Page 35 of The Golden Spoon
I run to the edge of the balcony and look down. The climb down would be too dangerous in the dark. I begin to panic. The saboteurs are getting away from me. I can barely make out the sleek figure of a woman walking toward the parking area, her hair twisted up in a shiny knot on top of her head. She turns to say something to the man, and her profile catches in the light of one of the windows. It’s Melanie. I lean out, pushing my face through a tangle of hanging vines. If I canjust see the other one, then I can bring their names to Betsy Martin. I can explain what has been happening atBake Weekso that it can be fixed and we can start the competition again, this time fairly.
I push myself out farther still, resting my hip on the edge of the parapet and stretching as far as I can to see. Rain spatters on the back of my head as I crane my neck. There he is. The outline of the man walking next to Melanie. They are moving away from me. Their dark silhouettes disappear around the corner. Only the smallest trace of a white plume of vapor hangs in the air behind him. I need to see the man’s face. I must intercept them on their way to the parking lot. I will have to bring them to the others, to explain what they’ve done. Betsy will make sure they are punished accordingly. The bricks below me shift as I try to pull myself back onto the balcony. I reach down to steady myself, but my hands find only vines that tear away as I try to hold on. The side of the parapet is crumbling below me, bricks sliding off into the dark, and before I can stop myself, I am tumbling down with them, falling over the edge.
STELLA
I am in my room with my ear pressed against the door, waiting for Hannah to make her move. I have been like this for hours now, a chair pulled up to the door, my notebook open on my lap. A low rumbling of thunder rattles Grafton. The rain has already started, a gentle pattering behind me on the window, growing heavier by the second. I’m feeling vulnerable.
That time in Lottie’s room rattled me. What did she mean, the recipes were her mother’s? They may have different names, but I know those recipes, have them imprinted in my memory from the past year of intensively studying Betsy Martin’s cookbooks. None of it adds up. I can feel my reporter brain kick into gear, itching to know more. But I don’t have the time to solve that mystery. Not yet. I have way too much else on my plate right now.
I’ve already started writing the piece, and I have a plan to get the story out there. As soon as I finish it, I’ll send it to Rebecca. She is my last friend atThe Republic, the only one I stayed in contact with when I left. She’ll help me publish it. She’ll have to with a headline like this one: “Beloved Celebrity Chef Caught Sleeping with Young Contestant.” It will be explosive. It will end Archie’s career. And I can’t stop myself from hoping it will revitalize mine. I try to put the thought outof my head.You quit, remember?Besides, my own fame is not why I am doing this. I am exposing Archie to stop the imbalance of power that has gone on far too long.
Finally, I hear the click of a door opening and closing and the swish and tap of shoes as someone passes by me. I wait several beats, then crack the door a tiny bit and peer out into the hallway. It is Hannah, as I’d hoped it would be. She is dressed up in a short black dress and tall, high-heeled boots that make the flash of pale leg between look small and childlike. I hope she isn’t going outside. I should stop this, I realize. I could go out there and call out to her before she does anything stupid, before she gets hurt. But I don’t want to stop it. I want my story.
I mentally prepare myself, taking a deep breath. The hall feels darker than usual as I step out after her, pressing myself up against the wall, waiting to leave just the right amount of time. She steps down onto the landing, and I pause at the doors, looking down at her. She stops, too, glancing up at the East Wing as though she is unsure for a moment. She wipes her palms along the sides of her dress, combs her fingers through her hair. I take my notebook out of my pocket and jot down a few rough notes.
When I look up again, Hannah is climbing the stairs. She is moving quickly, confidently toward the East Wing. At the threshold she pauses only for a second and then slips inside.Dammit! I can’t lose her now.I follow after her, rushing across the landing. My heartbeat roars in my ears like the inside of a seashell.
I wait in the doorway for her to move farther down the hall, my hand resting on the top of the handle, my finger pressed against the latch. Another roll of thunder rumbles through the manor. The air feels fizzy and electrical. An uneasy calm before the storm unleashes itself fully upon us. When she has moved far enough down the hallway, I push down on the latch and slip in behind her. I follow her from a distance, pressing myself into the shadowy edge of the hallway ready to dart into a doorway if needed but she doesn’t turn around. Hannah stops when she reaches his room. I watch her pullon the hem of her skirt again, arrange her bangs. Then, without even knocking, she opens the door and steps inside.
