Page 15 of The Golden Spoon
“Do you think there’s a way up inside the East Wing?”
“I suppose there could be an entrance there. Impossible to say, really.” He looks like he is losing interest. His eyes are glassy and tired. Mentally he is already packing his bags, planning his route home.
In the fireplace the last flame snuffs out, leaving just a few glowing embers. The clock above the mantel says it’s just after midnight. The others have all gone to bed, each of them nervous about the competitiontomorrow. Funny, I feel no anxiety about it at all. I rarely do. Sometimes I wonder if that should worry me, if I have some sort of deficiency.
“Ughhh,” Peter groans. “I better get to bed. Long drive in the morning.” He pulls himself up off the sofa. Though I know it is probably expected of me, I make no move to follow.
“You go ahead, I’ll be up soon. I’m a bit of an insomniac.”
Still, I suppose bed is in the cards for me. I pour just a pinky finger of scotch into my empty wineglass—Betsy Martin really does know how to stock a liquor cabinet—and retreat down the hall toward my room. I may not be a longtime fan ofBake Week(even if I do truly enjoy the satisfaction of a well-constructed bake), but this whole experience—temporary lodging in a manor, TV appearances, interacting with a group of strangers—it’s too novel to ignore all the trappings for the sake of competition. This is the fun part. Winning would be lovely, but my imperative is to appreciate this experience while I’ve got it.
I walk slowly, admiring the art on the walls as I sip. Most of it is not my thing, honestly. If I’m going to go mainstream, I prefer edgier work—your Cindy Shermans and Anselm Kiefers. This feels very colonial—lots of sheep in meadows with mansions in the distance, women in unflattering dresses staring pensively out of the canvas.
One painting gives me pause. A smallish canvas painted in rich, dark hues with visible brushstrokes that show the confidence of the painter. At first it doesn’t seem like much subject-wise—it’s just a portrait of a woman. She sits in a high-backed chair, her fingers long and bony, clutching tensely at the arms. It is her face that is most intriguing. The mouth, heart-shaped and delicate, is at rest, but the eyes are hard and intense, the chin tilted as though in challenge to the artist, almost as if there is cold fury lurking beneath them. Stranger still, I realize, that I find this woman somehow familiar.
I will have to ask the others what they think tomorrow. I carry onto my room, past the vacant stare of the suits of armor and up the main staircase to where the stairs split off in two directions. To the left, the door to Betsy Martin’s East Wing quarters beckons me with its twisted brass door handles. I take the steps up toward them, tempted. With a sigh, I turn back to the landing, carrying on to the guest wing. I’m just about to open the door to my room, when I see a figure crossing the hall ahead. The person is wearing a long robe and moves from left to right and back again, zigzagging their way down the hallway. I wonder at first if they are drunk. But their movements are purposeful, not sloppy. Their hands reach out, skimming the wall, then turning and doing the same on the other side.
I move up behind them, ducking into a doorway to better observe. Now that I’m closer I can see the puff of gray hair. I thought Lottie went up to bed hours ago. I wonder for a moment if she is sleepwalking. But she turns her head, glancing down the hallway as if afraid of being caught. I press myself farther back inside the doorframe. She turns back and walks away from me silently down the hallway. Occasionally she stops to just put her hand against a wall and leave it there. I continue to watch her move down the hallway, trailing her fingers on the wall.What on earth is she doing?I think of what Peter said about the missing stairwell. Could she have overheard us? I’m tempted to step out into the hall and say something, but I don’t want to startle her. Plus, I have a pleasant buzzing in my head, and I know that sleep, for once, will come easy. I’ll leave it until the morning. I turn back to my room and tip back my glass, letting the rest of the beautiful scotch dissolve around my tongue.
Day TwoPIE
BETSY
Despite the early hour, the air is already hot and sticky as Betsy walks toward the tent. She feels agitated, uncomfortable and itchy in her skirt with its matching blazer. Betsy looks to the side of the tent where Melanie is doing some last-minute adjustments with the crew. It’s going to be a miserable day for baking. Nothing rises or chills correctly in this kind of weather. There will be some difficulties today, she can count on it. Surely the network will love the drama, but that’s not what is bothering her. What’s really on her mind is the text message she received this morning from Francis.
