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

before.” I dampened a dish towel and wiped down the table.
    â€œHave you ever been to a contra dance?”
    I laughed. “I took my first steps on a contra-dance floor.”
    Tom raised his eyebrows. “Really?”
    I leaned my elbows on the table. “My dad was a frailer too. He played in a dance band when I was a kid.”
    The door to the dining room swung open, and Margaret marched in. I straightened. “I’m surprised you don’t have more deliveries this morning, Tom,” Margaret said as she walked past us and into her office. “I can see by the crumbs in your beard that you haven’t given up the pastries despite what Dr. Doyle told you.”
    Tom ran his fingers through his beard. “Darn wife tellseverybody everything,” he mumbled under his breath. “Well,” he said, slapping his hand against the counter, “rehearsal’s at eight tomorrow night in my barn. I’ll see you then.”
    â€œBut I—”
    â€œBye, Margaret!” Tom called over his shoulder. “I’ll be sure to tell Marcie you say hello!”
    I took out a fresh eleven-pound block of chocolate and a cleaver. Play with a dance band? I had to admit, it sounded like fun. I had complained endlessly when my dad dragged me off to folk festivals in the summers growing up, wanting to spend my afternoons with my girlfriends in the air-conditioned paradise of the mall. But I secretly loved the dancing. The sweaty scent of the grange hall on a hot summer night. The flashes of color when the women twirled in their full skirts. And the music! Tunes with silly names like “Kitten on a Black Dog’s Tail” and rhythms so uplifting that you couldn’t help but get up and join in. The best part was always the last waltz, when we paired off with whomever we had been crushing on to sway together for those few moments before the hall lights went up and we all went giggling into the darkness of the night.
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    The Carrigan place was on the outskirts of Guthrie, where farmland stretched far on both sides of the road. I turned into the driveway, tires crunching on gravel, past a peeling white farmhouse and down a long hill toward the cattle barn, a yellow rectangle of light marking the open door. I pulled my station wagon in between two pickup trucks. Salty leaped out over my lap and sauntered straight into the barn. I stood up and stretched, taking in the wide expanse of stars in the moonless sky. I grabbed my banjo from the backseat and headed into the light.
    â€œHey.” Three men sat in a circle on folding chairs. Tom stoodup from behind a small upright piano and slapped me on the back. He was wearing a pressed shirt tucked neatly into his jeans. Even in his barn Tom looked like he was on his way to church.
    â€œGlad you could make it, Livvy. Come meet the band.” The men looked up shyly. “This here is Arthur on bass.” I recognized him as the Beagles’ bass player as well. He grinned and took a long swig from a green bottle. “That’s Gene on rhythm guitar.” He was older than Tom, at least sixty, slender with wavy silver hair and pink cheeks. “And on fiddle we have Martin McCracken.” Martin looked up at me and nodded. Salty, who had chosen to lie down on a patch of hay beside Martin, rolled over onto his back. Martin stretched down and scratched his stomach.
    â€œWe’ve met.” Though I’d suspected it was Martin who’d told Tom I played, it hadn’t occurred to me that he might be in the band. He didn’t seem like the joining type. Tom opened another folding chair and placed it next to Salty.
    The cows radiated heat, and the barn was cozy despite the open door. I unzipped my fleece and settled in as Tom handed me a beer without asking. I took a long swig while Martin raised his fiddle and drew out a long G for me to tune to. I folded over, my ear to the drum, twisting the