When I returned to her room, Freckles and Elsie were both asleep in the bed, and the attendant was napping in a chair. They all looked so peaceful that I decided to leave them be, and quietly closed the door behind me. I made my way down the hall to the dayroom to set up the materials for my sculpture class. My Keds squeaked on the newly waxed floor.
“Hang the screen from the top of the easel. That’s right. You’re an angel. Perfect.”
I squeaked to a halt. That was Kit’s voice.
In the back of the dayroom, a large screen was hanging crookedly on a black metal stand. A pair of hot-pink legs hopped behind the screen. Max was in the back of the room, stacking books underneath a projector that was attached to a new laptop.
“Someone turn off the lights,” he called.
I stepped into the room and flicked the light switch off. Max adjusted the focus of the projector. “Excellent. We’re in business.”
“Excuse me, but I’m pretty sure this is the room I’ve been assigned for my sculpture class.”
“Nora!” Kit ducked under the screen and ran toward me, tackling me in the stomach. We flew back, landing hard on one of the sofas. “We’re back!”
Max leaned down and kissed my forehead. “Good to see you, cake lady.”
Kit rolled over and sat beside me on the couch. Max took the seat on my other side.
“We really missed you,” Kit began.
“And we’re sorry we took off,” Max added.
“I would have done the same thing.” I reached for both of their hands.
“No, you wouldn’t have,” Kit said. “You would have stayed and taken care of everything.”
Max reached into his pants pocket. “We sold some of the lights and cables.”
“And we got the deposit back from the editor and sound guys.”
“They were really cool about it,” said Max.
“And we hadn’t spent all of the money,” Kit said shyly. “Max, give it to her.”
Max handed me a wad of cash. “It’s almost seven grand.”
“That you are carrying around in cash,” I said, horrified. “You could have been mugged.”
Kit and Max both laughed. “Who is going to mug us, droopy suspenders guy?”
“When you were on the road.”
“Oh, Nora. The world isn’t full of people out to get you, I swear.” Kit reached over, took Max’s hand with the money, and pushed it toward me. “Now take it. I was going to just give it to Mary Beth, but I thought you might need it to make a loan payment, or—”
“Keep it,” I said, pushing Max’s hand back. There would be plenty of time to explain everything later. “Now, what’s all of this?”
“It’s our new movie,” Kit said, leaping off the couch and hopping around the dayroom like a sparrow in a patch of breadcrumbs.
“But you couldn’t—it’s not Side Work, is it?” I would never be able to forgive myself for ruining their film, and their chance to show at the Premiere Festival.
“Nah,” Max said. “Even the nerdiest of tech guys couldn’t grab it off the hard drive.”
“But this is even better, Nora. We can’t wait for you to see it. It’s called White Oaks of the Northeast Kingdom.”
Max punched a few keys on the laptop. “Check it out.”
Kit flopped back down next to me on the couch and leaned her head against my shoulder. The first image was of Dotty McCracken and Margaret Hurley.
“Guthrie wasn’t such a big town, the way it is now,” Dotty said, looking at Margaret.
“And girls weren’t allowed out with boys by themselves, not like kids today.”
“So we’d go out in groups,” Dotty explained. “I’d tell my parents I was going to the fair with Margaret.”
“And I’d tell mine I would be with Dotty.”
“Which wasn’t a lie.”
Margaret shook her head. “We respected our parents.”
“But we still liked to have a little fun.”
Margaret went on to tell the story of the first time she was ever kissed, on top of the Ferris wheel at the Coventry County Fair.
The next person on the screen was my neighbor Pat. He told a story about the year a nor’easter hit Guthrie during mud season, and how the town flooded so bad the only way to get help was by rowboat.
“This one’s my favorite,” said Max.
