Although we had exchanged many kind notes in my first few weeks at the Sugar Maple—his complimenting me on a huckleberry clafouti, mine thanking him for the delicious plates of leftovers he had left me for lunch—I didn’t actually meet Chef Alfred until the week after Halloween, when we scheduled a time to sit down and plan the menu for the annual Harvest Dinner.
I had learned about the Harvest Dinner not from Margaret but from a block-print poster hanging on the White Market bulletin board, between flyers advertising free bark mulch and an autumn equinox moonlight drum circle. The poster promised “Old-fashioned New England Family Fun!” It was then that I noticed the whole town was already swaddled in bales of hay and dried corn husks. I had thought that things would quiet down in Guthrie now that the only leaves left to peep at were the stubborn crumpled-grocery-bag brown leaves on the oaks. But apparently the Guthrie Harvest Festival—capped off by the Harvest Dinner—was the social highlight of the season.
• • •
An older man in a tie-dyed T-shirt sat alone in the parlor, sipping coffee out of one of the gold-trimmed peony-patterned teacups. His large hand dwarfed the cup. He looked like he was drinking from his daughter’s tea set.
“Chef?”
“Livvy, great to meet you.” Alfred stood up and, after a moment’s hesitation, pulled me into a great bear hug. The top of my head came up only to the middle of his chest. He smelled good, like a grandfather—Irish Spring and Right Guard. “Sit, sit. So, you have to tell me what was in that buttermilk custard you made the other day. We sold out by seven o’clock. I didn’t even get to try it.”
“Gosh, I didn’t know if that one would go over well. I’ll have to make it again this week.”
“Do, but be sure to hide a cup of it for me.” Alfred smiled through a thick nest of gray whiskers. “Settling in okay?”
“Everything’s good on my end. But Margaret hasn’t said much—or anything—since I started.”
“She’s been preoccupied. I can tell you that the desserts are phenomenal. And the bread—God, that sourdough.” Al rubbed a reddened palm across his belly. “I’ve put on five pounds since you started.”
I beamed at him. There is no better compliment you can pay a baker than to tell her she has made you gain weight. “Would you mind saying some of those nice things to Margaret? I’m afraid she’s going to boot me before my trial period is even over.”
“I don’t think she’s thinking about making any staff changes now that the place is officially on the market.”
“The inn is for sale?”
“She didn’t tell you when you interviewed?”
“Um, no. She didn’t mention it.” I felt equal parts irritation and relief. If the place changed hands, I would have an easy excuse to leave without hurting Hannah’s feelings.
“She’s turned down offers in the past. I think she wants to make sure it will stay exactly the same. The sale could take awhile.”
Oh, Margaret was looking for another Margaret. Good luck with that. “So, are we serving the Harvest Dinner in the barn?” I had seen a couple of high school boys dragging tables in there earlier that week. “Do we ever get busted by the health department?”
“No, no. Our Harvest Dinner is one of the town manager’s favorite events. If he shuts us down, he can’t come.”
“Then I won’t worry so much about the dog.” I tilted my head toward Salty, who had somehow broken out of the sugarhouse and was now sitting on a worn velvet couch scratching an ear with a hind foot.
“Quite beautiful,” Alfred said, “the dinner, I mean. I think you’re gonna love it. Very Martha Stewart. We serve all the courses family style, on big platters. It’s mostly locals that attend—we can only seat one hundred in the barn, and most of the tickets are sold by the beginning of the summer. All the guests who are staying at the inn can come, of course, since the dining room is closed that night.” Alfred leaned back in his chair, arms folded loosely across his tie-dyed chest.
Whether it was served in the barn or in the walk-in refrigerator, I didn’t care. Making desserts for a big, fancy dinner put me back in my element, and I was ready to shine.
“So, I have a couple of ideas.” I dug my spiral-ringed notebook out of my canvas bag and flipped to the right page. Alfred and I got to work, heads down, leaning over our notes—his shiny with grease stains, mine streaked with chocolate.
“First course is a corn consommé,” Alfred said.
“That’s brilliant. Can you do that?”
“Just the pure essence of corn.”
My mouth began to water. “Then a salad?” I asked.
“Baby red oak greens with toasted black walnuts and a maple vinaigrette.”
“With goat cheese?” I licked my lips.
Alfred smiled and ran his fingers up and down his hairy arm. “An excellent idea.”
“I could make croutons out of a dried-apple spice bread.”
