Page 3 of The Golden Spoon
I nod to the man, still talking on his phone, and pass between the lions, pushing open an iron-studded door. I blink as my eyes adjust to the dim light inside. I’m standing in a large open entryway. In front of me a grand staircase rises like a mahogany waterfall, curving elegantly up in either direction at the landing.
A woman hovers near a suit of armor guarding the foyer. She wears a formfitting skirt, her shiny brown hair twisted into a thick knot at her neck, the kind of put together you don’t see much where I live. She is staring down at a clipboard, a pencil bobbing between two fingers. Her face twitches nervously when she finally sees me. “Sound guys use the back entrance,” she barks.
“I’m here to bake,” I reply, “if that’s okay.”
She frowns and looks at her papers, flipping through a few pages. I see each of them has a headshot on it. She lands finally on a giant photo of my face, embarrassment filling hers as she registers the match.
“So sorry about that… Peter! Welcome!”
“It’s all right, I’m used to it,” I say. It’s true, kind of, except in the work I do I normallyamthe guy who is supposed to use the side door. I know that I’m not going to win any awards for best dressed or anything, but I am wearing my newest flannel and I did get a haircut before I left. Not that it’s easy to tame my curls. My hair has its own ecosystem, Frederick likes to tease.
The woman is effusive now, trying to make up for not recognizing me. She smiles, but her face looks almost pained, as though it’s a look she isn’t particularly practiced at. “I’m Melanie,Bake Week’s lead coordinator. I keep things running on time, and it’s my job to make sure everyone is where they need to be at exactly the right moment. You’ll be seeing a lot of me this week. As perBake Weekrules, I’ll need youto hand me your cell phone. And then I can take you to your room so you can relax before dinner.”
I hand over my dinged-up phone somewhat reluctantly and watch her put it into a box, placing it on top of another phone with a glittery pink case.
“Shall we?” She smiles again, the muscles in her neck straining as she gestures toward the staircase. “Leave your bags. Someone will take them up later.”
“It’s okay. I’ve got it,” I say, patting the side of the duffel, still dangling from my shoulder. Her lips tighten, but she nods in surrender. I follow her up the massive central staircase, admiring the smoothness of the wooden banisters, the detail in the carvings on their spokes. There are many Victorian houses in Vermont, but the size and quality of the craftmanship at Grafton are unlike anything I’ve seen. We come to a large landing where the staircase splits off into two smaller sets of steps, which wind elegantly up in opposite directions to different wings of the house.
“You’ll be staying in the West Wing,” Melanie says, leading me up the staircase to the right. She pauses, gesturing back across the landing at an identical set of stairs and doors. “The East Wing is Betsy Martin’s private quarters, and it is completely off-limits to guests. If you need anything, be sure to contact one of the staff from the telephone in your room. There is a list of our names in the dossier.”
Ah yes, the dossier. It came in the mail, in an overnight package I had to sign for, practically in blood. This was of courseafterI signed the stack of nondisclosure forms, promising not to spill any ofBake Week’s secrets before it airs. The show is extremely protective of itself, which makes sense. For just over a month of each year, it is the most popular program on television, inspiring fanatics and copycats. People have even been known to peek through Grafton’s gates to try to catch a glimpse of the action. The rules are there to protect the integrity of the show, and I’ll respect them. If I can remember them all, that is. The officialBake Weekdossier is a behemoth spiralbound packet coveringthe rules and offering helpful “suggestions” for how to look and act on camera. I’ve done my best to soak it all in, but maybe I should read it over one more time tonight just to be sure. I’m feeling anxious, like I might forget something. I would be so embarrassed if I put the show in jeopardy.
We continue down a long dim hallway until Melanie stops abruptly at a doorway on our right. She double-checks her clipboard and swings open the door, letting the glow of afternoon light into the hall.
“Here you are, hope you’re comfortable.”
I blink as I step past her. My room makes up for its modest size with an impossibly tall ceiling that arcs upward from the corners and a window that stretches up from near the floor, coming to a point at the top like something you’d find in a church. There’s a dressing table and tall chest of drawers along one wall. Most of the room is taken up by a large bed with carved wood posters spiraling up to the ceiling. Above the head, a painting of the manor in its younger days hangs on wire from the crown molding.
