Page 21 of The Golden Spoon
HANNAH
While I run a bath, I lay my clothes out on the bed. I’m so glad I’ve brought the bodycon sweater dress even though I knew I’d never wear it on-screen. I smooth it out, placing some barely there red underwear and a matching lace bra next to it on the bed. I clip up my hair and lower myself into the steaming water. The tub is so large I could practically swim in it. I carefully shave my legs. With Ben I haven’t ever really tried this hard to look good, at least not in a very long time.Ben.A small tug of anxiety pulls at my chest as I think of his face, saying goodbye to me in the front seat of his pickup truck. He was so happy for me. Not having my phone to text him has put some things into perspective. It’s been surprisingly easy not to think of him while I’m here. In fact, I’ve hardly thought of him at all. I hoist myself out of the bath and wrap a plush towel around myself. I like the feel of it, soft and luxurious. Our towels at home are scratchy and threadbare. The little apartment I share with Ben in Eden Lake seems very far away. Suddenly I can hardly remember it.
I look at myself in the mirror. The chubby cheeks I’ve had all my life are starting, finally, to narrow. I don’t want to stay with Ben just because I’m comfortable with him. It would be so easy to let him keep me in Eden Lake forever. I could pop out a couple of babies and justkeep my job making pies at the diner. Ben would be fine with all that. But what about me? I couldn’t live with myself if that is all I ever did. What would my mom say? I imagine her sitting at the kitchen counter, fork in her hand. She’d say,Don’t you miss your chance, Hannah Bear. You go out there and you get what you want.I open a fresh box of false eyelashes and glue them carefully to my lids, sealing them in place with a coat of black mascara. I blink and look up at my reflection. I am so close to becoming just who I want to be.
The wind has picked up. I pull on the hem of my dress as I walk down the drive toward the main gate, checking behind me to make sure no one has followed. I’ve put in effort to look good tonight, but I hope I haven’t overdone it. Suddenly, I feel a bit dressed up. It’s just a walk after all.
I’ve shown up too early, I think, as I approach the stone arch at the end of the drive. But when I pass through the gate, I see he is there already. He leans casually against the wall in fitted tan pants and a denim jacket, like he’s got nowhere else to be. He gives me a half smile. “Hey,” he says quietly. He looks relieved, as though he were the one worried that I might not show. I feel a shiver go through me. I’ve never felt so excited just to be in someone’s presence. “Hey,” I say back, feeling silly and self-conscious. I notice him eyeing my dress appreciatively.
“I thought we could take the path up through the grounds,” he says, pointing to an opening in the woods down the road.
“Sure,” I say. I still feel confused. He’s given me no explanation, no reason for our meeting. We start to walk silently, cutting into the woods on a trail that winds its way into the forest. It’s much darker back here, a thick canopy of leaves blocking out the already weak sun. “Don’t worry,” he says when he sees me glancing behind us at the bright opening we came from. “I walked it yesterday, it just goes up a bit and then loops back around.”
Once again, the Vermont wilderness reminds me of Minnesota, of the north near Hibbing, where my grandma is from. Leaves crackle under my heels. A bird high above caws eerily.
“I’m not worried,” I assure him.
We come to a clearing where the path widens next to a creek, and I fall into step with him. I notice his hands, large and capable. They swing by his sides. I have the intense desire to take his hand in both of mine, to hold it, caress it. To restrain myself, I tug on my sleeves, pulling them down over my fingers.
“Are you cold?” he asks. Without waiting for me to reply, he pulls off his jacket. I notice the tag as he drapes it over my shoulders. I recognize the designer. I smile, putting my arms into the sleeves, enjoying the feel of the expensive fabric. The rare walk in the woods I’ve taken with Ben had often left me ten paces behind him being whapped with tree branches.
“Congratulations on today,” Archie says finally. His voice feels especially intimate out here in the woods. “They really were special pies.”
