The City Baker's Guide to Country Living Page 9

  Chapter Six

  The parking lot was packed by the time I arrived at the grange hall the night of the Harvest Festival’s “Frost on the Pumpkin” contra dance. I had spent all day hiding in my cabin. Hannah had been expecting me to stop by the children’s festival on the town green, where she manned the first-aid station, but every time I tried to muster up the energy to put on my boots, Jamie’s drunken toast would play in my head, and I would flop back down on the couch. The idea of running into Jamie or, even worse, Mrs. Whitaker, in front of the citizens of Guthrie made me feel like I had been pushed into a blast freezer. Instead, I spent the day stripping the purple out of my hair and redyeing it—Manic Panic Electric Tiger Lily. The jar promised it would glow under a black light, but somehow I didn’t think the grange hall was going to turn the lights off and get funky.

  By the time I left the cabin, a persistent cold rain was falling. Tom had asked that we all wear white shirts and black bottoms to look “professional,” but beyond that it was up to us. I chose a full black skirt that came down to my knees, long enough that I would show nothing but my skill on the banjo to the dancers down below. A white cotton wrap shirt did its best to send the message of curvy rather than chunky. My orange red curls were loose and wiry. It was pouring when I opened the car door. I pressed my banjo case close to my body, wrapped us both in my yellow slicker, and ran for the hall. In the grange folks were already gathered by the refreshment table, and there was a line at the check-in desk. The rest of the Hungry Mountaineers were sitting on stools onstage tuning their instruments. I ducked into the cloakroom and shrugged off my slicker, shook the water out of my hair like Salty would, and strode across the hall and up onto the stage.

  Martin gave me a quick glance before returning his attention to tuning his fiddle. Tom clasped my shoulder and leaned down to whisper in my ear.

  “Glad you made it.” Tom looked sharp in black slacks and a white oxford, a silver string tie at his throat.

  “Sorry,” I whispered back. “Traffic.”

  Tom snorted. “That thing going to stay in tune in this weather?”

  I brushed the strings with my right index finger. It sounded like a wounded cat. “Not likely. I’ll just play quietly.”

  “Don’t sweat it. Just do your best.” He stood up and walked over to a tall, slender woman wearing a white blouse and floor-length skirt.

  I leaned over to Martin. “Is that the caller?”

  Martin looked toward the microphone stand. “Yes. Her name is Kate. She comes over from New Hampshire.”

  She looked lithe and elegant. I smoothed down my skirt and reached up to pat my hair. I had accepted a long time ago that I was cute at best, interesting-looking most days. Elegant wasn’t in my body’s vocabulary.

  I leaned back over to Martin. “I didn’t see you last night.”

  “No.” Martin plucked at the strings of his fiddle with his thumb.

  I twisted the tuning peg of my fifth string, trying to match it with the first. Martin stood up abruptly and walked off the stage. I watched him as he marched across the grange hall, black Converse high-tops peeking out and squeaking on the waxed floor. I turned and gave a weak little wave to Gene and Arthur. Tom raised his eyebrows at me questioningly. I whispered across the stage, “Can anyone play me a G?”

  The hall grew warm as it filled with dancers. It smelled of mulled cider, rubber wellies, and rain-soaked oak leaves. I spotted the stocky figure of Frank, the man I’d gotten into a tussle with at the Black Bear tavern, in the crowd next to a tiny blonde. He leaned over and spoke into her ear. She whipped around and glared at me from the dance floor. Martin returned to his seat, his face damp around the hairline. He pressed the bottom of his fiddle into his chest, bow alert in his right hand. Tom stepped up to the microphone.

  “Welcome, everyone, to the Guthrie Harvest Festival’s annual ‘Frost on the Pumpkin’ contra dance. We’re the Hungry Mountaineers, and we are pleased to introduce our guest caller from Franconia, New Hampshire, Kate Conroy!”

  The crowd applauded as Kate stepped up to the microphone. Tom took his place at the piano, eyes on Kate.