I love these Victorian houses—with all their quirks they feel almost human to me, like they could be old friends. More than anything I relish learning all their stories, uncovering their pasts. I’ve never had the patience for academia, or I’m sure I’d have become a historian. It’s probably why I went into restoration work. I notice a crack in the molding that follows the corner of the wall. It’s a thin crack, not structural or anything. Nothing I couldn’t fix if given the chance. Seeing flaws in buildings is a force of habit, like how a dentist must notice the imperfections in everyone’s teeth when they smile. I have to remind myself that I’m not here to work, I’m here to bake. Still, I’d jump at the chance to help restore some of Grafton Manor—the scuffs in the hardwood and cracks in the parapet where I noticed it crumbling.
“I’ll be great.” I smile, putting down my duffel on the floral duvet.
After she leaves I sit on the bed for a moment taking it all in. Then I open my suitcase and transfer some of my shirts to hangers in the wardrobe. Don’t want them to get too wrinkled before tomorrow. Ourfirst day of competition already. I feel around into the bottom of my duffel for the picture, my hand wrapping around the frame. It’s my favorite photo of Frederick and our daughter, Lulu, at the park. I’d tied a T-shirt around it to protect it and I unwind it now gingerly, using the shirt to polish the glass before placing it on the bedside table.
I go to the window and look out, resting my forehead on the cool leaded glass. The tent is almost directly below me, the manor casting a bluish shadow over its white peaked top. It’s incredible to me that they filmBake Weekin Betsy Martin’s actual home. What other TV personality would ever allow that? I suppose it helps make the show that much more intimate.Bake Weekis a special kind of entertainment. It’s not just a show for bakers, though obviously that is the main activity. It is something else too, an escape of sorts, a glimpse into a simpler way of being where people are kind to one another and sugar isn’t thought of as junk food, but as something special to be shared and cherished. Where you can say “I love you” with a slice of cake.
The thrill of it all creeps up my chest. I’ve really made it. Who’d have ever thought a hobby as silly as baking could bring me to something like this? Frederick did. He has always believed in my baking, to the point where I’ve sometimes wondered if it was not so much my incredible baking skills so much as he is just blinded by his affection for me. He was there cheering me on for my first rather pitiful attempts at layer cakes. I was alone in the house the day I got the call from the adoption agency. There was a baby girl waiting for us to take her home. I remember looking at the clock, and it was only 11:30. Frederick is an optometrist who would be with his patients, unreachable for the remainder of the day. Unsure what to do with all my pent-up excitement, I baked a confetti sponge cake and topped it with a whipped buttercream. All the while trying to picture her. Our little Lulu. It’s hard to believe there was ever a time I didn’t know every bit of her. Every lopsided smile and petulant scowl, every pale half-moon on her fingernails. When Frederick came home that evening, he saw my cake sitting slightly lopsided on the kitchen counter. He lookedfrom me to the cake, and all I had to do was give a small nod for his eyes to well up. We were going to be parents. Of course, now I make treats for the three of us all the time. Baking is among my favorite ways to care for my little family. I feel my chest tighten with a surge of gratitude for Frederick and look for my phone to text him, until I realize that I no longer have it. The idea of being unreachable, of not being able to text to see how Lulu is doing, even though the producers assured me I would be contacted if there were any real emergency, fills me with a strange feeling, like I am very far away from everyone.
I guess that is kind of the point, though, to keep us focused onBake Week. I take a quick shower and change into a different plaid button-up shirt for dinner, one of the ones I’ve bought specially for the occasion. I catch a glimpse of myself in the beveled mirror hanging above the dressing table. My hair’s a mess, but that’s not unusual. Otherwise, not so bad for forty-two. I try to let myself give in to the experience of just being here. What is baking, I remind myself, other than a way to show others you care about them. I focus on how Frederick and Lulu will be able to watch when the show airs. Even if I manage to stick around all week, I know this experience will be fleeting. I need to just embrace it. Besides, I feel lighter and happier than I have in a long time. It’s time to go downstairs and meet the competition.