“Thanks.” I look down uncomfortably.
“You don’t like being complimented?” He watches my face closely as I respond. I feel as though this is a test of some sort.
“Oh no, it’s not that.”I love being complimented.
“It’s just that the others are great bakers too,” I say, fishing.
Archie lets out a snort, as I’d hoped he would. “Not like you. And they don’t have the drive.”
I bloom under the attention, suddenly more confident than I’ve been all week. And why shouldn’t I be? I am today’s winner—my pies were leagues better than the rest. I’m the second-youngest contestant inBake Weekhistory. And Archie Morris,theArchie Morris, has taken a special interest in me and my career. I have everything going for me. I feel invincible. I am suddenly certain I will winBake Week. I turn to face Archie, looking up at him in the dim forest light.
He reaches out and takes my face gently between his palms. “Listen, you’re a great baker, Hannah. I think you could be famous like Betsy Martin even,” Archie says. The trees are dark, their leaves rustling around us.
“Ha,” I say, trying to keep my cool, but a smile creeps across my face in spite of myself as I allow myself to imagine it.
“I’m serious,” he says, stopping and looking at me sternly. “You just need someone to be your advocate.”
“Is that person you?” I ask, looking up at him through my eyelashes. I’ve done smokey-eye makeup tonight. Was I secretly hoping that something like this might happen? I might not have even dared.
He moves close to me. “You really don’t know how talented you are, do you?” I love that he sees me this way. I feel so special, so desired. I have never felt this way before. He tilts my face up to see his. The world feels big and surreal and wonderful. Above us the trees roar as thousands of papery leaves are caught in a gust of wind. I am swept into the moment, feel like I am watching myself from above. He kisses me passionately, working his lips against mine. Our tongues find each other. His cheeks are rough. They scrape my skin, but I don’t tell him to stop, even though I know my face will be raw tomorrow. I don’t want him to stop, in fact I want the opposite. I want to wear the markings of this magical evening. I want it to be our secret tomorrow. We stay there, kissing, until the sun sets, and then carefully we pick our way through the path back to the road. Out of the woods the sky opens up, denim blue against the black outlines of the trees. The beginnings of millions of stars twinkle in the center of the sky. I smile up at them. I feel Archie’s fingertips brush my hand, then clasp it firmly. I can see that everything is falling into place. I shiver at my luck. Archie Morris chose me.
PRADYUMNA
I am alone in the library tonight. I’ve made a pledge to myself: no brown liquor, so instead I’ve made myself a gin and tonic. Restless, I carry it with me out into the hall. As our numbers dwindle, the house feels quieter, less lived in. The hallways a bit more echoey. In just a week’s time there will be no one left here at all, just Betsy Martin and her small staff of helpers, slipping through the hallways like ghosts, disappearing each night to their homes in the countryside. I keep thinking about what Peter said about the missing staircase. I find myself wishing he were still here. I could use an accomplice. I would love to get my hands on Gerald’s blueprints, but he seems less than amenable after his catastrophic day. I am tempted to knock on his door. It’s not like he needs them anymore, is it? I could be concerned, ask him how he’s doing. Then pivot and ask him for the blueprints. But something tells me Gerald would have very little tolerance for my bullshit. As though to confirm it, his door is tightly shut when I walk past.
Instead, I amble out into the foyer, looking up at the grand staircase. I climb lazily up to the landing on the third floor. I pause, itching to turn to the left and sneak into the East Wing, but I force myself to turn right and go into the West Wing. I walk down the now-familiar hallway, passing the door to my room on the right, then continuingdown the hall. At the far end the hallway ends abruptly at a large wardrobe. It is a hulking piece made of unfashionably dark wood, its legs curved out at the bottom, a decorative scroll-shaped carving outlining the top. I pause, take a sip of my drink. There is a creak behind me and I turn around, but the hallway is deserted. I turn back to the wardrobe and pull on the handles. They stick at first but then give way noisily, echoing down the hallway. I wait but hear no signs of life behind me. I give the handles one last yank until they pull all the way open. A moth flies out at me, and I wave it and a cloud of dust particles away, coughing.
