Page 20 of The Golden Spoon
“You need something to wake up, Lottie? Some street drugs? Maybe a tuba lesson?”
“I’d rather something that knocks me out if that’s fine by you.” Lottie smiles at me under heavy lids. She must be exhausted after all her adventuring. I probably should be as well, though I don’t feel it. I take a gulp of wine. It’s not hitting quite the way it did earlier in the week.
Dessert arrives on a tray, delivered by the same round-faced cook. It’s a custard pie. “That’s funny,” I say. “Can’t say I’m much in the mood for pie right now.” Stella lets out a little, bitter laugh.
Hannah suddenly scrapes back her chair loudly. “I have to go. I’m going to, um, practice my piping.”
I raise my eyebrows, curious, but neither Stella nor Lottie catches my eye. By the time the coffee has been brought out in its shiny silver urn, I am positively itching to get into some sort of trouble. It is a problem of mine that arises when I find myself with not much to do. A defense against boredom, and worse.
I won’t last here much longer with my attitude. I know that. But still, it’s hard to stay motivated. Being accepted intoBake Weekwas a wonderful distraction, the weeks leading up to it a fun way to get attention. But I’m finding the routine each day increasingly tedious. I know that everyone wants to win, but does that really mean we must makeeverything so incredibly dull? Wouldn’t it be better to have a bit of fun in the process? I consider that to some of them, this monotonyisfun. To the rest of them, competing for these two corporate cookie makers might be enjoyable. They’ve never been on Jay-Z’s yacht. Never flown a private plane to the Maldives. Well, Archie probably has.
I can handle Betsy. She might not be my first-choice dinner party guest, but she is who she is, and I appreciate that. But Archie Morris drives me absolutely crazy. I can’t stand his swagger and bravado. It reminds me of the kids I went to boarding school with. They were all so self-obsessed, so puffed full of hot air, unaware that in reality they had so little to offer. Archie is so clearly compensating for something with that terrible smirk on his face. Every time I look at him, I think,Man, your job is to be smug to people who bake cookies. And when do you suppose the last time he actually baked something himself was? I would bet money it’s been years since he’s baked a cake for someone’s birthday or whipped up a batch of cookies for fun. His entire career is criticizing amateur cooks, and yet he acts like he is the gatekeeper to some elite universe. I get the feeling he isn’t my biggest fan either, that he’s threatened by me. Surely, he knows who I am, knows I don’t need his approval. Hell, I don’t needBake Weekat all. I already have more money than I know what to do with. I’m not looking for a new career. I just need something to keep me going.
My life has always been a series of goals. I may grow bored with them all eventually, but the beginning is always sustaining enough to keep me going, keep me moving. This is all just something to do to fill in the time and to keep the feeling at bay. But I worry it is returning anyway, seeping through the cracks. I fear the gnawing nothingness that will overtake me if I let it.
LOTTIE
I go back to my room after dinner and try to rest, falling across the bed and closing my eyes. In some ways it’s enough just being back at Grafton, knowing that my mother had been here. Walking through the halls following in her invisible footsteps. Memories, small ones, have already begun to reveal themselves to me.
I sink down into the pillow and pull the edge of the comforter over myself. My eyelids grow heavy. I start to slip away toward sleep when a memory comes to me, jolting my brain back to consciousness.
It was Christmas day of the year I turned ten. The first thing I remember is my mother’s hands on me, gently nudging me awake. The sun had barely risen as we slipped our coats and gloves on. “Where are we going?” I asked her as she wound a scarf around my neck.
“You’ll see,” she’d said, excitement shining in her eyes. We crept down the stairs and tiptoed through the house to the foyer. Below us, one of the Graftons’ famous Christmas trees was lit up with large glass bulbs. They cast a magical glow through the layer of silvery tinsel on the tree, reflecting smudges of color onto the flagstone floor. My mother pulled open the main door, letting in a gust of cold air swirlingwith snowflakes. I gasped when I saw the world outside, white like the inside of a snow globe. Mom smiled at me like she was also a child.
We went down the front steps, and I stopped to brush some snow off the faces of the lions so that they could see it too. Outside was a pristine white wonderland. Our feet made the first impressions in the snow, as if the world was freshly made and ours alone.