  “Okay, dancers, let’s get in line.”

  The crowd scuttled to form four stripes running from the stage to the back of the hall.

  I turned my attention to Tom’s right foot. As he began to tap it, I tucked the banjo head between my knees and brought my left hand to rest lightly on the neck, ready to play.

  “This is the walk-through,” Martin whispered.

  I hadn’t been to a contra dance in years. I’d forgotten that they teach the dances at the beginning. I gave Martin a small smile, grateful not to have started playing a solo. He looked at the floor.

  “Take four hands from the top,” Kate called. The lines formed into squares, two couples each, all holding hands. It reminded me of the playground game foursquare.

  “Allemande your neighbor right once and a half.” The couples across from each other touched each other’s right hands, held them up in the air, and walked in circles, looking into each other’s eyes. My mind flashed on a drunken evening I had spent on a culinary conference dance floor, rubbing my booty up against some sous chef. This was sexier.

  “Same neighbor, balance and swing.” The couples stepped toward each other, then away, then the men caught the women in an embrace and swung them around in circles, making their skirts twirl.

  “Circle left three places,” Kate called, “partner swing.”

  I glanced at Martin. His mouth tightened slightly when our eyes met. I was relieved that Jamie’s big, blond head was nowhere to be seen. I did spot Alfred, who was dancing with Sarah. Her face lit up as he swung her around.

  “Ladies chain across. Left hand star.” The couples all put their left hands in the center and walked around in a circle.

  Martin raised his fiddle and tucked it under his collarbone, in the spot where my cheek would rest if we were dancing. He cleared his throat and nodded his head toward the piano.

  Tom played the first three notes of the tune.

  “And turn to the right.”

  I grabbed my banjo and began to strum, missing only the first chord.

  With the music playing, the room began to swell with a feeling of joy that was irresistible. My feet tapped out the rhythm along with Tom’s piano. From the stage you could see the lattice pattern the dances made, the couples weaving in and out like fluted strips of piecrust. With each swing bursts of giggling could be heard from the less experienced dancers when they fell out of step. I closed my eyes and let myself get lost in the music. When the last note ended, the crowd burst into cheers. I turned to look at Martin, whose sweaty face broke into a broad smile. I felt like I had won a blue ribbon. It was the first time I had ever seen his teeth. They were crooked but bright. I beamed back at him.

  At intermission Martin sprang up and walked off the stage before I had a chance to speak. Tom took his stool and wrapped his arm around my shoulder.

  “Having a good time?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I said breathlessly. “I’d forgotten how much fun this is.”

  Tom chuckled. “I think it’s more fun to play up here than it is to dance down there, but let me know if you want to sit one out and take a turn.”

  “Oh, no, I’m much happier up here.”

  “Go get yourself something to drink before the next set begins. These folks are serious dancers. They don’t like to dillydally too long.”

  A crowd had gathered around the refreshment table. I elbowed my way around a group of women who had formed a huddle worthy of a football team at the Super Bowl.

  “I mean, of course she needs the help—she’s getting too old to run that place on her own,” said one of them.

  “My cousins have been trying to buy that place for years,” said a heavyset woman, probably in her late sixties. She talked a little louder than the
rest.

  “Why couldn’t she hire someone local? It’s not like there aren’t plenty of people around here looking for work,” replied another.

  “It just figures she hired someone like that.” The stout woman—the quarterback of the group—looked over her glasses at her team. “I mean, who else would work for her?”

  The women around her jutted their heads like hens, hanging on her every word. I grabbed a cup of apple cider, wishing I had something to spike it with, and turned back around.

  “I mean, it was obvious he’s been sleeping with her. The way he kept drawing out her name. Ollivvviiaa,” the quarterback said in a mocking slur. She raised her gaze and looked me square in the eye.

  I froze in my tracks.

  “I’d keep an eye on your husbands, ladies.”

