Page 27 of The Golden Spoon
“Maybe we should try her bedroom,” I suggest, picking up a nondescript wooden box off the top of the mantel. Before I can open it, Lottie lets out a small cry and snatches it from my hands. She tilts the top of the box back on its hinges, revealing a thick pack of notecards. Lottie pulls a stack of them out, fanning them out across the top of the secretary.
“I’d forgotten all about these.” The recipes are written in tilted cursive on white notecards. There are recipes for bread, for elaborate cakes, for pies and cookies. They are worn with use, their edges bent, stained with drops of vanilla, and smudged with cooking oil.
“They’re my mother’s,” Lottie says. “I haven’t seen them since she disappeared.”
I pick one out and read it out loud. “Special Day Strawberry Shortcake.”
“Oh, that one was incredible.” Lottie smiles, remembering. “It was like a traditional shortcake, but the biscuit had strawberries baked into it. She sprinkled homemade vanilla bean–infused sugar on top.”
Something begins to itch at the back of my mind as I sift through the recipes. They are all unique and lovingly constructed. There’s one for a chocolate ganache tart striped with hazelnut and praline, a honey cake with orange marmalade filling, coconut cream–filled doughnuts with meringues in the center. Extra notes have been added to the margins, addendums to use more cherries or to keep it in the oven for five minutes longer. It’s what every good baker does: tries to make their recipes better over time. You can tell Lottie’s mother was a fantastic baker, and I can see where Lottie gets it from.
“Look, this one is stuck.” I gently detach a card, which has been adhered to another with a bit of something sticky. “World’s Best Blueberry Buckle.” I whistle. “That’s quite a claim.”
Lottie takes the card from me. “If anyone could make the world’s best anything, it was my mother. She was the best baker I’ve ever met.”
Lottie reads each of the recipes lovingly, stroking the handwriting as she reads through them. “Some of these I’ve never even tasted. She didn’t have the chance to bake for just the two of us very often, and I—”
Lottie stops. Outside there is the faint sound of a car door closing. I tiptoe to the window and pull back the edge of the curtain. Below, the black SUV has returned. Betsy Martin has already gotten out. Her arms swing forcefully as she makes her way up the front steps.
“Shit. She’s back!” I hiss. We look at each other wide-eyed. Lottie drops the recipe box with a clatter, and we both cringe. Her hands are shaking as we frantically gather the recipes from the secretary. I take a bunch of them from her and stuff them back into the box, closing its lid and tucking it under my arm as I look around the room to make sure nothing else is displaced.
“We have to hurry,” Lottie says, her voice thick with fear.
We bolt into the hallway. At the end of the hall the doors are still shut tight. The lights from the landing illuminate their windows. I realize with alarm that there is no way to avoid Betsy if she takes the main staircase. Lottie grabs onto my arm and pulls me back.
“We’ll run into her if we leave through the landing,” Lottie whispers.
“We have to hide and wait for her to pass.” I look wildly around the hallway at the row of closed doors. There is no way to tell what is behind any of them. Betsy’s shadow is a smudge on the windows of the French doors, growing darker and crisper as she approaches. I make a split decision, opening a door to my left and pulling Lottie through it with me. I shut it very carefully behind us, my heart racing. The room is dark, the curtains drawn almost all the way across the window, letting in only a tiny shard of silvery light. My eyes finally adjust, and I realize we are in a bedroom. A large four-poster bed takes up the center of the room, and carved wooden poles rise in twisted spears on each corner like some sort of torture device from a medieval dungeon. Lottie sees the shape stirring under the blankets the same time as I do and lets out a gasp. It’s Archie.Shit. Of all the doors to open, we had to choose that meathead’s.
And then I see something else. A slender ankle draped out over the side of the bed. It takes me a moment to process the nymphish outline of a young woman asleep next to him. A loud, snorting snore comes from the bed. I feel Lottie’s hand gripping my forearm. I wonder how much she’s seen. Out in the hallway the distinctiveclick-clackof Betsy’s footsteps grows closer and then recedes down the far end of the hall. I turn my back to the bed, grasping for the handle to the door. I twist it open and release us back out into the hallway. My body buzzes with adrenaline as we run to the end of the hall and out onto the landing. I look down at the grandfather clock standing in the foyer: 7:25. Time to get ready for another day in the tent.