STELLA
I look at myself in the ornate mirror in the door of my wardrobe. I’ve put on a silky slip-style skirt and a stylishly baggy sweater, both in shades of blush. I clip in some hoop earrings. Behind me, my room at Grafton is a gorgeous garden paradise in hues of green. The wallpaper is printed with a grid of vines that climbs up to the crown molding. My bed’s canopy is stretched with a deep emerald damask that makes me feel like I’m in an enchanted garden. Beyond the window is even more green, a long lawn bordered by thick woods and farther off, Vermont’s rolling mountains on the horizon. It’s more nature than I’ve seen in years. The view from my Brooklyn apartment has one tree and a few pigeons. This is something else entirely. The word that springs to mind ismajestic.
My stomach rumbles anxiously. Tomorrow at this time the first bake will be over. I try to keep myself from getting attached to the idea of making it too far into the competition. I haven’t even unpacked my bag yet, just left it propped open in the corner, as I don’t want to jinx myself. There are five other bakers after all, and it’s already been made clear that I don’t have as much baking experience as them. Not even remotely. It was on the dossier they handed out. Our bios were right there for all to see. All the others with their incredibly polishedphotos and long list of baking expertise, and then there is mine with the headshot I made Rebecca take of me in the park, and below that a description of my next-to-nothing experience. I’ll be lucky to last through the first day.
I go to my dressing table and take my time putting on my lipstick. Shaking my hands through my hair, I scoop it up into a messy bun and secure it with a silver pin. I have promised myself to try to take care of my appearance, maybe not in the way I used to but at least to make a true effort. I am going to be on television after all, not sitting around my apartment where no one will see me. So far, so good. My head is still fuzzy from my nap earlier. I’d had the most delicious dream where I was friends with Betsy Martin and she and I were sharing recipes.
When I leave my room to go down to dinner, the house feels surprisingly quiet. I look up and down the empty hallway and worry suddenly that all the other contestants must be downstairs already. I shouldn’t have fallen asleep; then I could have spent more time getting ready. It’s bad form to be late to a dinner hosted by Betsy Martin, even if she’s not in her judging capacity tonight, or so the itinerary says. She may not be judging our baking, but she will certainly be watching us closely. I try to suppress a naive hope that she will form an instant liking to me. I feel a sharp pang of anxiety at the thought that her first impression of me might be that I’m someone who can’t show up on time.
I pick up my pace, walking quickly down one long hallway to the end, then turning down another. I’m trying to retrace my steps from earlier. But that was pre-nap, and I clearly wasn’t paying enough attention when I arrived. Now I’m having trouble remembering exactly which corridor is which. I come out onto a tiny landing. It is decorated with a giant oil portrait of a man standing in a field. He is handsome, a bit of an arrogant tilt to his head, which reminds me of some of the men I’ve dated in Brooklyn. He holds a hunting rifle. In his slender arms it looks more like a prop than a tool made for killing. At his sidea brown retriever looks loyally up at him, a pheasant dangling from its mouth. A small gold placard affixed to the bottom edge of the frame reads:Richard Grafton, 1945.
I take the stairs down to the first floor but find myself trapped in a sort of odd basement with one door that looks like it leads outside. I turn back the way I came, continuing up two flights. Here I am confronted with another empty hallway. I follow until it ends abruptly at three closed doors. Feeling claustrophobic, I impulsively choose the one on my left, wishing I had a piece of string to lead me back in case I’ve made the wrong choice. The room I enter is dim and the air feels dense and stagnant, as though the oxygen inside is just as old as the furniture. I walk through another room containing a billiards table. I listen for the murmur of voices, the scuff of footsteps, anything to let me know I’m not alone, but everything is deathly silent. I remember an oldTwilight Zoneepisode where everyone on earth has disappeared. My armpits prick with adrenaline. I’m grateful I decided against the silk top I’d considered.
Trying not to panic, I start moving a bit more quickly, dashing across to the next door. It opens onto a shadowy sitting room. The curtains are drawn. A trio of overly stuffed chairs gather around an elaborate mantelpiece topped with a large brass clock inside a dome of glass. I listen to it tick. If I could just get to some sort of open space where I could orientate myself or hear other people’s voices, I might be able get my bearings, but I’m starting to have the unpleasantly familiar feeling of hysteria creep up on me and am not sure whether to laugh or cry, so I let out a strangled sort of chuckle. It bounces hollowly around the wood paneling.Where is everyone?
You’re fine, I tell myself.You’re safe. Don’t panic.But it is too late. My vision has started to blur at the edges.
