“I know investors when I see them.”
“I don’t see how who I meet with in private is any of your concern.”
“I don’t want to commit myself in June if you might close the place.”
“Believe me, Miss Rawlings, come hell or high water, Jane White’s granddaughter will be married here in June. Now, are you going to be fit to make a wedding cake in June?”
“Of course, why wouldn’t I be?” I said, having no idea if I would or wouldn’t. I didn’t have anyone to ask. “I’ll do the baking from wherever I am and do the finishing work here. You’ll cover the cost of ingredients?”
“Of course. Do I need to draw up a contract?”
“For a wedding cake?”
“You broke the last verbal agreement we had.”
“Fine,” I said, suddenly feeling exhausted. “Whatever. I’ll sign whatever you want.”
Margaret looked me up and down, her face first a question, then a confirmation. “Have you made a decision?”
“I said I’ll do it.”
“I meant about the baby,” she said evenly, eyeing the hand resting on my belly. Stupid hand. Apparently some part of me thought the baby was going to pop right out if I didn’t hold it in place.
“How did you know?” I asked, my voice not entirely free of accusation, although I couldn’t blame anybody for this one. No one knew.
Margaret looked at me, not unkindly. “Your face looks softer. And I haven’t seen you take a drink since I arrived.”
I laughed. Great, it was my being on the wagon that had given me away. “You should see my nipples.”
Margaret ignored this. “Is it Martin’s?”
I fought the urge to say something snarky. “Yes.”
She nodded slowly, lost in thought. “So, three months, then.” Margaret took a deep breath and leaned toward me. “There are things—herbs—you can take, if you decide you don’t want to follow through with it.”
I stared at her, unblinking.
“They won’t hurt the baby if they don’t work. They just encourage your body to—let go. It doesn’t always work. The sooner the better, first trimester for sure, but you’re—it would have to be in the next week or so.”
I sat, stunned. “How do you know . . . ?” I whispered.
“My aunt.” Margaret looked far away.
I thought of the young Margaret pictured on the McCrackens’ wall, that beautiful young woman, in trouble. She must have been so frightened. I fought the urge to ask her a million questions.
“I’ve given it a lot of thought,” I said, meeting her gaze. “Honestly, I have no idea what I’m doing, but whatever it is, it’s going to be with a baby.” I shrugged. “It just already feels, I don’t know. Like mine. Like my baby.”
Margaret’s face looked solemn. “Are you going to tell him?”
I slid down in my seat, looking up at the ribbons hanging from the ceiling. “Yes? No? I don’t know. We haven’t spoken since Henry’s wake.”
“It’s his responsibility.” Margaret wove her fingers together and rested them on the desk. “Shouldn’t you give him the chance?”
“One man’s responsibility is another man’s cage.” I sighed.
“What do you mean?”
“I just don’t want to be that girl. Even if he did the right thing, whatever that means, he’d hate me for it.”
Margaret leaned back. “You’re going to have to tell him sometime. You can’t keep it a secret forever.”
“I could if I didn’t have to come back here. In June.”
“Olivia.”
“What? I was raised by a single parent. I came out just fine.”
“That child will have a family that loves her, regardless of what Martin wants. She’ll have a grandmother and aunts and uncles, cousins. Surely you wouldn’t want to keep her from that?”
“You think it’s a girl?” I asked, rubbing my belly.
“You ate cookies at the party, not chips.” I had to admit she was right. I hadn’t craved a French fry in weeks.
A girl. I could picture Martin with a little girl. God, he’d be overprotective. I shook my head. “Look, I’m just getting used to the idea myself. I’m not ready to face all of that.”
Margaret leaned over, tucking a stack of envelopes into her leather handbag. “Well, you’re going to have to face it soon enough.”
“Tell me about it.” I figured I only had another month or so before I stopped looking like I’d been drowning my sorrows in ice cream and started looking truly preggers. I grabbed my purse and stood. “I’m afraid the cat’s going to be out of the bag when I come back in June. I’m just hoping that I’ll have been gone long enough that people won’t stop to do the math.”
