Home, I thought, my heart reaching toward the cabin.
I stomped the mud off my boots on the front porch and shouted hello. Tom’s familiar red and black plaid back was leaning over the evaporating pan attached to the woodstove. He lifted up a ladleful of syrup and poured it back into the vat.
“It’s not aproning yet,” he said to the young man beside him. Then he looked up at me and smiled.
“Sap’s almost done with its run, Livvy. You’ll have to wait a couple more days, but then the cabin is all yours.”
I hugged my waist, feeling the moisture on my skin. The cabin, with the exception of the evaporator, the steam, and all the young men, looked as I had left it. Someone had put clean linen on the futon and covered it with a pretty chenille bedspread the color of fresh egg yolks. The Christmas tree had been removed, the needles swept. I felt both grateful and sad that it was gone. I flopped onto the couch and smiled up at Tom. “So how did she rope you into sugaring this year?”
“No roping involved,” Tom said. “I offered to do the work and share the profit with her.” He tilted his head to the three teenage boys who were carrying in more logs for the fire. “I wanted the grandkids to know how to do more than play Xbox.”
The syrup in the pan began to boil vigorously and rise to the edge. Tom tossed in a pat of butter, and the syrup settled back down. “This is the end of the run. We’re getting mostly grade B now. It doesn’t get the best price, but it’s the most delicious.” He ladled the syrup again, and it poured down in a thick sheet. Tom poured some of the syrup into a bucket and plopped in a glass tube. “All right, boys, we’re ready to draw off. Bring me the buckets.”
The boys lined up with metal buckets. Tom filled each one from a spigot at the base of the pan. The boys poured the syrup through a sieve lined with cheesecloth into clean buckets. Tom filled the evaporator with a new batch of sap. He poured some of it into a Dixie cup and handed it to me. It tasted like spring—green, cold, and alive.
“Have a good time last night?” Tom joined me on the couch.
“I did. Not as fun as playing onstage, of course.”
“Next time.” Tom scratched at his whiskers. “I saw you broke out of one of the lines toward the end.”
“I did.” I watched two of the boys as they bottled the syrup on my kitchen counter. “She’s really going to sell, huh?”
“It’s looking that way. In the past she only entertained offers from locals, but I’ve seen a lot of out-of-state plates in the parking lot lately. Odd for this time of year.” Tom looked over at the boys. “Sean, pour some of that syrup into a pot and bring it to a boil.” He leaned over to me. “You’ve never had sugar on snow, I’m guessing?”
I shook my head.
“Well, you’re in for a treat.”
I followed Tom out into the yard, where he mounded some fresh snow into a pile. The sun felt warm on my neck, but the wind coming down the hill through the woods behind the cabin was cold on my skin.
“Careful,” Tom said to the boy with a saucepan between two pot-holdered hands. Tom took the pot and poured the syrup in a steady stream, making roping patterns in the snow. The syrup grew waxy. Tom held up a piece and handed it to me. I put it in my mouth. It was chewy, like taffy. I sighed in delight.
“We used to eat this with powdered doughnuts and pickles when we were kids,” Tom explained. The boys came out one by one to grab a piece, then returned to their jobs.
“That sounds like something from a picture book,” I said fondly, watching the long-limbed boys push one another around. I hadn’t given much thought to how I’d raise the baby—would I give her a childhood like mine in the city, growing up in bookstores, subways, and cafés? Memories of Thanksgiving at the McCrackens’ flooded my mind, the cozy feeling of being surrounded by family, the children wandering from room to room, woods to fields, always with someone to play with.
Tom clamped my shoulder. “When are you coming back, Liv? We got used to you being around. And I’ve lost five pounds!” Tom rubbed his belly.
“June. Can’t miss the White wedding,” I said, looking out toward the pines. “I was thinking of walking to Dotty’s. Is it passable?”
“Once you get under the evergreens, the carriage path isn’t too muddy. You might make it all the way to the farm. Careful, though,” he warned, turning back to the evaporator.