Alfred leaned in a little closer. “Or maybe just a thin slice of the apple bread with the goat cheese spread on it.”
“Yum.” We weren’t even to the main course yet. “What’s next?”
“Prime rib, with a cipollini au jus. We get the beef from the Haskell farm.”
“Not Snowball,” I gasped. I had spent the better part of Tuesday afternoon letting the cow gum at my coat sleeve.
Alfred laughed. “You’ll get used to it. And, no, not Snowball. She’s a heifer, for one thing. She’s used for milk and breeding.”
I let out a long breath. Only a couple of weeks in the country and I was getting dangerously close to becoming what all chefs loathed—a vegetarian. “So what’s the wraparound?”
“Wild mushroom risotto and roasted Brussels sprouts.”
“I could make popovers,” I offered.
Alfred closed his eyes. “With chives?”
I smiled. “Done.”
A cheese course would follow. Vermont cheddar with quince paste, fresh chèvre with homemade blackberry preserves, and a sheep’s-milk blue cheese with pears poached in port. And then dessert. Pumpkin crème brûlée baked in hollowed-out miniature pumpkins. Apple galettes with frangipane in puff pastry. Pears stuffed with cognac-soaked figs and wrapped in phyllo, baked to a crispy golden brown, the fruit inside tender and succulent. And thin chocolate shells, filled with a thick amber caramel, studded with toasted pecans and a layer of dark chocolate ganache just barely sweetened.
Alfred and I leaned back in our chairs and smiled at each other, our foreheads glistening with sweat. All we needed was a couple of cigarettes.
“It’s going to be a meal to remember, Livvy. If she does sell, it will be a great meal to go out on.”
“Fantastic.” I raised my arm in the air, like I was standing in front of a roaring crowd, about to take a bow. “It could be my debut and grand finale, all in one.”
Alfred laughed. “You know, you are nothing like I thought you’d be.”
“What did you think I would be like?”
Alfred rubbed his fingers in his beard, considering. “Intimidating?”
“How intimidating can a baker be?” I asked. “We make brownies all day. Besides, my hair is purple. Nothing says ‘easygoing’ like purple hair.”
“I love it. My mother was a hairdresser right up until the day she died. She made the ladies’ hair blue—although I don’t think it was on purpose.”
“And she let you go gray?”
“Oh, she tried, believe me.”
Margaret walked into the parlor. She looked at me and at Alfred, then over at Salty asleep on the sofa. “In the kitchen, please, Ms. Rawlings. When you are done.” She nodded at Alfred before disappearing into the back of the house.
I rolled my eyes. “I’m settling right in.” Alfred laughed as we headed back to the kitchen.
• • •
My last task for the day was to put together a poaching liquid, which I wanted to steep overnight. Margaret came out of her office just as the port was coming to a simmer and, to my surprise, sat down on the stool that Tom used on the mornings he delivered the milk. Silently, she watched me scrape a finger of fresh ginger with the edge of a tarnished silver teaspoon.
“I’ve never seen ginger peeled that way,” she commented.
“I picked it up from one of the prep cooks at the club—he was from India.” I placed the piece of ginger in the center of a square of cheesecloth that lay flat on the table before me. I had already piled a small mound of spices there—cinnamon sticks, cloves, a piece of star anise, pink peppercorns. I reached for an orange and dug into its skin with a zester, stripping it of its brightly colored flesh and releasing a burst of orange oil into the air.
Margaret closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. Her face softened for a moment before she pursed her lips. Her back straightened. “Is this for the Harvest Dinner?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said as I gathered the edges of the cheesecloth into a tiny bundle, which always reminded me of a hobo’s pouch, and secured the top with twine. “I’m making batches of all the desserts for you and Chef Al to taste, in case you want to make any changes.”
Margaret looked surprised.
“This”—I held up the cheesecloth bundle before dropping it into a pot of simmering port—“is to flavor the pears.” Poised at the stove, spoon in hand, I stared into the pot, stirring occasionally, trying to look professional. Margaret sat and watched.
“So . . . ,” I asked after what felt like hours of silence. “Is there something you wanted to talk about?” I hated being observed. During my practical exams at cooking school I had managed to both burn all the hair off my hands and slice off the tip of my thumb. And judging by the deep channel that appeared between her eyes, it looked like Margaret had something on her mind.
“Can’t I take a minute in my own kitchen?” she clucked. “You don’t mind Tom Carrigan sitting here all morning long.”