“Humph. That’s wishful thinking.”
She was right again.
“You should get back to Hannah.”
I leaned on the doorframe, looking at her birdlike shoulders draped in green wool. “Margaret, can I ask you for one favor before I go?”
She looked up, her face open.
“Could you not tell Dotty? Not just yet. I know she’s your best friend, and it’s a lot to ask. She’s had enough heartache. I’d hate to disappoint her.” My cheeks flushed, and a wave of fatigue swept over me.
“I don’t think Dotty would ever feel disappointed about another grandchild, especially one of Martin’s,” she said. “But it’s your news to tell, when you choose to.”
It felt good not to be keeping the secret on my own. I lingered in the doorway. “Thanks, Margaret. For not judging me.”
Margaret looked up at me, her face suspended in surprise. “You’re welcome, Olivia.” She hesitated, her eyes on a pile of papers before her. “You know, I’m here if you need me.”
With those six words, I felt six thousand pounds lighter. “Thanks,” I said with a grin, and slipped out the door before she could see that I was crying. Again.
• • •
After the shower, Hannah and I lay on opposite ends of the couch, our feet pressed against each other’s thighs. Her belly rose up under the camel-colored throw like a giant chocolate truffle. I wondered how big I would be in my seventh month.
“You’d think that she would want me to be happy—I mean, those storks could have raised my blood pressure to a dangerous level and harmed her grandchildren. But no, she insisted.”
I grabbed one of Hannah’s swollen feet in my hands and pressed into the bottom.
“Oh my good Lord,” Hannah moaned, snuggling into the couch cushion. “You have no idea how good that feels.” She pressed her other foot into my leg. “You know, I was pretty pissed at you.”
“I figured.”
“I’ve been really worried. And I was surprised to find you in Boston. I never pictured you back there. You’re not back with Jamie, are you?”
“No. God, no.” I pressed my foot into her thigh. “I shouldn’t have just taken off. I didn’t mean to put you through that, Hann. You’re always looking out for me. I just—”
“I wish you knew you could lean on me.”
I squeezed her feet with my hands. “I know I can. When I found out, the only thing I could think of was leaving. I wasn’t thinking of anyone else. I’m really sorry.”
“Shush.” Hannah placed a hand on my kneecap and gave it a little shake. “Thanks for coming up for this, Liv. It meant a lot to me.”
“And miss getting a picture of you cowering under two storks? I’ve already posted it on Instagram.”
“I mean it. I know it wasn’t easy for you.” Hannah’s expression softened. “I’m sorry about Martin.”
“Did you really not know?” I asked, surprising myself. “You know everything that happens in this town.”
“I didn’t. I’m so sorry. I asked around when it seemed like the two of you were getting close. Ther
e was an old rumor, but no one seemed to know much about him now.” Hannah paused. “And you looked so happy. I’ve never seen you like that. I wanted everything to be good.”
“It’s just—he felt like he was mine. Do you know what I mean? I’ve never felt that way before. The sound of his voice and the way he smelled, the way he moved when he played the fiddle—he felt so familiar, somehow. And his family—God, at Thanksgiving, I just felt like I could belong there. With them. That they could belong to me.” I rested a hand on my belly, thinking about my dad. It hadn’t been so bad, our little family of two. Dad didn’t exactly know a lot about raising a little girl, but he figured out the important stuff.
“You’re a part of my family, Livvy. Like a sister. And you’ll be an auntie to these boys.”
“Yes,” I said, smiling for her benefit.
“I know this must have been hard for you. But it meant the world to me, really. You’ll see when your time comes. It feels really important to have the people you love and trust around you.”
“Um, Hann?” I switched feet, digging my thumb into her arch.
“Mmmmmm?” she said dreamily.
“I may be finding out how important that is a little sooner than you think.”
