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

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.
    â€œThe 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 nolonger 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.
    â€œYou 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.
    â€œI didn’t hear you walk up.”
    Martin crossed his arms against his chest. “You can’t play it.”
    â€œI thought I was doing pretty well.”
    â€œIt’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.
    â€œI 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.
    â€œThat’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.
    â€œI know that, but—”
    â€œWhat 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.
    â€œHi, Salty,” I said. I hadn’t noticed that he