Why was I always saying the wrong thing? I grabbed my knife and cut a slender slice of the apple tart. I slid it over to her, hoping she would accept the gesture of apology. Margaret stared down at the tart for a moment.
“A civilized person would eat this with a fork,” she said before raising it to her lips and taking a tiny bite. I watched her expression out of the corner of my eye as she chewed. Nothing.
I gathered up my courage. “Margaret, I wanted to ask if I could get a telephone line put into the cabin. I don’t have any cell reception up here.” Not that I was burning to have access to my cell phone. But it would be nice if Hannah could call me at the sugarhouse.
“You can use the telephone here at the inn.”
“But what if there were a family of bears keeping me trapped in the cabin? I couldn’t call for help.”
Margaret broke an edge of crust off the tart. “Why would a family of bears trap you in your cabin?”
“For dinner?”
“Black bears are mostly vegetarian.”
Just my luck. Hippie bears.
“Well—let’s see how you do during your trial. I don’t want to pay out the expense until I know for sure that you’re the right person for the job.” Margaret pushed the tart aside and folded her arms in front of her. “There is one matter I would like to discuss. There’s a fund-raiser during the Harvest Festival to raise money for the public library. It’s a bake sale.”
“Seriously?” I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from saying anything snarkier. The last fund-raiser I had baked for had been a five-hundred-dollar-a-plate black-tie gala.
“This year it’s cookies. They did cupcakes last year. Every year it’s different.” Margaret wiped her hands with a dish towel. “The best bakers in the county donate several dozen cookies. It would be a chance for the people in the town to try something you’ve made. And it’s for a good cause.” Without another word she hopped off the stool and walked toward her office. “I’d rather you not wear that jacket in the parlor. It’s a tad ratty.”
I looked down. Most of the last batch of raspberry coulis had ended up on my chest instead of in the squeeze bottle I was trying to pour it into. I only had one jacket. Normally, kitchens supplied coats for the chefs and sent them out to be laundered. I popped the coat open with a flick of my wrist, tossed it onto the counter, and tied the gingham apron with the dancing sheep around my waist.
“I’d be happy to make something,” I called, my face bathing in the steam of boiling port.
“All right, then,” she said, and slipped back into her office.
• • •
“You’re not going to buy that,” Hannah said the following Saturday morning as she unfolded a lace-trimmed tablecloth and spread it across a table in the church hall thrift shop.
“Why not?” I gave the multicolored afghan I was holding a little squeeze.
“It’s awful.”
“You mean awfully beautiful, right?” I wrapped it around my shoulders like a cape. The scent of mothballs filled the air. “Besides, someone’s granny crocheted her poor arthritic fingers down to the bone making this thing. I can’t let it fester in the basement of a church hall for the rest of its life.”
“Well, if you’re going for that seventies-rec-room look.”
“Hann, I live in a one-room shack made for boiling tree sap.”
“You live in a sugarhouse, not a shack. And besides, it’s your home. We want it to look inviting.”
Hannah was a ruthless bargain shopper with an amazing eye. Even though Jonathan’s salary would have allowed her to furnish her whole house from the antiques shops on Newbury Street, she loved the hunt. We had spent part of every one of my visits to Vermont scouring yard sales and thrift stores, then heading to the Miss Guthrie diner to eat tall stacks of blueberry pancakes while Hannah gave me the dirt on everyone we’d run into that morning. It was our ritual.
With her help, the sugarhouse had already begun to look more cheerful. We had replaced the old workbench with a sparkling turquoise Formica table, complete with two matching chairs, only slightly ripped and discreetly mended with clear packing tape. The previous week Walt, the elderly man who ran the recycling center at the town dump with the strictness of a nun at an all-girls Catholic school, had called me at the inn to tell me one of the summer people had dropped off a perfectly good couch. I didn’t need to ask how he knew I was looking for one. Hannah had even managed to get Walt to make his grandsons deliver it for free. It was a puffy, overstuffed sofa covered in spotless canvas, like something you would see in a catalog. We positioned the couch against the wall near the front door, facing the woodstove and the kitchen. Two upturned wooden crates that served as end tables held lamps of bottle green glass with cream linen shades. I loved to sit on that couch in the afternoon, reading and looking out the windows into the sugar bush, stark except for the carpet of fallen cardinal red leaves.
