Page 32 of The Golden Spoon
“And what?”
“Do you think he could have, you know… done something? Maybe his wife had found out and he had to silence Agnes?”
Lottie considers it. “It is so odd. I can’t imagine it. He was such a genteel-seeming man. Though I suppose anything is possible. I could never have imagined my mother having any sort of romance with him until now either.”
We sip our wine, and I rack my brain for a way to resolve everything before she leaves in the morning. Lottie’s time has run out. She’d have to do something tonight or this whole experience, all those years of practice and waiting, will have been for nothing.
“Why don’t you just tell Betsy who you are? Explain the situation. You have nothing to lose really at this point. Maybe she would help you.”
She looks at me like I’ve lost my mind, but then she sits back, exhales slowly. “Fear, I guess.” She presses her thumbs into her eyes for a moment, exhausted. “I’m afraid she won’t recognize me, or even remember me when I tell her who I am.” She looks up at me and laughs hollowly. “I must still care what she thinks of me after all these years. How dumb is that? She was such a big part of my childhood, and then growing up watching her on TV every week. The last time she saw me I was an eleven-year-old. Whywouldshe remember me?”
I set my wineglass on the end table and turn to face her. “But you’re going to have to face your fears if you want to put this to rest.” I reach out and touch her arm. “You can’t carry this back home with you.” Her hand, cold and smooth, lands on top of mine.
“How did you get so wise?” She laughs.
“I didn’t. I just mimic smart people.”
“Well. I’m going to go pack, I suppose.” She hoists herself from the couch with some effort. I watch her thin form, robed in one of her signature bulky cardigans, heading toward the door, and am filled with a deep sadness.
“Lottie?” I call after her. I’m about to say that I’ll help, that I’ll continue her search once she’s left, that I won’t stop until I’ve found out what happened to Agnes. But my confidence wavers, and I wonder if I would be of any real use.
I picture her back in Rhode Island in a small house filled with knickknacks, her daughter stopping by for cookies and tea. It’s such a cozy image that it makes me a bit jealous. Me, the young millionaire jealous of a poor septuagenarian? But it’s true. I am. The mystery of her mother may never be solved, but ultimately Lottie will be fine, I realize. Because she has her whole life to return to. But what am I going back to after this? Even if I did manage to win the Golden Spoon, what will that mean? A gleaming, empty apartment full of designer furniture and expensive gadgets that make my life easier. But easier for what? What do I have to save time for? More relationships with women who drive me crazy and who I have no interest in? Who I will eventually disappoint in one way or another?
“Never mind. I’ll say goodbye in the morning,” I say gruffly. I clear my throat and turn my attention to a book on the coffee table.Beautiful Brulés. The pictures blur in front of me. For the first time in years, decades maybe, I feel as though I am about to cry.
I’ll missBake Weekwhen it’s over. But not because of the baking. The real honor of this experience has been trying to help Lottie sort out what happened to her mother. I only wish I could have had more time. I wish I could have actually helped. The clock on the mantel says 5:15 p.m. I realize there is not much else I can do. A dark pit forms inside me, the familiar feeling returning stronger than ever, threatening to swallow me up.
LOTTIE
As I pack up my things, there’s a timid knock on my door. I expect Pradyumna to walk in ready to drag me back to the East Wing and confront Betsy Martin, but when I open the door, I’m surprised to see Stella standing there.
“I’m so sorry about today,” she says, her chin crumpling slightly as though she might cry.
“No, no. Please don’t be. It was bound to happen eventually,” I tell her, opening the door wide and gesturing for her to come inside.
She crosses the bedroom, sits down heavily on the side of the bed, looking despondent.
“No, there’s no way that cake could have disqualified you. I tried some after the judging. It was absolutely delicious.”
I smile gratefully. “Well, thank you, Stella. But you all deserve to stay in the competition. And I’m fine, really I am.” I look at her carefully. Her eyes are dark underneath, her face sunken as though she hasn’t slept well. It’s a look I recognize well. “What about you?” I ask, pulling a chair out from the desk and sitting down across from her near the foot of the bed. “How are you doing?”
“Oh.” She waves her hand around vaguely, attempting a smile. “You know.”
I lean in, waiting for her to continue.
“Have you ever gotten the feeling like you are suddenly on the right track, like nothing can stop you, and then… you just lose your nerve?”
My stomach flips. “Sure, I have.”
She leans back on the bed, resting on her forearms. “Oh, Lottie, how do we ever know if what we are doing is the right thing? If we are helping things or just making a big mess?”
I ponder this. “I guess we don’t. We have to trust that if we are going the wrong way, something deep inside us will tell us. We have to train ourselves to listen for that inner voice shouting for us to turn around.”
Stella appears to think about this for a moment, and then her eyes come to rest on something behind me. She sits up and steps forward, leaning over and reaching past me to the desk.
“What is this?” When she comes back, she is holding the recipe box. Stella opens it before I have time to decide if I want to show them to her. I have the urge to snatch it away from her, to protect them. I have only just found the box. I don’t know why I am so scared of anyone seeing. It isn’t as though I could get in trouble when I was the one who should have had them all along. I watch as Stella pulls out several of the cards. She is a sweet girl, really, she means no harm to anyone. I suppose there’s nothing wrong with telling her the truth, at least the partial truth.
“It’s my mother’s recipe box.”