Hannah bolted upright, leaning toward me as far as her belly would allow, which is to say an inch. “Livvy?”
I smiled my best Liza Minnelli smile. “I’m knocked up!”
“Are you serious? Jesus Christ! I thought you looked a little chunky! Is that why you didn’t drink the punch? Do you know what this fucking means?”
I hadn’t seen Hannah this excited since she won a box lot of Bakelite bracelets.
“Our kids are going to be practically siblings! It’s fantastic! They’re going to grow up together!” And with that, Hannah wrapped her arms around my neck and burst into tears.
The doorbell rang, startling us both.
“That’s probably Alfred,” I said, wiping her eyes with the sleeve of my shirt. “Listen, Hann—you can’t tell anyone. Not even your husband. No one knows except you and Margaret.”
“You told Margaret?”
The doorbell rang twice.
“It’s a long story. But I’ve only just decided to have it, and I’m not ready for anyone to know, okay?”
Hannah blew me a kiss from the couch. “Of course I won’t tell anyone.”
• • •
Alfred had arrived at Hannah’s at seven on the dot, freshly scrubbed and wearing a soft blue sweater under a suit jacket and slacks. He handed me a bouquet of pink carnations wrapped in cellophane. To my surprise, he had trimmed his beard short, and his usual oniony scent was gone, replaced by something musky. “Ready to see my moves?” he asked, a little nervously, I thought. I linked my arm through his and together we marched down Hannah’s walkway as if we were going to the prom.
“How are things in Boston, Liv?” Alfred asked on the drive over.
“Lonely,” I admitted, braiding the tassels of my scarf. It was harder to be back in Guthrie than I expected, and not just because of Martin.
“Any chance you’ll come back?”
I looked out the window as we drove down Main Street. Pharmacy, hardware store, knitting shop, the White Market—each with its lights off, done for the day. The sidewalks were shoveled clean, not a dirty ice mountain to be seen. The diner parking lot was full of pickup trucks bearing bright yellow plows. “Maybe a small one.”
• • •
The parking lot of the grange hall was packed by the time we pulled into the dirt lot, and when I stepped out, I could hear the beat of the piano and the stomp of dancers in leather-soled shoes on the old wooden floor. The hall was a wall of bodies. Hundreds of paper snowflakes covered in silver glitter hung from the ceiling. We hurried into the coatroom and peeled off our coats.
The concession tables were covered with evergreen cloths. Bonnie manned a cotton-candy machine that spun maple syrup into billowy clouds. Corn popped in time with the piano, filling the glass case with pale puffs. A pack of Girl Scouts sold lemonade and cold cider.
There were four lines of dancers, and the room was a cheerful swirl of movement. You could feel everyone’s happiness at just being out of the house. We lingered at the back of the hall, watching the men twirl their partners. I smiled up at Alfred. “Thanks for convincing me to stay tonight.”
The music ended, and the dancers drifted over to the refreshment table or switched partners for the next dance. Tom stood up from the piano and stretched. I waved up at him.
“Dancers, line up,” the caller said into the microphone.
Alfred took me by the elbow. “Ready, Livvy?” he asked with a determined look in his eye.
“Ready,” I said, grinning.
Tom played the first bars on the piano, then the fiddle player joined in. The tune was so bouncy it would have been impossible to stay still.
“Four hands around,” the caller said, and we joined hands with another couple, walking in a circle.
Alfred’s hand felt solid in mine.
“Now swing the opposite,” the caller instructed, and the man from the other couple took my hands. I looked up to smile at my new partner. He was one of the suits who had come out of Margaret’s office that morning.
“Now swing your own.” Alfred wrapped an arm around my waist, his hand in my hand. “Stop trying to figure out what’s next and come back,” he said into my ear as he swung me with strength and grace.
“Four hands around,” said the caller. I absently placed my hand in my neighbor’s and walked around in a circle.
“I saw you at the Sugar Maple this morning,” the stranger said.
