The City Baker's Guide to Country Living by Louise Miller

around,” he mumbled over his shoulder.
    I watched him disappear into the parking lot.
    â€œWhat were you doing out here with Martin McCracken?” Hannah whispered.
    â€œNot getting accosted by some thick-necked giant seeking revenge. Did you see that guy in the bar? I thought he was going to burst a blood vessel. Apparently his wife, Bonnie, used to bake at the Sugar Maple.” I grabbed the metal railing and pulled myself up.
    â€œOh, yes, Bonnie. She’s a nice girl, not half as talented as you.” Hannah started walking ahead, digging into her purse for her keys.
    â€œHannah.”
    â€œThat was fun, wasn’t it?” Hannah busied herself with the lock on the car door.
    â€œWhy didn’t you tell me about the apple-pie contest?” I asked over the roof of the car. “Don’t try and fake it. You know everything that goes on in this town.”
    â€œLook, Margaret really needs your help. She keeps losing. Everyone in town is gossiping about it, saying she’s lost her touch.”
    â€œApparently she has.”
    â€œWell, she’s been through a lot, the past couple of years.”
    â€œIs that when her husband died?” I remembered how crazy my grandmother had gone when my grandfather passed away. Nana had set a place for him at the dinner table every night until the day she finally joined him.
    â€œYeah. It was really sad. They married late and didn’t have any kids, so now she’s all alone. And then these terrible rumors started spreading that he gave away all of her family baking secrets to Jane White before he died.” Hannah looked guilty for a second,like maybe she had had a part in the rumor spreading. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” She slammed the car door shut and turned on the ignition before I could ask any more questions.
    Â â€¢Â â€¢Â â€¢Â 
    The red taillights of Hannah’s Volvo were just out of sight when I realized I was still too tipsy to drive. I tossed my bag onto the bench seat. My cell phone slid out, its face lit, glowing angrily up at me. Seven missed calls. I slid into the car, leaned the seat back as far as it would go, and hit Play.
    Livvy, It’s Glen. Listen. The board met today, and they were thinking it might be a good idea if you take a break, just until the fiscal new year, when the executive committee has their new budget in place. Give me a call.
    Ms. Rawlings, It’s Joseph Harmon from Federal Student Loan Services. We haven’t received a payment from you in three months. It really is in your best interest to call us. Our number here is 1-800-
    Livvy, It’s Dee Dee. Listen, I hate to ask this, but that money you borrowed a couple of months ago? I really need it. Jake and I are getting married, and we need to scrape everything we have together. I feel weird asking, but . . . could you give me a call? I dropped by the Emerson but they said you were on a break?
    I pressed End.
    At least I was now sober enough to drive.

Chapter Three

November
    A lthough 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