“What do you think about this, Livvy?” Hannah called from across the room. She was standing beside a hand-carved coffee table.
“It looks heavy.”
“I saw one of the butcher’s sons over by the paperbacks. I’m sure he would be willing to carry it to the car.”
“Do you really think I should be investing in any more furniture, Hann? Alfred told me about the inn being for sale.”
Hannah flapped open a hand-stitched quilt. The squares were ripping apart at the seams. “Really, don’t people know they have to use a front-loading washer to clean these?” She tutted and left the quilt in a heap on the table.
“Did you know about it?”
“She’s been talking about selling for years.”
“Alfred made it sound like it was more than just talk.”
Hannah looked over both shoulders. “As far as I know, the only offer she’s ever had was from the Bradford family,” she said in a fast whisper, “and she would never sell to them.”
“Why does that name sound familiar?”
Hannah gathered up the cotton curtains she had found. “Remember what I said the other night, about Margaret’s recipes? Jane White? She used to be Jane Bradford.”
So Margaret had an arch enemy. Somehow I wasn’t surprised. But that didn’t explain why the name Bradford rang a bell.
• • •
Salty brushed by my shins as we unloaded all of our treasures from Hannah’s Volvo. Along with the afghan, which I promptly spread over the back of the sofa just to make Hannah’s nose twitch, I had found two pillows, embroidered with the faces of hunting dogs (obviously a labor of love by some farmer’s wife). Hannah had picked up white cotton curtains with scalloped edges and all the hardware, but our biggest score of the day had been two screens made of rice paper, which we used to hide the bathtub that sat in the middle of the cabin, right behind the woodstove.
“This looks much better,” Hannah said, nodding in approval. She had been obsessing over the exposed bathtub. I’ve never been able to get her to skinny-dip. And don’t ask about the time I brought her to the hot-tub place in college. She wouldn’t speak to me for a month.
“Hmmm,” I agreed as I fed one of the metal rods into a curtain. “It’s starting to look like I live here.” This was the most furniture I had ever owned. It made me feel a little itchy knowing I couldn’t move in one trip.
“You do live here,” Hannah agreed as she straightened the last curtain. “In fact, I know you are officially part of the town, because when I was at the pharmacy I heard two members of the Friends of the Guthrie Library talking about you.”
“Was it about Jeff Rutland?” I began to crumple up newspaper and stuff it into the mouth of the woodstove.
“Jeff Rutland from Lyndonville?” Hannah stepped down from the stepladder, hands on her hips, surveying her work.
“Never mind.”
“Why would they be talking about—Livvy, you haven’t . . .”
“Jesus, Hannah! No. I’ve never met the guy. Tom the dairy farmer said something about him to me my first day.”
“It’s just that—Liv, you can’t just, you know . . .” Hannah picked up her purse and rooted around inside. As if she didn’t know exactly what side pocket she kept her lip balm in.
“Sleep around? Become the town home wrecker?” I went back to the woodstove, layered in kindling, and threw in a lit match.
“Listen, my first month in Guthrie I had a third glass of wine at book group. They were small glasses. It’s been ten years, and every single time someone mentions book club one of the women will say, ‘We better get more wine if Hannah is coming.’”
“You do love your Chardonnay.”
“And you love your trysts. Just be discreet, okay? You’ll like it here more if you don’t ruffle a bunch of feathers.”
“I’ll try,” I mumbled as I jabbed a too-big log into the stove, but I had serious doubts about my ability to please anyone.
Hannah opened her mouth to say something, then closed it. “Anyway, the two ladies from Friends of the Guthrie Library were talking about the bake sale. They were wondering what you were going to make.”
I watched as the log sparked and started to burn. “I was thinking macaroons.”
“The ones that were featured in Cookie Connoisseur?”
“Yup,” I said, closing the door to the woodstove.
“Perfect.” Hannah grabbed her coat and draped it over her arm. “You’ll be the talk of the town,” she said as she leaned over and kissed my cheek. “In a good way.”
• • •
I grabbed my banjo by the neck and headed out onto the porch, wanting to take advantage of the precious few hours of afternoon light. I sat down on the rocking chair, leaned back and propped my feet up on the porch railing, and, with the banjo balanced between my knees, twisted the pearly pegs until the strings began to talk to one another. My banjo leans toward the lazy, letting its strings wander and go slack at their own will. And on a humid day, well, forget it; it sounds like Salty howling after I have tethered him to a parking meter. But this afternoon was dry and warm and made for playing. I started with “Cluck Old Hen,” and then came “My Pretty Crowing Chicken,” old-time standards that keep your feet tapping. Before I knew it I had frailed a full hour of tunes named after poultry.