“You did. You had a meeting with Margaret?” I asked innocently.
“The other way back,” the caller said.
“You wouldn’t be Olivia Rawlings, would you?” His grip tightened on my hand slightly.
I let my hand go slack, but he held his firm. “I would be. Have we met?”
“Now swing the opposite.”
The man took my hands in his and swung me in a circle. “No. Charles Bradford. I’m in the hospitality business. I’m familiar with your work. I was disappointed to hear you’re no longer baking for the Sugar Maple.”
“Change partners.” Alfred wrapped his arm around my waist. As he swung me around in a graceful circle, I closed my eyes, trying to remember where I had heard the name Charles Bradford before.
“Four hands around,” said the caller. Alfred grabbed one hand while Charles took the other.
“Have you left the Sugar Maple permanently?”
“The other way back.”
I felt dizzy as we switched directions. Charles Bradford. Bradford.
“Swing the opposite.”
Charles Bradford watched me with interest as he swung me around. His suit looked expensive. “What does permanent mean, really?” I asked him, plastering a smile on my face. “No one really knows what’s going to happen in the future, do they?”
“Now swing your own.”
I slumped gratefully onto Alfred’s shoulder. Something didn’t feel right. And then it hit me. The Bradford Group. My knees locked, and as Alfred tried to swing me, he tripped, bashing into the couple beside us. I stepped away from the fray and out of the line.
“Four hands round.”
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” I shouted as I pushed through the crowd. The line broke and crumbled, the dancers squawking in confusion like disturbed hens. Alfred followed me as I marched to the coatroom.
“Livvy, what just happened?”
I rummaged through coats, aggressively pushing hanger after hanger to the side, looking for my own. “She’s going to sell it.”
“What are you talking about?” Alfred stood in the doorway, looking nervous.
“Margaret—the inn. She’s really going to do it. The peo
ple she met with today? They’re from the Bradford Group—that’s a hotel investment group.”
“Yes. Jane’s cousins.”
“Seriously? Of course they are. Did you know that they love to buy up little mom-and-pop places and make them depressing corporate tourist traps?”
“It makes sense that she would want to sell.”
I whipped around. “What are you talking about? That doesn’t make any sense at all. She can’t sell it.”
“She’s in her seventies, Livvy,” Alfred said gently. “She might be getting tired.”
“Margaret doesn’t get tired. Besides, it’s her home. Where is she going to go?”
“Someplace warm, maybe.”
“God, I can’t believe you’re being so philosophical about this.”
“And I’m a little surprised at how selfish you’re being.”
It felt as if he had slapped me. “How am I being selfish? It’s her. What are you going to do if she sells? And Sarah? And the rest of the waitstaff? It’s not like this goddamned town is full of job opportunities.”
“Did you ever stop and think about what she has here?”
She has everything, I wanted to say.
Alfred stepped closer until he stood behind me, and he placed his hands on my shoulders. “I’m sorry. I know you’re upset. But you left. You can’t expect to have a say in what happens here when you’re two hundred miles south of us.”
I pulled on my coat, buttoning it up to the top button. “I need the Sugar Maple to stay the Sugar Maple.”
Alfred smiled at me kindly as he zipped up his parka. “Things change, Livvy. Sometimes for the better.”
Chapter Sixteen
I snuck out of Alfred’s trailer the next morning, partly because I wanted to go for a walk before I headed to Dotty’s, partly because I didn’t want to say good-bye. I pulled my car into a space at the far end of the inn’s parking lot, not wanting to be caught by Margaret.
I traded my clogs for a pair of green rubber boots I had never removed from my trunk, zipped my purple fleece over my tunic, and trudged through the apple orchard. The sleigh path through the orchard was thick with mud under the slushy snow, and the walking was slow going. Off in the distance steam was rising out of the open windows of the sugarhouse. The front door was wide open, and the voices of men carried over the field.
The City Baker's Guide to Country Living Page 24
