, two strings droning together. From his spot by Martin’s feet, Salty lifted his snout into the air and let out a low, lonesome howl. I sat down on the floor, biting at the inside of my cheek, and listened to Martin play Henry’s tune for Dotty. My stomach hollowed, then filled with wave after wave of grief. When the bow hit the ground, I turned to look up at Martin. He was staring at it as if he had never seen it before, still holding the fiddle pressed into the soft skin below his collarbone. His face crumpled, his open hand trembling. I moved toward him. I took the fiddle out of his hand and gently placed it back in its case. Then I took his hands in mine. They were flaming red and felt like ice.

  “It’s okay,” I said quietly, rubbing his left hand between my palms. “We just need to get you warmed up.” I led him to the couch. He sat, his face held so carefully that I thought if I moved him the wrong way he would break. I bent down, carefully untied his laces, and slipped off his sneakers and socks one by one. I held his feet in my hands, drying them with a towel and holding them between my cupped palms. I stood and took off his glasses and rubbed the towel gently over his hair. “You need to take your shirt off, okay? Then we can sit by the fire.” Martin sat motionless. I reached behind him and slid the shirt, wet and heavy, up his back and over his shoulders. I let it fall to the ground in a soggy heap. I wrapped the afghan around his back and then took his hand in mine.

  He looked so young, and so vulnerable. His dad is gone. My mind flooded with images of my own father’s passing—the principal standing in the doorway of my classroom. Being led down the hospital hallway by a nun. Not knowing what to say when she asked me about last rites. I tentatively reached up to smooth the hair out of Martin’s eyes. My hands lingered on his cheeks. Martin stepped closer and pulled me to him, his coarse chest hair rough against my cheek. He pressed his lips onto my crown. “Olivia,” he choked.

  I pulled back a fraction, confused, waiting.

  His hands twisted in my hair, and he crushed his lips to mine, his tongue searching. My face flushed from the heat of the fire, his mouth on mine, and the feel of his naked chest beneath my palms. I felt his jagged breath in my ear as one hand fumbled with the zipper of my fleece. My mind raced. I had dreamed about this moment for weeks, but it had never been like this. I could feel Martin’s despair in this kiss.

  But any thoughts of Henry were pushed away as Martin slid the jacket off my shoulders, revealing the thin white camisole underneath. He locked his lips on mine as his hands worked up my back under my shirt. They were still cold. He stroked my shoulder blades and released me just long enough to pull the tank over my head. He held me tightly against him. The sensation of our bare skin pressed together and the need to be closer pushed past the overwhelming feeling of loss. We moved toward the bed. When we were at the foot of the futon, he slipped his hand into the waistband of my pants, his fingers questioning. I reached for the zipper of his brown corduroys in answer, easing them over his narrow hips. On the bed, our bodies tangled. Urgently, we explored each other with hands and lips. Martin hesitated only when he rolled on top of me, pressing his hips, questioning. I reached between us and guided him in.

  “Livvy,” he breathed into my ear. He nuzzled my hair before bringing his lips back to mine. We stayed like that, joined and kissing. Martin began to move, slowly at first, then pushing deeper and deeper inside me as if he couldn’t get close enough. I wrapped my legs around his hips, and as his pace quickened, I felt myself stirring, slick. Martin tilted his hips, and as if he had turned the burner to high, it pushed me over the edge. Martin followed a moment later, and a sob choked out from someplace deep within him. He collapsed, his full weight on me, buried his face in my neck, and wept. I pulled the blankets over us, stroking his hair, finally letting my own tears stream down my cheeks.

  I woke up once in the middle of the night. Martin was wrapped tightly around me, legs tangled with mine, one hand cupped around my breast, his breath warm and heavy on my neck.

  When the sun beamed through the cabin window, Salty was in bed beside me. The woodstove was blazing, and Martin was gone.

  • • •

  The kettle had just whistled when I heard a knock at my door. Margaret stood on the porch. She looked exhausted, her eyelids heavy.

  “Henry,” she said.

  I nodded.

  “Did Martin tell you?” She didn’t look surprised.

  “Do you want to come in for some tea?” I asked, tilting my head toward the kitchen table.

  Margaret surprised me by coming in. Dressed in last night’s yoga pants and fleece, I kicked my camisole under the futon.

  “Don’t bother.” Margaret sat down at the kitchen table, leaving her coat on. I threw another log onto the fire. “You did a nice job with the cabin. Brian never would have recognized it.”

  “I remember you told me he used to hang out here—wood carving?”