The hallway is dim at this end, the wardrobe too dark inside to see properly. I remember the lantern I passed sitting on a hall table and go back to get it, creeping once again past the rooms of the remaining contestants so as not to wake them. I pick up the oil lamp. It is clearly decorative, probably worth a fortune. A slim drawer in the table holds a matchbox embossed with the name of an old hat company. I pull back the glass cone and light the wick. It glows festively. I bring the lamp back with me to the end of the hall. Now I walk around the side of the wardrobe, inspecting it from all angles. It is pressed tight against the wall, but when I shine the light near the back, I think I can see something behind it. Is it the dark outline of a space cut from the wall? Going back into the cabinet, I reach past a wool blanket that’s been decimated by moths. It turns to a fine powder in my hands.Disgusting. I shove it to the side. I reach out and tap on the back of the wardrobe—solid wood. I move the lantern around the corners, and the light catches on something metallic on the left—a silver hinge, flush with the corner. I move away a stack of sheets and find another one, this time lower down. They are new, shiny, at least compared to the rest of the wardrobe. I scrape my fingers along the back right side until I catch on a small hole, drilled to the size of a finger. I pull on it and the back swings in, scraping along the bottom of the wardrobe. Behind the false back is a dark hole. I hold the lantern out. The light bounces dimly around the space,revealing a set of narrow stairs heading steeply into a black void. My heart flutters.
The staircase is so narrow that my shoulders bump up against the walls, my shirt catching on the peeling white paint. My forehead brushes against cobwebs. I hold the lantern out in front of me as I make my way up. The steps end finally at a hallway. I think not for the first time about how poorly designed old buildings are; they seem to be nothing but hallways. The ceiling is low here, the floors merely painted boards instead of the grand finishes found in the other parts of the house. A row of white doors hang open at different angles, as though the rooms have all been left suddenly. I make my way down the hall, the floor creaking loudly. The rooms are nearly identical, each furnished sparsely with a wooden dresser, two single beds—still crisply made—with a shared bedside table between them. This is clearly not somewhere the more privileged Graftons spent their time. Peter was exactly right that they were the old servants’ quarters. I shine the lantern into one of the rooms. The wall is angled sharply, in line with the slant of the roof. The windows jut out into narrow dormers. My heart lurches when I see something move, then realize it’s just my reflection in a small mirror. I set my lantern down on the bedside table and slide open the drawer. Inside is a brown embossed Bible and an old piece of ribbon still tied in a bow. I shut it and sink onto the mattress, sending a plume of dust up into the darkness. I’ve left my drink downstairs, I realize. I wish I had it now.
I look around the tiny room. Aside from the mirror it is plainly decorated, the walls empty of any life. I wonder what could possibly be so secret about this floor that it’s accessible only via the wardrobe. I lean back on the mattress, throwing my arms above my head and over the pillow in surrender. As my hand goes back it brushes against something stiff and papery.
I pull it out from under the pillow and move it under the lamp. It’s an old black-and-white photograph, a spiderweb of cracks spread along its surface. In the picture a man and woman stand close togetheron a grassy hill. The woman is wearing a fitted dress with a skirt that flares out like a bell. She has one leg bent up flirtatiously and is smiling broadly. She looks into the camera while the man gazes at her lovingly. Behind them is a dogwood tree in full bloom, its white leaves an attractive backdrop to their merrymaking. I sit up, hunching over the lamp to study it more carefully. I take in the man’s mustache and his tweed suit. I recognize him. It looks like the paintings I’ve seen around the manor of Richard Grafton. But this does not resemble the dour man in all the oil portraits holding his rifle and staring stoically into the distance. This man looks alive and vibrant, his head tilted ever so slightly.