I start to follow Hannah, but realize if I want to catch them in the act, I’ll have to give them some time together first. I can’t imagine it will take Archie long to seduce her, given how far they’ve already gone. It’s not like she is the best conversationalist, not that witty repartee is what he is looking for. He’ll want to get on with it, I imagine. But I must be a bit more patient if I want real evidence. I tuck myself into the doorway across the hall, crouching in the dark with my notebook, and wait.
I can hear the murmur of conversation and wonder what they are doing now. Has he taken her clothes off already? I imagine Hannah lying there, vulnerable, as the figure of Archie Morris looms over the bed, his hands reaching for her.
With a sickening jolt I realize I am not actually picturing Hannah on the bed. I’m imagining myself, and it is not Archie looming over making unwanted advances, but Hardy Blaine who I had worked for atThe Republic. Like Archie, Hardy was much older and more senior than I was at the time. He was the man who had startedThe Republic, a celebrity around the office. A hero of mine. I was thrilled when he’d taken an interest in me, making up excuses to stop by my desk, asking my opinion of story ideas he’d been submitted for the website. I’d been flattered. After years feeling invisible, he’d noticed me. I relished it.
Two years into my time atThe Republic, I was invited on a work trip to Los Angeles to attend a fancy dinner where Hardy would accept an award. I got to sit at a table with him and a few others. I wore a velvet Halston gown, rented of course, and diamond earrings on loan from Rebecca. Only a few other reporters and editors came with. I was the only woman from our company on the trip and the youngest person there. I was so honored to have been invited. At the time I thought it was a sign that my life was about to change. That my career was takingoff in a new, prosperous direction. After the ceremony Hardy leaned across the table. “We’ll all have to get a drink back at the hotel to celebrate,” he’d said, and I had been thrilled that he saw me as someone he wanted to celebrate with, an equal. I felt confident and accomplished, optimistic for my future.
We’d gone back to the hotel bar at the Oriental. All our hard work had paid off, Hardy said as the group crowded around, ordering drinks. “Next time you’ll be the one accepting that award,” he’d said, nudging me as he ordered a Manhattan, getting me one as well without asking what I wanted. I didn’t want to appear ungrateful or difficult, so I drank up even though I hate whiskey. After the wine at dinner, the alcohol hit me hard. At first it made me feel euphoric and chatty. I remember talking and talking at the bar until somehow it was only the two of us. “Do you know how beautiful you are?” he’d asked. “Oh, I probably shouldn’t say that.” He’d held his hands up. I tried not to notice the wedding ring glinting on his finger. My head was spinning when we took the elevator up to his room. Once we were there, he turned to me, kissing me hard. His mouth tasted sour, repulsed me, but I thought that once he was done kissing me, I could just leave. I vaguely remember trying to go back to my room, weakly standing up to go, but I was suddenly so very, very tired.
“Just lie here until you sober up,” he was saying, leaning me back into the bed. My eyes were closing as he touched me. “I feel dizzy,” I remember saying. “Here, just lie down,” he replied, pulling me with him onto the bed. The blackness was coming on strong. I fought to stay awake. I felt the fear taking hold then, but it was the fear of embarrassing myself, of passing out and not being able to hold my liquor.
When I woke up, I was naked, a sheet around me. I rolled over in bed, clutching it to my chest, confused. My whole body throbbed with the beginning of a massive hangover. He was reading something on his phone, his glasses perched on the tip of his nose. Gray morning light lit the windows. He looked fine, refreshed even. He glanceddown at me, curled up in confusion and fear. “You really drank a lot, didn’t you? You might want to go clean up.”
It sickens me now how fast I’d done what he said. Humiliated, I’d dressed myself quickly, walking hunched around the foot of the bed and slinking into my clothing without looking at him. Then I’d gone back to my room. In the bathroom I rubbed underneath my eyes with a washcloth, trying to remove the mascara that had stuck there in a grayish patch.
My skin was yellow, and my hair was in knots. Several deep blue bruises, the size and shape of thumbprints, were forming on the top of my leg. I took a painfully hot shower trying to erase the hangover and the new kind of fear that had started to bloom in my chest.
We’d flown back to New York as though nothing had happened between us. In fact, he acted more detached and professional with me than he ever had before. Our exchanges became occasional and perfunctory. The more he ignored me, the more I started to wonder if it had even happened at all.
