Page 17 of The Golden Spoon
I ignore his insincerity. That sort of thing doesn’t bother me, but I do wish he’d go away. I am having trouble focusing on the orange essence, which is what I need to think about.
“This isn’t a good time for me,” I say, trying to be direct, but Archie seems to think I am telling a joke, because he laughs loudly. It’s rancid, I realize suddenly. But not rancid orange. Rancid something else? Orperhaps it is not rancid at all. No, it has been replaced by something altogether different. A camera swoops down in front of me, and I fight a very strong urge to shoo it away.
“What is this?” Archie picks up one of my icing bags, specially ordered from Belgium, moving it from its assigned spot. “Looks a bit like a torture device?”
I’m almost able to place the smell. If everyone would just be quiet for a moment, I could think. But Archie won’t stop talking, yammering on and on. I close my eyes against the onslaught, willing myself to focus on the task at hand.
“Cooking with his eyes closed, now that’s a new one.” Archie guffaws.
Panic rises in my chest. I place the smell with sudden clarity. The chemical fumes. My eyes flip open.
“It’s gasoline.”
I feel my voice getting high-pitched. The lights are hot on my face, and my bow tie is far too tight.
“Someone has replaced my orange essence with gasoline!” I choke out the words, trying desperately to make sense of the situation. Archie’s face is frozen with that half smirk. I know what he is thinking—kooky Gerald with his tinctures and measurements. I’ve known Archie’s type since I was a child, and I’ve invariably been teased and mocked by them.
“Gerald, Gerald, you’ve got to relax.” Archie’s hands are touching my shoulders, and I can no longer handle the presence of all the people and cameras crowded around me. I am blinded by the glare of camera lenses and lights.
“Stop, just stop, you’re ruining everything!” I shout, thrashing my arms out in front of me. “I could have killed someone!”
HANNAH
I put a look of concern on my face, even though I’m thrilled to see another contestant crack under pressure. I never liked Gerald, with his fancy suits and know-it-all answers to everything, even things no one had asked him. But I hadn’t expected him to snap like this, waving his arms around, pulling off his apron and flinging it to the ground, and then stomping off out of the tent. Of course, a cameraperson trailed him, recording the whole breakdown. I wonder if they’ll use the footage. I mean, they’ll have to. It’s too good. Gerald’s pie crusts are still sitting out on his table waiting for filling. No mystery who is going home today, I’d say.
I rearrange my expression, putting a small smile on my face as I calmly pull my pie crusts out of the refrigerator and try to appear sympathetic. I wore a blue floral button-up dress today. It’s sweet but also hints at something sexy, just below the surface, which is how I’d like Archie to think of me.
As soon as Betsy said the wordpies, I knew I’d be golden. I have endless amounts of practice baking pies at the diner that I could probably do it blindfolded. There are so many recipes I’ve created to choose from. I think back on my most successful creations and land on one particular pie that had people driving back through a snowstorm toPolly’s for second slices to take home. My chocolate strawberry chiffon pie was a hit not to be missed: a chocolate crust filled with a pink strawberry custard studded with bits of fresh strawberry. I will make it again and this time I’ll decorate it with sugared basil leaves and strawberry hearts. For my savory pie, I’m making a mixed mushroom filling with fresh herbs and taleggio, encased in a double crust that is studded with fresh rosemary and thyme. To decorate it, I’ve cut out of rolled dough an intricate forest scene and affixed it to the top crust with a wash of egg white. I put my savory into the oven to bake.
After Gerald’s outburst, Archie went to the corner of the tent, where he’s been having an intense conversation with one of the producers. I like to imagine that it must be such a relief for Archie to film with me after all the others. I am so much perkier, so much more fun. I glance at Archie as he heads over to Pradyumna’s table, catching his eye. He winks and smiles handsomely. I blush, looking down and thinking about last night. He’d snuck me up to the East Wing, through the main corridor, where we crouched down running from doorway to doorway, trying to stifle giggles, until we reached his suite. It was just like I’d imagined it would be—a golden chandelier in the center of the room, an iron grated fireplace, floor-to-ceiling windows hung with luxurious drapes, their shutters flung open onto a Juliet balcony. He’d sat in an armchair and watched me take it all in. “We don’t have anything like this in Eden Lake,” I’d said, immediately feeling silly. But he’d just looked at me kindly. “I grew up in a small town too, a village really,” he’d shared. “All of this fancy stuff was such a shock to me at first too. You’ll get used to it, though.”
I’d laughed. “I hope not.” I’d yawned and said I should go to bed before it got too late. I wanted to win, after all. He’d said I was being wise. I can’t stop myself from wondering what would happen had I stayed a little longer. Will I have another chance to be alone with him?