June, one of the Pudding Hill House residents, began to speak. “All of the able-bodied men were off at war. So the women stepped up. We ran the tavern and the market. One of my sisters took over her husband’s butchery. Everyone said her cuts were cleaner. We tilled the land and grew our own crops, and still found time to knit sweaters for the boys overseas when we heard they were freezing. No one wanted to say this out loud at the time, but it was hard when the men came back. We had learned something about ourselves. We were strong on our own. It was hard to put that knowledge aside.”
Frame after frame, the wrinkled faces of the oldest residents of Guthrie told stories about the town, how it was made, how much it was loved, how it was home.
The last image of the film was of Elsie. She was in a chair in the sitting room, a bright yellow cardigan buttoned up to her neck. She had a serene look on her face. Kit could always bring out the best in everyone.
“I knew the minute I pulled into town. There wasn’t much there, just a post office and a general store, the tavern. That funny chime of the bell on the town hall. The people were kind, and the landscape was an inspiration. I thought I might have found the right place, and then I knew I had.”
“When you met Peggy,” Kit’s voice offered.
“When I met Peggy.” Elsie smiled. “What a spirit. That woman is a force of nature. You know the first thing she did when we met? She baked me a cake. Burnt sugar cake—have you ever tasted a cake like that? One bite of that cake, and I knew I had found where I belong.”
The film ended, and the room went dark. I rubbed my eyes with the sleeve of my sweater. Max flicked on a light. Kit was perched on the edge of the couch, like a bird of prey. “What do you think?”
“It’s beautiful, Kit. It truly is.”
Kit let out a whoop, and pulled me up off the couch and into her embrace.
“The festival accepted it. We just heard today. They said they loved the grainy look, and the Our Town feel.”
“Kit pitched it as a modern-day Our Town.”
“We have a few more interviews we’d like to shoot.”
“Does that mean you’re staying?” My voice may have gone up several octaves, and tears threatened to spill down my face. In public.
“Do you mind?” Max stood behind Kit. He put both of his hands on Kit’s shoulders.
“Of course I don’t mind,” I said, wiping at my face with my shirtsleeve. “This is still your home.”
“About that.” Kit looked up at Max. “We wanted to ask you. When we finally sell the land, what if we held on to Peggy’s house?”
“I’ve got so much to tell you. We have offers on about half of the acreage. If you agree, and the offers come through, it would be enough to settle her estate, and then some. Maybe if we use whatever’s left to pay off part of the Miss Guthrie loan, the bank might lower the payments.” I watched as relief poured over Kit’s and Max’s faces. “But,” I said carefully, “not selling the house would mean there wouldn’t be a nest egg for either of us.”
“A home is like a nest,” Max said.
“And what we really would love is a home base for us to come back to,” Kit said softly.
“For when we are in between projects,” Max said.
“And for the holidays. Can we get a live tree? Like we used to?” Kit had always picked out the largest, fullest tree on the McCracken lot. On more than one occasion we had to saw the top right off to fit it in the house. Mom always said angels were ov
errated.
“I want to go on the sleigh ride through the McCracken farm that I’ve been hearing about.”
“And sugaring season. We can come home for the Mud Season Spectacular!”
“Both of you?” I asked, looking up at Max with raised eyebrows.
Max raised his eyebrows back at me and patted the pocket of the shiny black vest he was wearing over a Metallica T-shirt. The pocket bulged out a little. I hoped she would say yes. “If that’s cool with you,” Max said.
And just like that, I had a family again. People to take care of. I wouldn’t have it any other way.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Three months later
The painting of the half-eaten jelly donut fit perfectly between the windows that lined the Worcester dining car. I had restored the diner almost to its original glory, but I took a few liberties. The Formica counter and the oxblood benches and stools I kept, of course. But I got rid of Mom’s checked curtains and let the light pour into the dining room. The Dr Pepper clock was replaced by a large stainless steel one with a bright white face and stark black numbers. I took down all the generic New England prints of covered bridges and tree-lined dirt roads and hung up the paintings I had made while I waited for the renovation to be completed. The real changes happened in the kitchen, where I redid the floors with fireproof material and a larger convection oven. That way I would have a place to bake cakes without having to listen to Charlie complain about lack of oven space whenever I had baking to do.