Now in Betsy Martin’s hallway, I gulp for breath. The fear is back, the way it always comes back, a hot panic that rises up in my chest, consuming me. Once again, my vision begins to tunnel, growing darker and darker until all I’m left with is just two blurry pinpricks of light. The blood roars in my ears. I am not here just because of Hannah. My chest sinks at the realization. I’m here for me. I want to help myself by saving her. I hear something in Archie’s room—murmurs, some of them pleading. If I could just expose him. I reach for the door, but I am losing consciousness. I press down on the handle, and the door falls open as the last bit of light in my irises snuffs out like a candle.
PRADYUMNA
It’s official. I’ve drunk all of the good wine. My glass and the last bottle of French red sit on the table in front of me. “This just won’t do at all,” I say to myself. I pull myself up from the couch by the fireplace, feeling the ground shift below me like the bow of a ship. I swivel myself toward the liquor cabinet. Sure, there is a good selection of scotch, a bottle or two of vodka, and some brandy—honestly, who drinks brandy? But I started out my evening with wine, and I intend to keep it going strong. There is no way that the library has the only stash of wine in the house. It isn’t even temperature controlled! No, there must be someplace else it’s stored, a basement or wine cellar somewhere. I wander out into the hallway, feeling my legs snap out in front of me. The sensation makes me giggle. I haven’t felt drunk like this in a while. I must have had more wine than I realized.Whoops!
When I reach the foyer, I am tempted to go upstairs and knock on Lottie’s door to make sure she’s okay. I could make her go on a little wine-seeking adventure with me. I start up the stairs, but then I remember that she’s leaving in the morning. It stops me in my tracks. It’s a real wallop to the gut losing Lottie like that, a real humdinger.
I spin angrily on the stairs, turning myself back around. I’ll have to go it alone from here on out. Like I usually do. No more sneakingaround trying to solve mysteries. Now my mission is simple: wine. A bolt of lightning flashes across the foyer windows, followed by a crack of thunder that rattles the house.
I step down into cool stone hallway that leads to the kitchen. If there were a wine cellar, this is the logical location. I pass the kitchen door, stopping in to poke around. I’ve been here before. There is often a pot of coffee left on in here during the day for the crew that I partake of. Now it is quiet, dark. Raindrops spatter against the two small windows on either side of the wide hearth. I open one of the cupboards. There is a neat stack of mixing bowls nesting on the lower shelf, and above it a row of pristine cake stands. I touch one, and my fingertips come back coated in dust. I open another cupboard and find it almost bare, just some sugar and a stack of unopened tea boxes. The kitchen probably hasn’t been used in years. I think of Lottie’s mother down here, doing so much hard work for the Grafton family. I run my fingers over the marks in the worktable. I try to imagine how someone like Richard Grafton could have an affair with the cook and still expect her to make his family’s daily meals. I wonder if Agnes could no longer bear it, if that’s why she went away. But that wouldn’t explain why she left Lottie. If only there were some sort of clue. I find myself opening the rest of the cupboards, searching for something, anything, that would help explain her disappearance.
There is nothing of any use, just some stacks of plates and cobwebbed cooking utensils. There is no note carved into the back of a cupboard door, no hastily written goodbye letter conveniently forgotten about for fifty years for me to uncover. I must resign myself to being useless. I have to let it go. Agnes, the Graftons, even Lottie—they have nothing to do with me. It’s best for me to just leave it all alone. I can chalk up this whole thing to experience. I’ll go back to my luxurious apartment, maybe take up horseback riding, take a long vacation to Bali. I leave the kitchen behind me and continue down the hall looking for a door that might lead me to the wine cellar. I come upon a glass door on the right. I press my face up to it and seethe edges of a wooden shelf containing cubbies filled with wine bottles, rows and rows of them. How wonderful. I feel my body relax in anticipation of uncorking a new bottle of something special. Maybe a white burgundy or something from one of the Macon villages. As I begin to pull the door open, a bloodcurdling scream echoes down the hallway.
HANNAH
I am packing. Frantically flinging my clothes into my suitcase, not even bothering to remove them from their hangers. As I shove armfuls of my makeup from the countertops straight into a bag, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. My hair is disheveled, my eyes irritated and pink. Without my false lashes, I look like a little kid. Inside I feel like a kid too. A stupid kid. All I can think when I look at myself now is:You idiot.
I’ve made a terrible mistake with Archie. I can see that now. I shudder as I replay the past hour in my head. I don’t know how I could have been so naive, so incredibly stupid to have believed anything he said to me. I don’t know which is worse, the humiliation or the disappointment. I’d been so excited to tell Archie about how I’d broken up with Ben, but he seemed distracted, almost irritated.