I’m driving up tomorrow. We have things to discuss. What time can you meet?Francis, her longtime agent and biggest advocate, is a creature of Manhattan. He loathes the countryside, hates driving. He wouldn’t come all the way up to Grafton unless it was extremely important. She’d tried to lure more out of him, but he’d demurred.It’s better we talk in person. Away from you-know-who.It is that last part that makes her nervous. Away from Archie?
She glances over at her new cohost. He’s standing at the ready looking fresh and sharp in a slim-fitting button-up shirt, that interminable smile already plastered across his face. She hates to give him any credit, but he’s adapted remarkably well to the way things are donehere. There’s not even a hint of the brutish judge he played onThe Cutting Board, which makes her believe that Archie is just as good of an actor as he is a baker. The contestants seem to genuinely love him, and he defers to her often, which she appreciates even if doesn’t feel quite genuine. His presence in the tent has taken some of the pressure off her, she must grudgingly admit, and she does feel lighter not having to radiate the full wattage of energy that the show requires. Whatever ego issues they had at first seem to have evaporated. If it weren’t for Francis’s cryptic text this morning, she might even feel almostgoodabout how everything was going.
Betsy looks out at the five remaining contestants. They’ve done well this year finding people with different strengths and vastly different personalities. It should come across well on film. Hannah, doe-eyed and youthful, wearing a dress that is not entirely appropriate for a baking show, is the perfect contrast to Stella’s wide-leg jeans and striped mariniere. Pradyumna with his lazy good looks and joke always at the ready, a foil to neurotic and buttoned-up Gerald. And Lottie, well, there always has to be a Lottie. To keep the field balanced, they always cast a senior for the others to look up to. She won’t win, of course. They never do. Betsy sees Archie bouncing on his toes, making silly faces at the delighted bakers, and feels a tug of irritation. Her advancing age is a sore spot for her, and Archie’s arrival has only made it more sensitive. Has she become too complacent, lost her edge? Before she has time to consider more deeply, Melanie waves, signaling that it’s time to take their places for filming. She always has to be in charge. After what she heard yesterday in the kitchen, Betsy wonders if she has given Melanie too many opportunities, too much power inhertent. She should never have allowed Melanie to choose the bakers. That was Betsy’s job, and it should have stayed that way. Now she wonders whether Melanie’s obsequiousness was just an act.
Her transformation to shrewd businesswoman seems too quick to have not been calculated. What was her plan, to get Betsy to depend on her until she had the power to throw her under the bus? Betsy willhave to find a way to cut her down to size. She takes a cue from her dear departed mother and vows to keep a better eye on her staff. But not this very moment. Right now, Betsy’s task is to be as lovable and magnanimous for the cameras as humanly possible. She smooths her skirt, adjusting the string of pearls around her neck, and gets ready to shine.
“Good morning, bakers. Welcome back to the tent for day two ofBake Week. I hope all of you are well rested and ready to go for today’s baking challenge.”
Archie Morris bares his platinum smile. “Today you will be making us a summer meal in the form of…” He pauses, looking around the tent with his eyebrows raised theatrically. The contestants visibly tense as they wait for the final word, and she feels her own chest tighten as well. “Pies! One sweet and one savory. Your pies can be any shape, but as usual they must have at least one decorative element. We want these to reflect your own signature style, so do everything you can, in the time you have, to make them as unique and as wonderful as you are.”
For God’s sake, she thinks, watching him stand there and turn it on for the camera. It’s obscene. She tries to shake it off. She must. She can’t let his bluster rattle her. He’d love that too much. This is her show, no matter what Francis is coming to tell her. She’s been baking since before Archie was born, and she’s beloved for it. She’s not going to let a buffoon like him stand in her way. No, Archie isn’t the only one who is good at getting what he wants.
STELLA
I find I’ve been holding my breath, afraid I’ll miss some important piece of information. I exhale heavily now as my mind whirs through the possibilities, pictures of different kinds of pies flashing before my eyes like the images on a slot machine.