I was rehanging the HOMEMADE DESSERTS sign—baking cakes wasn’t so hard; I thought I might take a stab at making a few pies, maybe a bread pudding—when the little bell over the front door tinkled.
“I’m sorry, we aren’t quite open yet,” I said over my shoulder. “Just waiting for our final inspections. Hopefully by next week.”
“That’s too bad,” said a calm, steady voice. “Can you recommend a place to get coffee? I’m new in town.”
I turned slowly around. Elliot was sitting at my diner counter. He rested his arms on the Formica, leaning forward. He looked eager. His ears were bright red.
“New in town?” I asked, my hands shaking.
Elliot smiled up at me. “I just moved in. My nonprofit bought the orchard on the old Johnson property. I’m the new orchardist.”
I turned and walked over to the coffee station where I had just brewed a pot of decaf for myself, unable to suppress the grin that threatened to take over my face. I poured coffee into two thick Miss Guthrie cups, and topped them both with cream. I carried the coffees around to the other side of the counter and slid onto the stool beside him.
“That means we’re neighbors,” I said, swiveling in my seat to face him. When he did the same, our knees pressed against one another. “I live in the little house by the orchard.” I held out my hand. “Nora Huckleberry.”
Elliot took my hand in his. It felt warm, strong. Capable. “Nice to meet you, Nora Huckleberry. Elliot Danforth.”
“Good to meet you, Elliot Danforth.” I raised my coffee cup. “Welcome to Guthrie.”
BURNT SUGAR CAKE WITH MAPLE ICING
INGREDIENTS
For the syrup
½ cup sugar
½ cup boiling water
For the cake
3 cups all-purpose flour
1½ teaspoons baking powder
¾ teaspoon baking soda
½ teaspoon salt
9 ounces unsalted butter, at room temperature
1 cup sugar
½ cup light brown sugar
3 eggs
2 teaspoons pure vanilla extract
1 cup sour cream
½ cup burnt sugar syrup
For the maple icing
¼ cup unsalted butter, at room temperature
¼ teaspoon salt
2 cups confectioners sugar
1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
¼ cup maple syrup
2 tablespoons heavy cream
TO MAKE THE SYRUP
A quick note: Remember Max’s rules for working with sugar syrup—never walk away from it, and never touch it. Caramelizing sugar is an extremely hot process. Please use caution.
Place the sugar evenly in a pan and turn the burner on high (a cast-iron skillet is great for this). Let the sugar melt. You don’t want to stir the sugar—it will form sugar crystals and clump up—but you can gently move the pan to swirl it. The sugar will dissolve, then start to turn light brown. While the sugar is cooking, boil the water. When the sugar has turned to a golden amber color and is smoking a bit, take it off the heat. Very carefully drizzle in the boiling water. It will sputter when you do this—make sure you are wearing long sleeves. Return the pan to the heat once all of the water has been added, and stir until combined. Set aside to cool.
TO MAKE THE CAKE
In a medium-sized bowl, sift together the flour, baking powder, baking soda, and salt. Set aside. In the bowl of a stand mixer (or using a hand mixer), cream together the butter, sugar, and light brown sugar until it is light and fluffy. Add the eggs one at a time. Add the vanilla extract. In a separate small bowl, mix together the sour cream and a ½ cup of burnt sugar syrup. You will have extra syrup. Save it—it’s delicious in coffee!
Add ⅓ of the flour mixture to the butter, sugar, and eggs, mixing just until the flour is incorporated, then add ⅓ of the sour cream/burnt sugar syrup mixture. Repeat until you have a uniform cake batter, taking care not to overmix. Scoop the batter into a well-greased 10–12 cup Bundt pan.
Bake at 350°F until the top springs back when you press it and a cake tester comes out clean, about 1 hour.