I steal a glance back at Stella. She’s clearly my only competition in the beauty department. Mom would say that her look is very “natural,” which is her not-so-subtle code word for slobby. She is pretty, though.Annoyingly so. I watch her crack an egg into her mixer. She’s wearing a striped long-sleeved T-shirt tucked into wide-legged pants. Not terrible, but certainly nothing memorable. Her thick strawberry blond hair—her best feature—is bunched in a messy topknot. If I had hair like that, I’d put some waves in it, let it stay down. My own hair is thin and won’t grow past shoulder length, no matter how hard I try. I make up for it by dyeing it very blond and cutting it in a sharp bob with bangs that skim my eyebrows, and I never leave the house without false lashes and winged eyeliner to complement it.
Stella’s got at least ten years on me, maybe more, I remind myself. Younger is better. Even if it doesn’t always feel that way. I turn back to my pies, but thinking about her has shaken my confidence. I wonder if Archie would take Stella to the East Wing too if she asked. The idea of it makes me frown, and I can feel myself losing focus. I shake my head to clear it.
“You have twenty minutes left!” Betsy’s voice rings from the front of the tent. I don’t have time for petty jealousy if I want to win this. I take my mushroom pie out of the oven. It is golden brown, bubbling just a bit at the edges. Steam curls up from the vents in the crust, letting off the most delectable, savory aroma. I place it on a cooling rack next to my strawberry chiffon pie. Turning back to the sweet pie, I spoon strawberry whipped cream into a piping bag and make delicate peaks across the top. I am delighted. Both pies have turned out exactly as I hoped. I bring my strawberry pie to the refrigerator, leaving it on a shelf for its final chill. As I shut the door and wonder what I’m going to do for the next twenty minutes, I’m startled to see Archie standing right next to me.
“I’m always running into you.” I laugh and look around for cameras but he seems to be alone. He smiles back at me. It feels funny seeing him in the daylight. My cheeks warm, remembering how close I’d been to him.
“I’m not complaining,” he says. His eyes flick to the other side of the tent, where the cameras and producers gather around Betsy.Archie leans in quickly, so close that his lips almost brush against my ear. “Meet me at the gate after dinner,” he whispers. “Don’t tell anyone.” The vibration of his breath sends shivers through me. Before I can respond, he pulls away, smiles, and walks back across the tent. I return to my table in shock. Could I have even heard that right? Archie Morris wants a secret meeting withme? My mind starts to spin in the happiest of ways.Is it like a date?Archie has moved to Lottie’s table, and I stare at him as the two share a joke. His head tilts back in laughter. He catches my eye and winks.
I notice Gerald’s table is empty, the remnants of his pies sitting undone on his baking table. Pradyumna is leaning back on his table, looking bored, his pies finished behind him. Lottie and Stella are still hard at work pulling their pies out of the oven and maneuvering them onto serving trays.
“Your time isup!” Archie finally shouts from the front of the tent. “Bakers, please bring your pies up to the judging table.”
I carefully pick up my tray of pies and walk them to the front. I’ve covered the bottom of the tray with a red-checked picnic cloth and decorated the space around each pie with a scattering of cut daisies, tiny, gemlike strawberries, little twigs, and green ferns unfurling from their buds, all things that I’ve collected from around the grounds.
I lower my tray onto the judging table. There are a few that are so clever, they take my breath away, like Pradyumna’s pie with its towering meringue topped with a storm cloud of gray-blue sugar crystals. Stella’s pie looks downright terrible, I notice happily. The top is sloppy, and some sort of unappetizing white puddle has melted on top of her peaches, while the crust is a dark brown on the edges. Stella looks like a mess right now too—her hair sticks to her face, and a smear of something chalky runs across her cheek. She gives me a relieved smile as she places her pies on the table. I turn away quickly before she can catch my smirk.
Archie and Betsy make their way down the line of pies. Pradyumna then Lottie then Stella. I have to bite my lip when I learn that thewhite stuff on top of her peaches is ricotta. No way can you use cheese in this heat. Terrible idea, and both judges agree with me. Now it is my pie’s turn. I watch as Betsy’s lips close over her fork. I lean forward in anticipation.
“Look at that crust,” Archie says, prodding it with his fork.
“Perfectly flaky,” Betsy agrees. They each take a bite as I squirm impatiently, watching out of squinted eyes in mock fear. Really, though, I know these pies are good. But I think the act will make me more relatable. The worry will endear me to the viewers.
“Nowthatis good,” Betsy says. I smile wide for the cameras, my body light with relief. Then she does the most wonderful thing. She leans forward and scoops up another bite.