  Tom played a couple of notes on the piano to get everyone’s attention. I placed my cup back on the table and climbed up on the stage. I felt like every single person in the grange hall was staring at me, with the exception of Martin, who was directing all of his focus at the white rubber toes of his high-tops. I shifted in my seat, fussing with the tuning pegs of my banjo, wishing the stage would open up and swallow me whole.

  • • •

  As the evening progressed and the dances became more complex, I kept my eyes on my banjo and tried to think only of the next note. Among the couples still dancing was Jack the coffee roaster and his partner, Peter. No one seemed to bat an eye. I wondered how long it had taken for them to be accepted in this town. So far the Harvest Festival had left me feeling chafed, and I was grateful when Kate announced the last dance before the ending waltz—a duet between Martin and Tom. I placed my banjo down on the stage floor.

  “Livvy,” I heard someone say from the bottom of the stage. It was Chef Al. He offered his bent arm. “Care to dance?”

  I glanced at Martin. He stood and walked over to the piano.

  Gene, the guitar player, gave me a smile and a wave. “Go on, now.”

  I walked down the steps and took Alfred’s arm in mine. “I thought for sure you would show up in one of those T-shirts with a tuxedo printed on the front,” I said as Al placed a hand gently on my waist and the waltz began.

  “I thought about it.” Al laughed. “But it seemed like a special occasion.”

  “Sure you want to be seen dancing with me? I might ruin your reputation.”

  Alfred’s grip tightened on my waist. “Too late for that,” he whispered.

  Martin played standing next to the piano. The waltz held the feeling you get when you finish a well-loved book. It left me longing for something I couldn’t name.

  Al sighed and leaned his cheek against my hair. “You’re a good dancer too.”

  “Hmmm?” I asked, watching Martin draw out a note with a long pull of his bow.

  “Nothing,” said Al. “Just plotting how to get you fired.”

  • • •

  Margaret arrived at the sugarhouse at eleven on the dot the morning of the bake sale, her sharp knuckles rapping against the window by the door. “Wanted to make sure you were up after gallivanting all night,” she said, as if my playing an acoustic instrument until ten in the evening would make it impossible for me to get out of bed the next day. Margaret paced about the cabin as I got dressed, straightening pillows and turning the faucet on and off to see if she could keep it from dripping.

  “Ready,” I said as I grabbed my car keys.

  She looked me up and down. “I’m driving.”

  • • •

  Margaret sped into the parking lot behind the old white church and came to a grinding halt.

  “Now, when we get in there, let me do all the talking.”

  My seat belt retracted with a sigh. Were we going to a fund-raiser or to see a man about a truck? “Oookay,” I said. “You know, there isn’t that much I could do in a church basement to embarrass you.”

  “If there’s a way, Ms. Rawlings, I’m sure you’ll find it. Just remember, you are here with those cookies to represent the inn. And to help out the library.”

  I looked down at the cookies through one of the clear plastic Tupperware lids. There were four containers in all—eight dozen cookies—stacked up to my chin. I had been tempted to embellish—at least to garnish the cookies with a little confectioners’ sugar and some fresh raspberries—but she had insisted on leaving them plain. Anyway, I wasn’t worried. These macaroons had once won the heart of the French ambassador. He had told me so over champagne in room 10 of the Emerson.

  “Fine.”

  Margaret opened the car door, and before my boots were on the pavement, the straight tweed line of her back had already disappeared into the church. I clutched the boxes of cookies close to my chest and pulled open the heavy wooden door. It took a minute for my eyes to adjust to the dim light of the chapel. Weak afternoon sun filtered through the wavy glass windows.

  “Ms. Rawlings!” Margaret’s voice cut through the silence. I followed the dull hum of muffled voices down the back stairs and into the church basement.

  A card table had been set up at the bottom of the stairs. I found Margaret standing with a hand on one hip. A woman with curly frosted hair sat behind the table, clutching a clipboard.

  “Here I am,” I said to no one in particular.

  “Melissa, have you met my new pastry chef?”