Let cool completely before unmolding and icing.
TO MAKE THE ICING
In the bowl of a stand mixer, beat together the butter, salt, and confectioners sugar. Add the vanilla extract and maple syrup. Add the heavy cream one tablespoon at a time, until the icing is a nice, spreadable consistency.
Place the cake on a platter. Using an offset spatula, spread the icing over the top of the cake.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
With boundless appreciation, I would like to thank the following people who made this book possible:
My fierce, fearless, and funny agent, Alexandra Machinist—thank you for all of your work, advice, and friendship. Thanks to Hillary Jacobson, Christina Lin, and everyone at ICM. And to Sophie Baker at Curtis Brown—thank you for finding homes for my books across the sea.
My editor Pamela Dorman and assistant editor Jeramie Orton—thank you for your thoughtful, insightful editing, and for all the work you have done to bring this book out into the world. I am so proud to be a part of Pamela Dorman Books.
Thanks to the whole team at Viking Penguin, including Brian Tart, Andrea Schulz, Lindsay Prevette, Kate Stark, Allison Carney, Mary Stone, Jessica Fitzpatrick, Roseanne Serra, Sandra Chiu, Megan Gerrity, Cassandra Garruzzo, Megan Sullivan, and the whole sales team at Penguin Random House. Special thanks to copy editor Jane Cavolina, who paid such close attention to every detail, down to the number of eggs cracked.
Heaps of thanks to Karl Kruger, sales rep extraordinaire, wonderful book champion, and most excellent brunch partner—the best part of publishing a book is the friends you make along the way.
I am filled to the brim with gratitude for Kate Racculia and Erika Swyler, who are the best author-mentor-friends a writer could ask for. Thank you so much for all of your advice and guidance.
Thanks and appreciation to J. Ryan Stradal, Beth Harbison, Erica Bauermeister, Ellen Airgood, Natasha Solomons, Brenda Bowen, Mameve Medwed, and Juliette Fay for your generosity.
I have been so lucky to have the support and friendship of two fantastic book lovers—thank you to Pamela Klinger-Horn and Robin Kall Homonoff for everything that you do for authors. I am so happy to kno
w you both.
Thanks to all the indie booksellers, librarians, and book bloggers who recommended my first novel to readers. I am so grateful.
And to the readers—thanks so much for the notes, the e-mails, and the reviews—you have made my dreams come true. With extra special thanks to Mike McCarthy, reader-turned-friend, for all of your cheer. I hope every author has a reader like you.
To chefs Luc Robert and Charlie Binda, and to the whole staff at the Union Club of Boston, thank you for making it possible for me to have both a pastry chef life and a writing life.
Screenwriter, filmmaker, and old friend Jim Picariello answered my indie filmmaking questions. Thank you for sharing your knowledge and joy.
Thank you to all of my dear writing friends, especially Cathy Elcik, Jennifer S. Brown, Susan Bernhard, Chris O’Connor, and Lissa Franz, who all thought I could write another book. Thank you for cheering me on.
And thank you to Carter Winstanley for telling me that developers in novels are always made to be the bad guys. As soon as you said this, I knew how the book would end.
To the Albritton family—Bill, June, and Brit—thank you for all of your encouragement.
If you met Carol Rizzo, she probably tried to sell you a copy of my first book. Thank you for everything, Mom. I love you.
To my extraordinary sisters, Brenda Miller-Holmes and Lisa Cataldo—the kindest, strongest, most creative, big-hearted people I know—I am so proud to be your little sister.
To my dad, the late Douglas P. Miller, who dreamed of having a little breakfast-and-lunch place, thank you for all of those meals at all of those diners. Everything I write is in some way inspired by you.
And most of all, thanks and love and gratitude to my Elizabeth Albritton, who was right beside me, helping me at every stage of the process of making this book, from first spark to the final pages. You make my writing, and my life, better in every way.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
The Late Bloomers' Club Page 28