STELLA
I watch Archie Morris swagger up to the front of the tent and am filled with revulsion. He looks around at us, grinning like a shark. Seeing him last night crossing the lawn with Hannah has soured me on him completely. Before, even though I’d found his personality a bit over-the-top, I figured at least his confidence was earned, the product of being good at what he does. I may have even found it a little bit charming to be so sure of oneself. But now I see that Archie’s success hasn’t just given him self-assuredness, it has given him delusions of grandeur, the idea that he is able to dowhateverhe wantswheneverhe wants towhomeverhe wants with no negative repercussions. In fact, he has probably mostly gotten the opposite and been rewarded for taking what doesn’t belong to him.
But now he has made a complete mockery out of what we are all trying to do here. The rest of us are takingBake Weekseriously, doing our best. And what has he been doing? Using the show as just a way to pick up young girls. Who the fuck does he think he is? Does he think that just because he’s a celebrity it gives him an excuse to prey on women? I glance at Hannah, one row ahead of me today. Each day, as the number of us shrinks, the placement of our baking stations is altered. I’ve rotated over one space and am now directly behind Hannahand across from Lottie. Hannah’s cheeks are unusually pale, as though she’d forgotten to put on the makeup she usually wears. Her hair is lank and parted unevenly, not in its usual pristine bob. I watch as she looks down at her hands, fidgeting as we wait for our instructions. I want to ask her if she is okay and then scold her for allowing herself to get sucked into the bad situation she’s in with Archie. Part of me wants to give them away. To point and shout and make a big scene. I want to tell her not to listen to a word he says, that he is taking advantage of her and to stay away from him. I know that it would tear apart the show. As much as I want to expose Archie, I don’t want to ruin it for the others, myself included, so I stay silent.
Betsy doesn’t look herself today either. She is just as pressed and polished as usual, but there is something off about her, a strange darting of the eyes and twist of the mouth that I haven’t seen before. It makes me not want to cross her. As Archie and Betsy step up to the table, something odd and off-kilter passes between the two of them. For a split second, I catch Betsy staring at him with absolute vitriol. The expression is barely on her face for a moment before it disappears, replaced instantly with her signature placid smile. I wonder if Betsy suspects Archie of being a lech. The thought comforts me.
As Betsy steps out in front of the judging table to give us our assignment, my hands go cold and clammy. This kind of adrenaline is exhausting, and yet today I feel more prepared for whatever recipe will be thrown at me. I have an extra sense of purpose now I didn’t have before. I glance at Graham, who is behind one of the cameras filming Betsy. I want to keep an eye on that one. It’s a real disappointment that even at someplace as seemingly pure asBake Week, there are still creeps to deal with.
Betsy clasps her hands in delight. “All right, everyone, today you will be baking my favorite, everyone’s favorite, cakes!”
Archie steps in. “Your cake must be large enough to feed at least thirty people. It must have at least two layers. We want to see you use your creativity and really wow us with your execution. There are onlyfour of you left, and we know you are all excellent bakers, so this will be a difficult challenge.”
My mind races to find the cake I’ll be making, mentally flipping through the pages of my notebook. An image comes to me fully formed. It is so perfect I can’t help but smile even through my lingering disgust.
“Ready… set…,” they begin in unison.
“Bake!”
I run to my fridge to look for ingredients and nearly collide with Pradyumna, who is doing the same.
“Whoa!” he says, grinning and moving his hands up in surrender as he lets me through. I laugh, but as soon as I’ve moved past him to my refrigerator, I roll my eyes in exasperation. I don’t have time for this today, from him or anyone else. Today I have a plan. Today I am going to win.
We are thirty minutes into the competition when Archie Morris steps up to my table surrounded by cameras. He smiles at me, an acknowledgment of his power in the situation, and waits for me to react accordingly. I stack my spine and return his gaze evenly.
“Hello, Archie,” I say, my voice thick with meaning.