We crossed the lawn slowly, sinking to the top of our boots until we reached the side of the house. “In here.” She led me through the archway, into the gardens. The air smelled of snow, crisp and clean. My mother scooped up a handful of snow in her glove, pinching it between her fingers. “As I thought.” She held it out, showing me. “See how it sticks? It’s the perfect snow.”
“For what?”
“Whatever you want!” Mom laughed, scooping more together and packing it in between her palms.
“A giant bear!” I said.
“Good idea.” Mom began to roll the snow into large balls and stack them by her side. I followed suit until we had an arsenal to work with. Together we stacked them into the body of the bear and filling in the cracks. Then we brushed it with snow until it was smooth and added two arms curving around the sides of his body. Next, we carved out the bear’s muzzle, making dents for eyes and nostrils.
“I have something that will help bring her to life,” Mom said, opening her bag and unwrapping a parcel of food coloring and tubes for piping frosting. We mixed the colors with handfuls of snow and piped them on, working happily until the bear had bright, multicolored streaks of fur, a rosy pink nose, bright blue eyes, and yellow claws. We stood back and admired our bear, Technicolor against the canvas of snow. The sun had risen fully now, it caught on the flurries that danced through the air and made the world sparkle.
Later that afternoon, I’d helped my mother make the desserts for the evening’s festivities. The Graftons held a locally famous Christmas drinks party. We rolled out dough, pressing it with cookie cutters.“Look at my candy cane tree,” I said, pressing two of the cutouts together and holding them up. “Oh yeah?” Mom said, quickly rearranging dough on the table. “Is it as good as my reindeer-with-a-Santa hat?”
I was laughing so hard that I almost didn’t notice Betsy Grafton watching us from the doorway. My mother stopped smiling right away when she saw her standing there, dropping the dough on the counter. “Betsy, what can I do for you?” she asked. She wiped her hands on a towel and went toward the door. Betsy gazed at us, looking over the scene of cookies being rolled out and cooling on wire racks, and for a moment a look of pure longing passed over her eyes, but it was quickly replaced with a haughty expression.
“Nothing. I was just checking to make sure you were working,” she said, narrowing her eyes at us. “Good thing I did, because I can see that you’re behind.”
She turned and left in a huff. My mother looked back at me. “Just ignore her,” she said, but the levity was gone from her voice.
After Christmas, I was brought to the East Wing for one of our playdates. The floor of Betsy’s room was littered with expensive new toys and clothes. Unwrapped presents were tossed around carelessly, shiny dresses draped on the corners of a chair, patent shoes with ribbons for laces thrown to opposing sides of the floor. And toys—more toys than I’d ever seen. My fingers itched to play with them. On my own I spent hours imagining what it would be like to have even a fraction of what Betsy did.
“Inmyroom you must followmyrules,” she’d reminded me as soon as my mother had stepped away. “First, go find me a comb. I need to fix my hair.” I stepped over a beautiful glass doll, which was missing a chunk of its own hair, as though it had been hacked away with scissors. A piece of its porcelain foot had cracked off as well, a jagged hole revealing its hollow center. I thought of my own tiny box of possessions.If I ever had a doll like that, I would take such good care of it, I’d thought bitterly. I spent the next several hours hovering near Betsy doing whatshe instructed me to do. It was how all our playdates went. I was the obedient and quiet servant, and Betsy was royalty lording over me. All the while I was fixated on the doll. I wanted to rescue it, to take it upstairs with me. Finally, Betsy noticed me staring.
“What are you looking at?” she’d asked me.
“Nothing,” I said quickly, too quickly. Betsy smiled and crossed the floor to the doll as a knot formed in my stomach.
“Oh, this old thing?” she asked me, picking the doll up in delight. “My mom bought her for me, but she’s not my favorite. Did you want to play with her?”
“Yes,” I’d gasped, stretching out my hands, already imagining the weight of it in my arms. Betsy leaned forward, holding the doll out as if to hand it to me. Just as my fingers were about to close around it, Betsy’s eyebrows came together, and she snatched it back. Her smile twisted as she smashed the doll’s face into the fireplace grate with a sickening crack.