I zipped up my jacket. “Thanks, Tom.”
“All right, then.” Tom tipped his baseball hat to me and set back to work, skimming the surface of the sap.
• • •
The air felt cold after the steam of the sugarhouse, and the damp on my cheeks stung. Tom was right—once I crossed into the evergreens the walking was easy. Someone—most likely Mark or Ethan—had kept the sleigh rides going on the carriage trail, so the snow was packed down smooth and hard. Clear white light filtered softly through the pines. The whole world looked white and gray and green. In the quiet I felt my whole body loosen. Martin was everywhere in these woods. For the first time in months, I allowed myself to feel the loss of him. There was something so comforting about his physical presence, something that I hadn’t recognized until he had gone. When I was with him, I had felt tucked in, in place. I walked faster, trying to stomp out the thoughts with my boot steps. I knew where they would lead me, and it was just going to make lunch with Dotty more difficult to get through.
Under the tree in the little clearing where Martin had stopped to show me the great horned owl were bits of fur, blood, and bones. I looked up. There she was, as if she had been waiting for me. Her yellow eyes blinked down at me. Beside her sat what looked like two downy footballs.
“You too?” I asked her. The owlets stared down at me with the same steady gaze as their mother. They were covered in gray curls, as though they were draped in sheepskin. One of them yawned and stretched its wings, and the other did the same. The mother’s head whipped around. I turned to see what had caused her alarm.
There on the carriage path stood Martin McCracken.
I looked away and then back, expecting him to disappear like a ghost. He looked thinner than before, his black jeans hanging loose, his torso hidden underneath the Irish knit sweater I had fallen asleep on only months earlier.
“Livvy.” His voice shook me out of the sensation that this was all a dream.
“What are you doing here?” I asked unsteadily.
“I took the red-eye when I heard you were in town.” Martin stood awkwardly for a moment, then took three long strides and pulled me into his arms. I nuzzled into his armpit, breathing him in.
“I’m so sorry,” he said in his drone-string voice.
My mind raced, counting the things Martin could regret. I didn’t want to be one of them. I loosened my grip and took a step back.
“For everything. For not telling you about Sylvie. I tried—I tried to keep my distance from you. I wanted to tell you the night I brought over the Christmas tree, but . . .”
“But Henry went into the hospital,” I said, remembering his hesitation when I kissed him.
Martin nodded. “I came looking for you to talk after the funeral, but you had left.”
“Is it true, then? You and Sylvie, you’re—”
Martin shook his head. “I told her about you when we got back home. I’d wanted to tell her right away, but my father . . . And then it was Christmas, and I didn’t want to tell her when she was so far away from home.” Martin let his breath out in a steady stream. “She had guessed. She slept in one of the guest rooms while she was here. She said it was out of respect for my mother, but—”
“You’re not together anymore?” My head spun.
“We split up. We just sold the condo. The closing is at the end of April. Listen.” Martin looked like a kid at five o’clock on a Christmas morning—wild hair and tired eyes, barely able to contain his excitement. “I’ve just been hired to play fidd
le for the Darnielle Brothers. The Darnielle Brothers!”
They were the biggest name in alt-country.
“The tour starts in Japan! A thirty-city tour here in the States, then we’re going to be in Europe all summer.” Martin pulled me back into his embrace. “Come with me,” he said into my hair. “You’d have a blast playing in all the jams at the festivals, traveling to all those different places.” Martin pulled just far enough away so he could cup my cheeks in his hands. “And we could be together.”
He leaned down and kissed me then.
There are only a few moments in my life that I have ever wanted to bask in—driving up the coast of Maine beside my father on an autumn afternoon, when I pulled my first chocolate soufflé out of the oven, the first time Salty rested his muzzle on my lap and sighed. And now this. I would have given anything to pause time right there.
I pushed my palms against his chest and stepped back. “I can’t.”