  Melissa peered up at me from behind red plastic reading glasses. “I haven’t had the pleasure.”

  “Melissa is this year’s Mrs. Coventry County.” Margaret drew out each word.

  “A pleasure.” I extended my hand. “Olivia Rawlings.”

  “Olivia just came to us from the Emerson Club in Boston.”

  “On Beacon Hill?” Melissa asked.

  My eyebrows shot up. “Yes. Do you know it?”

  “I have family in Boston. Cousins.”

  I looked over at Margaret. She was bent over, furiously filling out a form.

  “How lovely. Do you visit them often?”

  “Usually just at Christmastime. I’m not much of a city person. But I love shopping on Charles Street and seeing the lights in the park.”

  “On the Common.” My heart sank a little as I thought about the draped lights in the trees that I used to gaze at through the Emerson’s kitchen window. You could see the ice skaters on the Frog Pond from the chef’s office on the sixth floor.

  “Okay, ladies, you’re all set. You’re in your usual spot over by the windows, Margaret. The sale begins in an hour. Thanks for donating!”

  Margaret took me by the elbow and led me into the coatroom.

  “We’ve got an hour to kill. Now what do we do?” I asked, leaning against the wall, overwhelmed by the smell of mothballs.

  “We go check out the competition.”

  “But it’s a bake sale, not a contest. Isn’t it?”

  Margaret straightened her coat on a hanger. “That doesn’t mean there isn’t a winner at the end.”

  The church hall was filled mostly with women huddled in groups of two or three. There were a few men, standing on the edges of the hall, drinking black coffee out of small Styrofoam cups. They all looked like they were still dressed for church. Long tables covered by paper tablecloths filled the center of the room. I followed Margaret to the corner near the coffee urn, where a little natural light filtered in from the windows at the top of the wall. She arranged the macaroons on a silver platter she had stashed in the church kitchen, hiding the plastic tubs under the table.

  After we had set up the hand-lettered signs that Sarah had made, Margaret led me to the front of the hall, where she walked us slowly down the aisle, considering each platter one by one. Golden brandy snaps looked dressed up next to a plate of plump butter cookies studded with dried cranberries and mini marshmallows. Peanut-butter cookies with the classic fork-pressed lattice rested next to carefully rolled rugelach. There wer
e more than seventy plates, and there was still a line at the card table where Melissa sat. These people took their baking seriously. The pie contest I had been hired to win no longer sounded like a charming small-town tradition. I had real competition.

  “Those look pretty good,” I said, admiring the dainty shell shape of a madeleine.

  “She uses imitation vanilla,” Margaret said under her breath.

  “Gross.” I approached a plate of sugar cookies buried under blobs of neon green icing. “What do you think of those?”

  “They look like they could break teeth.”

  I snorted. Margaret walked briskly down the aisles, examining each plate as if she were looking for something. Some of the bakers sat behind their tables, ready for business. Margaret said quick hellos, skipping introductions, and worked her way down to the last table.

  At the end of the row was an unmanned plate of pecan sandies. Margaret turned to face me and leaned in close.

  “When I walk away, grab one of those.”

  “There’s no one here to pay yet.”

  “Exactly.” She handed me an embroidered handkerchief. “Just snatch one and meet me at the car.” Margaret marched down the hall and disappeared behind the ladies’-room door.

  Bakers were filing into the room and setting up their tables. I looked over both shoulders to make sure no one was close and plopped my courier bag on the table, pretending to look for something. My hankie-lined hand darted out and grabbed a cookie. When it was stashed in my bag, I crossed the room in long, purposeful strides, not looking back.

  • • •

  I found Margaret sitting in the backseat of her car with the door still open. I slid in on the other side.

  “Did anyone see you?”

  I placed the cookie and handkerchief in her hand. “I’m ninety-nine percent sure no.”

  Margaret unwrapped the small package, then broke the cookie in half. It fell into crumbly pieces all over her lap. She handed me two of the larger crumbs. “What do you think?”