  “It’s good for a man to have a hobby. Keeps him out of your hair.”

  My laughter somehow brought back the tears, and I quickly brushed them away.

  Margaret dug into her handbag and fished out a tissue. “It’s a sad day.”

  “When did you lose Brian?”

  “It’s been three years.”

  “Is that why you want to sell this place? Does it remind you too much of him?”

  “You can never be reminded too much of someone you love.” Margaret traced her pearl necklace with her fingertips. “No, I’ve been thinking of selling becaus
e I’m ready to retire. But now that Henry has passed—I’m glad I went through it before Dotty did. I’ll know what she needs.”

  I poured the tea into pretty china teacups, one of the few things I’d kept from my grandmother’s house.

  “Milk?” I offered.

  “No, thanks.” Margaret took a sip as I spooned sugar into my cup.

  “Sorry I don’t have anything else to offer. I usually eat in the kitchen.”

  “I barged in on you at six thirty in the morning. I wasn’t expecting breakfast.”

  “Is it that early?” I wondered what time Martin had left.

  “The wake has to be tonight so they can hold the funeral tomorrow—otherwise it will have to wait until after Christmas because the church won’t have a burial during the holidays. Dotty didn’t want to put the family through that.”

  “Of course not. Will people have time to get here?”

  “Most of the folks Henry knew are here in Guthrie. And the family is already here for Christmas.” Margaret’s eyes glistened. “You know that man arranged to have his grave dug before the first frost? Can you imagine that? He was always so damn practical.” Margaret sat up in her seat and put her hands on her lap. “I’m headed over to the McCrackens’ shortly. I was hoping you could box up the food for after the wake. I can have one of the boys come pick it up.”

  “Sure, anything.” I stirred the tea with a spoon, even though it had already cooled. “I could drop it off.”

  “Let one of the boys come get it. Everyone likes to feel useful in times like these.”

  “Okay. I’ll have everything ready by two?”

  “Good. The wake is from four till seven. The funeral will be at nine tomorrow morning.” Margaret stood and buttoned her coat.

  I stopped her before she reached the door. “Margaret, would you do me a favor?” I handed her the fiddle case. “Martin will want this later.”

  Margaret gave my shoulder a little squeeze before taking the fiddle in her hands.

  I leaned against the doorframe, watching as she stepped carefully into the newly fallen snow.

  “Margaret!” I called.

  She turned. “Yes?”

  I ran down the snowy steps in my wool stockings. “I’m sorry about Henry.”

  Her lips turned up in the gentlest of smiles. “You know, Henry was very fond of you.” Margaret reached her arms out and pulled me into her embrace. Her lilac scent surrounded me as I let myself rest in her arms. Her eyes were damp when she pulled away.

  “I’ll have everything ready by two,” I said.

  “Good girl,” she said, and turned toward the inn.

  • • •

  The wake was held at Burke Funeral Home, in the center of town. When I arrived, the parking lot was already full, the line of mourners waiting to pay their respects spilling out onto the front steps. I took my place among them, picking fur off my black coat. I longed to be with Martin, to stand beside him. A wave of nausea flooded me when I stepped into the foyer and through a wall of lilies. I couldn’t stand the scent of them since my own father’s wake. I held my breath and moved forward. One of the undertakers took my coat and led me to the visiting room. It was a long room, softly lit, with flowers lining the aisle and Carter Family gospel tunes playing quietly in the background. The casket was up front, where Dotty and her three sons stood, receiving visitors. Martin looked different in his black suit—more urbane. His hair had been cut since last night, and he had shaved. For the first time I could picture him in a city. He was leaning down to talk to an elderly woman. Tears threatened at the backs of my eyes. I moved with the crowd into the room.

  I stepped out of the receiving line to look at the dozens of framed pictures of Henry that lined a table in the back. Pictures of him as a young man, looking so much like Martin, with his band in the grange hall. His and Dotty’s wedding pictures. Holding each of his sons as an infant, his eyes full of wonder. Christmas photos with all of the grandchildren and great-grandchildren. There was even one from this Thanksgiving of Henry, his grandsons, and me, all with stringed instruments in our hands.

  “That’s a great picture,” said a woman beside me. I dabbed at my eyes with a handkerchief before turning to face her. She was striking, and fashionable in an artistic way.

  “Thanks,” I said. “He was teaching me to play the dulcimer.” I could feel Henry’s hand on mine, sliding across the strings.

  She swept her asymmetrical blond bangs out of her eyes. She wore a vintage black dress and knee-high black leather boots that skimmed her slim calves.