“What? Why?” Martin’s expression held a mixture of confusion and hurt.
“Because of the pie contest,” I blurted.
He took a step back to get a full look at me. “Livvy, if it’s really that important, you can come back for the pie contest.”
I wanted to say yes. A few months earlier I would have already been digging through my drawers for my passport. “It’s not just that. Hannah is going to give birth soon, and Margaret needs me to make a wedding cake in June. I have to stay.”
“You’re not even living here,” he said, exasperated. It was as though I could see his plans dripping off him one by one like slowly melting icicles. “Come on, Liv. This is our chance.”
Through my fleece pocket, I pressed my hand onto my belly. Margaret was right—Martin deserved to know. But I knew that what Henry had said was also true—Martin would do the right thing. He would give up his dreams and move back to Guthrie. I couldn’t be the reason he stayed.
“Couldn’t our chance wait until you come back?” I asked.
Martin looked deflated.
“Listen,” I said, grabbing the fabric of his jacket. “Your dad just died. And you ended a long relationship, you sold your house. I’m assuming that you quit your teaching job too?” I leaned my head against him and spoke into his chest. “This isn’t the time for any more big decisions. Think about what you really want when you’re on the road. Call me when you get back.”
I stood up on my tiptoes and kissed him firmly on the lips, then turned away, walking as fast as I could down the snowy path before I changed my mind.
“Apologize to your mom for me,” I called, not looking back.
Chapter Seventeen
May
April did its usual showers-to-May-flowers thing, but the lilacs that hugged the Friendly Eating Place’s back alley were cloying, and I kept the back door off the storeroom closed despite the growing warmth. Ever since I had returned from Guthrie, I had felt stuck. Every sign of spring fed my irritation. The daffodils’ cheerful faces mocked me. The birdsong at dawn sounded more like a lament. I knew saying no to Martin had been the right decision, but I hadn’t given much thought to what would happen next. When I tried to fantasize about the future, the daydream would always end in Guthrie, but with Martin gone and Margaret selling the Sugar Maple it didn’t make much sense. It was as if Guthrie, with all its past possibilities, were being eaten piece by piece until there were only crumbs. I tried to keep thoughts of Martin at bay, but my swelling breasts and nightly leg cramps were a constant reminder that a part of him would always be with me. I pushed through each day like it was just something to get through, napping during the daylight, folding my way through the “Creams, Fools, and Jellies” chapter of Richard’s cookbook each night.
I was lying on my cot after my OB/GYN appointment, reading a magazine article debating nail art—yea or nay—when I heard the familiar Monday-night sounds of folding chairs squeaking open and stringed instruments being tightened into life.
It was a hot night, sticky for spring, and the heavy feeling of the baby was making me restless. I poked my head into the alley. The music shop’s back door was propped open, and without the walls between us the music sounded sweet. I leaned on the doorframe, willing myself to turn around and go back in, when I heard the first notes of “I’ll Fly Away,” an old gospel tune my father had loved to play.
Some bright morning when this life is over, I’ll fly away
For a song about dying, it had a joyful lightness to it. It was hard to resist. I stepped quietly into the back of the shop. The familiar scents of old cigarette smoke and whiskey reminded me of an old-man bar. I eased through a tunnel of instrument cases stacked waist high against the walls, making my way toward the music.
To a land on God’s celestial shore, I’ll fly away
Through the doorway to the front of the shop I could see a couple of the players. Wide men, pants held up by suspenders, faces covered in gray whiskers. Young bearded men playing confidently next to the old-timers. I slipped into the packed room, taking a seat in the corner between the door and a pile of fake books. A middle-aged man with a stumpy little banjo called a banjo-uke in his lap smiled at me and nodded his head. The jam reminded me of ones that my father had taken me to, and sitting among the players felt akin to church, tunes in place of prayers. I settled back into my chair and closed my eyes.
