Page 33 of The Golden Spoon
Stella flips through the notecards, her eyes moving along each line of handwriting. With each one, the furrow in her brow grows deeper, until she turns her face to me, her eyes wide with confusion.
She pulls one up close to her face, inspecting it. It is written in my mother’s tilted script:Agnes’s Almond Angel Food Cake. “Wait!” Stella says. “This is exactly the same as Betsy’s angel food cake recipe.” What does Stella mean, it’s Betsy’s? “This pound cake is verbatim from her first cookbook,Betsy Martin’s Seasonal Baking,” Stella says, her voicestrained with confusion. “Andthis, this is from the second season ofIn the Kitchen with Betsy Martin.” She shows me another recipe for a savory tart of leeks, herbs, and cream cheese. “Lottie, I don’t understand.” She flips through them again, growing agitated. “These aren’t your mother’s, they’re Betsy’s.”
My chest goes tight. How had I never figured it out all these years? I’d even paged through one or two of her cookbooks at the bookstore. I’d watched her on television from time to time, but I had never put two and two together. Truthfully, I’d always resented her success in an area she’d seemingly had no natural affinity for as a child, something my mother and I loved doing together. I’d never understood what gave her the motivation to become a professional baker. All this time, I was living in the dark. I’d never realized Betsy was using my mother’s recipes because I didn’t remember the exact bakes to compare them to. I didn’t have her recipe box.
I suck in a breath as I remember Molly and me watching one of Betsy’s shows. “Do you think Betsy learned to bake from your mom?” Molly had asked. At the time I’d shaken the idea off. Baking is a common pastime. My mother may have inspired Betsy, but there was no other connection. With how separate the help was kept from the Graftons, I couldn’t see how my mother would have given Betsy anything more than a vague, subconscious introduction to baking.
But now I go cold with recognition. “Betsy stole her recipes.”
“Betsy wouldn’t do something like that,” Stella says forcefully, snapping the lid of the box shut.
“I should probably pack,” I say, standing up suddenly.
“But what about the recipes? Lottie, there must be some kind of mistake.” I can see what made Stella a good reporter. Her curiosity is so strong. She seems to have an insatiable need to figure things out, to cut to the truth. I can’t have her getting involved now. There’s too much at stake for her. Besides, I’ve already dragged one person into this mess; it wouldn’t be fair to bring another down with me.
“Please don’t worry, Stella,” I say, opening the door for her to leave. She stands up, and I feel I’ve betrayed her. As she walks past me out into the hall, her shoulders hunched, I am struck again by how fragile she seems, how vulnerable. There are so many people in this world in desperate need of a mother.
HANNAH
As soon as judging was over, I rushed back to my room and changed into a workout set and sneakers and went outside for a run. Or at least that’s what I’ve told myself I’m doing.
The sky is a dirty gray. A layer of threatening clouds moves quickly across the horizon as I run along the side of the highway toward town. I’m full of extra energy, whether it is from excitement or nerves, I can’t really tell, but after being in the tent all day it feels good to fill my lungs and pump my arms even if the air is thick and sticky. I am happy to be taking action. I try to push away the memory of Archie’s face as he bit into my cake. That heartbreaking look of disappointment, his eyes avoiding mine as he set down his fork. Instead, I plan what I’ll wear tonight when I see him. A sweet floral skirt, or something sexier perhaps. I think of the little black dress I brought on the off chance it could come in handy and am grateful again that I overpacked.
My run brings me to the edge of the town I’d seen driving in. “Town” might not even be the right word for it. This isn’t the real town, the one the crew stays in each night, which is forty miles farther down the road. This place is barely a village, consisting of a small cluster of shops hugging the county highway. I slow to a walk, catching my breath as I go past an old gas station, a stubby strip mall with a yarn store, a loancenter, and a Goodwill. I finally reach the diner. It is set back from the road with a parking lot. It looks empty, and dark. But most important, what I’m looking for is there, just like I remembered. I exhale, relieved. There is the phone booth. I look back over my shoulder at the empty road before I approach it. It is painted blue, a row of perforations on the side outline the shape of an old-fashioned telephone receiver. The sides of the booth are bubbled with rust. The door has been ripped off so that only two jagged hinges remain intact. I step inside, careful not to press up against any of the dirty surfaces, and dig a coin out of the tiny pocket on my yoga pants, the one meant for keys that I’ve jammed full of all the quarters I could find in my purse. A cord holding the tattered remnants of an old phone book dangles from the bottom of the metal telephone box. I pick up the receiver, and there is a loud buzzing in my ear. I don’t know what that means. I’ve never used a pay phone before, much less a landline. I pray the sound is normal, that it means the phone is working. I push a quarter into the slot, listening to it drop down into the mechanism. I look around again to make sure there’s no one watching. The parking lot is empty except for an abandoned shopping cart. I pull the heavy receiver to my ear. My fingers shake as I press Ben’s phone number into the metal box. There are several rings, which make my heart leap, and then his voice floods into my ear, familiar as my own.
“Hello?”
“It’s me. I’m calling from a pay phone,” I reply, keeping my voice low.
“Hannah? Hi! Are you okay? How was your bake today?”
For a moment I want to tell him about the cake, about how the buttercream wasn’t flavored quite right and how the cakes stuck in their molds. He knows more than anyone that I struggle with my buttercreams. Ben has eaten so many of my less than perfect bakes without complaining. But I shake it off, reminding myself of what I have to do. I swallow and get on with it, cupping the end of the receiver toward my mouth.
“Ben, I’ve met someone else.”
There’s a pause on the line, and for a second, I think I’ve lost the connection. I picture him sitting at our tiny white Ikea table drinking coffee from his favorite mug with the otter on it, the blinds twisted open to show a view of the parking lot next to our building.
“Hello? Ben.”
“I’m here,” he says. “I’m just trying to understand you. When you say ‘met someone else…’?”
“I’m sorry.” I try to fight back the stinging that has sprung up in my eyes. “I thought it wasn’t fair to keep it from you.”
“Wow, Hannah.” There is a muffled exhalation followed by a heavy silence on the end of the line. Finally, he speaks again. “That was really fast. Is it another contestant?”
I don’t say anything. I look out at the restaurant. A battered pickup truck has parked next to the side door without me noticing, and the diner lights have popped on. I slump down along the side of the phone booth, pushing my back up against the glass.
“I’m sorry, Ben. I love you so much, you know I do. It’s just… things just haven’t been good with us for a long time.” Is that true? I feel like a fraud even as I say it. Things maybe haven’t been good, but have they been bad? I push forward.
“I’ll move my things out just as soon as I’m back.” I think about how I’ll be leaving for New York after this probably, or LA. Archie spends a lot of time there too, he says. He told me I’d love LA, that I’d fit right in there.
“Are you sure this is what you want?” he asks me. He isn’t crying like I thought he’d be.
He doesn’t even seem too sad. His voice seems… concerned.
I try to be confident, but my voice wavers. “It’s… it’s for the best.”
“I’m worried about you up there, Hannah. I don’t want someone taking advantage of you.”