I rush to my designated lilac colored refrigerator and look over the fresh produce stacked on the shelf. I could do cherry. Is a cherry pie too obvious, though? I wonder about giving it a layer of cheesecake. I discard the idea. I remember trying to bake one in my apartment last summer, and it was a nightmare. There’s no way I could get it to set properly. I see a carton stacked with fresh peaches and take them out instead. I’ll make it more interesting with a subtle note of fresh thyme. For the savory pie, my mind immediately sees a quiche. I’ll make it with goat cheese and figs, like Zineb did in season five, but I’ll mix up some za’atar spice and top it with a drizzle of spicy honey to finish.
I can’t believe that I’m here another day in theBake Weektent with Betsy Martin. Every time she walks past me, I want to reach out and hug her, to tell her how much she’s meant to me. Before I arrived here, I always liked to imagine that we were actual friends. Now I play out a short fantasy in which Betsy invites me into the East Wing to have a drink and congratulate me on winningBake Week. “What will you callyour cookbook?” I imagine her asking as we clink champagne glasses. “Whatever you want to do next in your career, Stella, I am here to support you, to help you achieve those dreams.” I shake myself out of it.Focus, focus.I need to make these pies if I want to get anywhere with Betsy.
It’s hard though when there are so many distractions everywhere. For example, the camera operator who is currently filming Gerald. I wonder what his story is. I noticed him yesterday. He is distractingly handsome, broad-shouldered and kind of rugged in his flannel shirt. He most definitely plays music in his free time. Drums. He looks exactly like the kind of guy I would have dated a few years ago. Back when I was dating. He pulls his head up from the camera and glances my way. His eyes rest on me for a beat, and a small thrill shoots through me.He’s not flirting with you, Stella, he’s doing his job.I have got to pull myself together.
I grab some ice from the freezer and bring it back to my station, where I mix up flour, salt, and a pinch of sugar and begin combining it with cold butter. There are many ways to make a pie crust, and every baker will tell you that theirs is the best.Ifthey tell you. I’m not someone who has been baking long enough to have that kind of possessiveness of recipes. I just use one that I found online and adapted ever so slightly. I make enough for two pies, mixing the dry ingredients with the butter using a pastry cutter. I work the mixture until there’s no dry flour left in the bowl. To that I add ice water a tablespoon at a time until I can pinch off the dough in sticky pieces. I run the dough back to the fridge to chill. I slice my peaches, adding them to a pan on the stovetop with sugar, cinnamon, and a squeeze of lemon juice. I turn it on to low heat, simmering to make my filling. Then I sprinkle flour across my table and roll the cooled dough out into sheets, returning it to my refrigerator.
With the hard part done, I glance around at the others. I know that nothing good will come from comparing myself to them, but it is impossible not to when you are in this tent. Some evil part of you ispraying that anyone other than you will have a disaster that will make sure you stay in the running. But looking around at the other four, I see nothing but irritating perfection. Pradyumna is shaking toasted spices over his crust, then working them into the dough with a rolling pin. Hannah is creating two different doughs for one pie, the first a rich chocolate brown flavored with cocoa powder and a tiny pinch of cayenne. Archie had said two different pies, not two different crusts. I’m pissed at myself that I didn’t come up with something more interesting. When they said to be creative, I was focusing on all the other components, but a few hours from now Betsy might be saying my crusts are too basic. I think back to an episode from season three when a sweet postal worker named Dave made a batch of tiny cookies flavored only with butter. They were plain to look at, undecorated aside from a sprinkling of coarse sugar, but the flavors were so divine that Betsy went back in for a second. It’s part ofBake Weeklore that if Betsy Martin goes back in for a second taste of something, it means you’ve created something truly transcendent.
I would kill to have Betsy take a second bite of something I made. I go to the fridge and remove my crusts, carefully unfolding them on top of a pair of pie dishes. They feel drier than I’d like them to be. As I push the first one down, pressing it into the sides of the pan, Betsy descends on my baking table. The lenses hover above her shoulders. I swallow, trying to fight the tightness that has suddenly gripped my throat.
She watches me, a kindly smile frozen on her face. “What can you tell me about your pies today?”
I try to focus on talking to her, but I notice my crust has crumbled a bit around the edges. It’s a bad sign that its texture will be off. I see her take note of it, her mouth flinching downward. I find myself grasping for words. “My sweet pie is… peach.”