  Not from Vermont, I thought to myself.

  “Have you signed the guest book?” she asked, gesturing to the podium in the corner of the room. “I’m in charge of it.” She glanced back at the family and then at me. “I’m a little nervous about messing it up,” she confided, leaning in toward me.

  “Don’t worry, the McCrackens are sweethearts,” I said gently. “No one is going to mind if you miss a few names.”

  She smiled slightly, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “You don’t sound like you’re from here. Have you known the family a long time?”

  “Only since September,” I said, looking over at Martin, “But I’ve grown very attached to them. They’ve made me feel very welcome.” I smiled. “I’m from Boston originally. That’s the accent,” I clarified. I held out my hand. “Olivia Rawlings.”

  “Sylvie Ford,” she said, her slender hand cool in mine. “From Seattle.”

  I felt an itch at the back of my memory.

  “Martin’s fiancée.”

  The noise of the room grew muffled as if my head had been pushed underwater.

  At this time yesterday, he had been in me.

  “I’m sorry.” I didn’t know if I was asking a question or making a statement. My palms began to sweat.

  She dropped my hand and rubbed hers together. Her eyebrows pinched slightly. “Martin, the youngest. You must know him if you know Henry.”

  At that moment I didn’t know if I knew Martin at all.

  “This is only my second time out here.” She smiled apologetically. “I haven’t had the chance to get to know the family. That’s why I feel so stressed about the guest book.”

  “The McCrackens are very kind,” I said as I turned from her to look up to the front, where Martin was talking to Tom. I was too far away to read his expression. “You have nothing to worry about.”

  Sylvie swept her hair out of her eyes. “Thanks.” Her gaze followed mine toward Martin.

  The look of affection in her expression made me blanch. I turned my head away in a lame attempt to hide the fact that my heart was breaking. I felt myself flush and wobbled a bit on my feet.

  Sylvie looked at me, her face awash with concern and then confusion.

  “Oh, God—I’m being so selfish, blabbing on. I’m so sorry for your loss. Who are you in relation to the family?”

  “I’m nobody,” I said, turning away from her. “Please excuse me.”

  I walked out of the room, cutting through the line of mourners, and pushed my way out the door, gulping for fresh air.

  “Livvy?” I heard Hannah’s voice through the static buzzing in my ears. She put her hand on my shoulder. “I was hoping to run into you here. I’m sorry I haven’t—are you okay?”

  I looked up at her, my eyes burning, and shook my head. “Did you know?”

  “Did I know what? Look, you’re freezing. Let’s get you inside.” Hannah threaded her arm through mine and led me toward the door, asking a waitress from the diner if we could cut in line. “I’ve felt terrible since we argued. I—”

  “Did you know that Martin was engaged?”

  “What? No!” Hannah looked around, smiling apologetically to the people around us. “I mean, there was some talk years ago, but I haven’t—who is it? Is she here?”

  I couldn�
��t form the words.

  “Livvy, you should—”

  Hannah’s husband stepped up to us, wrapping his arm around Hannah’s waist. “What are you doing out here? I dropped you off so you could sit down. You know what the doctor said.”

  “I’m going to stay here with Livvy for a minute, sweetheart,” she said. I looked down and saw that she had left the bottom three buttons of her coat unbuttoned to accommodate her growing belly.

  “I’m okay, Hann. Go on in.”

  “You sure?”

  I nodded but couldn’t make eye contact. Her arm slid out of mine just as we reached the door. Jonathan led her down the aisle, his hand on her lower back.

  If Hannah hadn’t known, it was possible that it wasn’t known all over town, either. Yet. By now half the town would be speculating about who the pretty blond woman was by the guest book. And if Sylvie was as candid with everyone else as she had been with me, word that Martin was engaged would be spread before dawn.

  With each step toward the open casket I felt as if I were shrinking, my insides growing tighter. Martin’s eyes met mine briefly as I moved forward in the line. Soon it was my turn to pay my respects. I reluctantly climbed the three steps up to the stage and dropped slowly to my knees in front of the casket.

  He looked gone. Everyone always talks about how good the dead look, what an amazing job the undertakers did. All I could see was Henry and the absence of him, his face hidden under layers of pancake makeup, as if he were onstage. I fingered the white handkerchief in my hand, fighting the temptation to spit into it and wipe his face clean. His suit looked all wrong. I wished they had dressed him in his robin’s-egg blue cardigan, let his shock of white hair be windblown, as if he had just stepped in from the fields.