“The Cuckoo” required me to adjust the strings to a minor tuning. These modal tunes are my true love. Play me something in double C and I feel like someone has cracked me open. It’s like those odd little notes are the voice of some truth I can’t name. I let my mind wander as I played. The sun, now waning, still warmed my cheeks.
Hannah was right about one thing. It was peaceful here. I couldn’t remember the last time I had spent a lazy afternoon playing. In Boston, when I wasn’t at work, there always seemed to be something to do—laundry to schlep to the cleaners, checks to be deposited, Jamie to bed. My heart stilled. I guessed I should have told him I was leaving, even if our relationship wasn’t exactly based on what people call feelings. Now that I was no longer distracted by the thrill of meeting him in bedroom 8, when I thought of him, I also couldn’t help but think of his wife. Not talking to him seemed like the best thing for everyone.
I focused on my fingers. Without my meaning them to, my hands had settled into the tune that I had heard in the woods with Salty. It was the saddest melody I had ever heard—a last waltz of unwelcome goodbyes and a desire I couldn’t name. I played it over and over, a little surer of the notes with each round. I was lost in the rhythm, how it held both longing and joy.
“You can’t play that.”
My feet slipped off the railing and I was flung forward, the banjo losing its place between my knees and landing on the porch floor with a loud twang. I picked it up and whirled around. Martin McCracken was standing at the bottom of my porch steps, fists clenched.
“I didn’t hear you walk up.”
Martin crossed his arms against his chest. “You can’t play it.”
“I thought I was doing pretty well.”
“It’s not yours.”
I could feel my eyebrows involuntarily pinching together. “Well, ‘Whiskey Before Breakfast’ isn’t mine either, but I play it.” I leaned my banjo against the wall of the cabin and stood up.
Martin paced in front of the porch, his eyes to the ground. “Where did you hear it, anyway?” I could barely hear his mumble over the crunch of his boots on leaves.
“I don’t know,” I lied. “I must have heard someone play it in a jam.” I walked to the edge of the porch, looking down at him.
“That’s impossible,” he said under his breath. “You shouldn’t go around just picking up people’s tunes.”
I threw my arms up in the air. “That’s how music has been passed down for centuries!”
Martin turned his back to me. I heard him let out a puff of air.
“I know that, but—”
“What are you doing here, anyway?” I had been having a perfectly peaceful afternoon. Now I felt like I was back in Boston, being lectured by one of my neighbors on the proper placement of the recycling bins on trash day.
Martin’s back straightened. “Is this your dog?” He pointed down at Salty, who was sitting politely next to him. Salty panted and gave his tail a thump. Traitor.
“Hi, Salty,” I said. I hadn’t noticed that he wasn’t on the porch while I played. “He is. What are you doing with him?”
“Me?” Martin turned away from me again. He walked a couple of paces, then turned back. “I came home today to find your dog and one of the goats lying on my mother’s sofa.”
“Were they asleep?”
Martin gaped at me. “Uh, no.” He put his hands in his pockets.
“What were they doing?” I had no problem picturing Salty lying on someone’s sofa. I just thought he would be too excited to sleep next to a goat.
“Apparently they were watching TV,” Martin said in a tight voice.
“What were they watching?” I asked.
“Duck Soup.”
“God, I love that movie,” I said, laughing.
“Me too.” Martin sat down on the bottom step and leaned his head against the railing. I tucked my skirt around my knees and sat on the top step. “My mother was in the La-Z-Boy, snoring away, with Mabel and your dog on the sectional. I managed to get them both out without waking her.”
I pressed my lips together, picturing Martin whispering and gesturing wildly. “Well, I’m sorry if Salty had anything to do with liberating your goat. The vet said he has separation anxiety. He’s pretty good with doorknobs and latches.”
Martin reached down and stroked Salty’s head behind his ears. Salty let out a low groan and rolled onto his back. Martin laughed and rubbed Salty’s belly.
“Well,” he said to the ground, and then stood. He glanced up at me, his mouth open as if to speak, then turned and began walking into the sugar bush behind the cabin.
Salty stood and watched him as he disappeared into the trees, then padded up the steps, brushing past me, and into the cabin, no doubt ready for his supper.