I’ll fly away, oh glory, I’ll fly away
When I die, hallelujah by and by, I’ll fly away
I felt it between “Black Cat in the Briar Patch” and “Cumberland Gap.” Right where my arm rested against the side of my belly. A little nudge, from the inside out, like she was trying to get my attention.
“Holy crap,” I said. I pressed my hand into my side. She nudged again.
“You all right?” the man next to me asked.
“Yes—it’s just, it’s the baby,” I said, blushing, like it was a secret I was keeping.
“You haven’t felt it before?”
I shook my head, pressing my hand into my side, just wanting to feel her again. I rested my hands on my belly where I had felt the jab. Nothing. A couple of the players picked the first phrase of “Jennie Jenkins,” a silly song sung to teach little kids their colors. When the tune ended, I felt a tumbling inside. “Hey there, baby,” I sang. “I think she likes the music,” I said to the man, feeling like I was meeting her for the first time.
“We better keep playing, then,” he said, and called to the jam leader to play some old children’s tunes. The fiddler led “Skip to My Lou” followed by “Polly Wolly Doodle.” I placed my hands on my belly and focused my attention inward. I felt as if we were listening together.
The leader stuck his foot out, and the last tune ended with a whoop from the players. One by one instrument cases were latched, mandolins and guitars put to bed for the night.
“Do you mind, just for a second?” I asked the man next to me, reaching toward him. I wanted to test out a theory. He handed me his stubby banjo. I sat up and strummed out a few chords. Another little flutter, and then a sharper nudge. “Okay, kiddo,” I whispered as my fingers fell into Henry’s tune. “I’ll keep playing.”
• • •
Hannah called a week later to tell me her doctor had put her on mandatory bed rest for the remainder of her pregnancy. The first thing I did when I hung up the phone was dye my hair—Cotton Candy Pink—after I had double-checked to make sure the dye was nontoxic and vegan and wouldn’t turn my baby into a woolly mammoth. Then I shoved everything I had into a garbage bag, left the keys to the Friendly Eating Place on the pizza counter, and drove straight to Guthrie, not even stopping at the F&G for pie.
Hannah’s house, which was normally decorator-magazine clean, was a mess of unfinished baby projects. I became Hannah’s partner in nesting for as long as my body would allow each day, assembling strollers and hanging mobiles. Then we would both cuddle up on the bed and nap or watch talk sh
ows.
• • •
I emptied Hannah’s laundry basket onto the foot of her king-sized bed. A multicolored mountain of onesies, diaper covers, and spit-up blankets tumbled across the duvet. “Should I sort these by category?” I asked, folding a tiny light green T-shirt into quarters. There were hundreds of pieces of clothing, all adorable. The only thing I had purchased for my baby so far was a black onesie with the Ramones’ logo in white.
“Could you keep the long-sleeve and short-sleeve shirts separate?” Hannah asked from under the covers. She was lying on her side, a pillow propped under her stomach, which I could have sworn had grown in the past hour. “I can’t thank you enough for doing this,” she said for the millionth time.
“You don’t have to thank me. Just give me all of the boys’ hand-me downs,” I said as I folded a baby blue sweater.
“So, Liv—where is Martin now?” she asked, keeping her voice light. Hannah hadn’t been too happy when I told her I had sent Martin away.
“LA, maybe?” I replied, but I knew from my daily checks of the band’s Twitter feed that they were playing at the El Ray in LA that night, in San Francisco the following night, then up in Portland and Seattle. Martin e-mailed me weekly with details of the tour. I responded only in emojis and pictures of Salty, worried that if I used words I’d let something slip.
“You’re going to have to tell him soon, Liv. Before someone sees you in town and tells him themselves.”
She was right, of course. My own baby bump had emerged, and I looked undeniably pregnant. I kept to Hannah’s house most of the time, and I would travel two, three, or five towns over if there were errands to be run. I figured I was only one or two ice cream runs away from being the hottest piece of gossip at the farmer’s market.
The City Baker's Guide to Country Living Page 25
