Page 4 of The Golden Spoon
I close my eyes—an old trick my therapist taught me—counting to five as I breathe in. I hold my breath for few seconds, then release the air as I begin to count downten, nine, eight, seven, six. Slowly I feel some of the tension exit my body. As I open my eyes, I hear the creakof a door opening and footsteps through the wall to my left.There’s another person here, thank God!Relief washes through me.
“Hello?” I call out. I don’t wait for a reply. I rush to the door on the left wall and fling it open. The room on the other side is larger than the previous ones, with windows facing out over the woods. A wingback sofa sits in the center of the room with a coffee table in front holding a large vase with a massive bouquet of fresh irises—another sign of life that brings me comfort. The sun sets a muted pink at the paned windows. I hear a sound on the far side of the room and make my way over to it.
“Hello?” I call out again, edging my way toward the sofa. I suddenly worry that I haven’t heard a person at all, that there is an animal loose inside. My throat is dry. I lean over the side, and there is a flurry of movement. It takes me a moment to make sense of what is happening. A scream rips from my chest as I trip backward. An elderly woman with snow-white hair crawls on her hands and knees across the floor. I feel the blood draining from my head. My legs go weak as I begin to lose consciousness.
LOTTIE
Oh, my goodness, I have scared the girl nearly to death! I stand up quickly, my earring in my hand. I must have looked like some sort of wraith, crawling around on the ground like that. I rush over to where she has fallen back against the side of the sofa. I’m embarrassed to have scared her so badly.
“I’m sorry,” the young woman stammers. Whisps of shiny strawberry blond hair frame her pale face. She looks absolutely stricken. She reaches one hand to the doorway for support, and for a moment I think she is about to faint. Concerned, I hold my hand out to her shoulder, ready to try to help. I’m not a large woman, but I think I could probably support her weight if need be.
“I didn’t mean to frighten you. Just dropped this.” I hold up my earring to show her. It’s one of a pair of green stones, given to me years ago by my daughter, Molly. I wear them whenever I need a little bit of good luck, and I know I’m going to need all I can get this week.
The woman smiles back at me shakily, her hand still clutching her shirt near her heart.
“I’m sorry. I just get easily startled. Thank you for helping me up,” she says, choking out a laugh. “You wouldn’t happen to know how to get to the dining room?”
She gives me a strange look, and I can see she is confused by my presence.
“I must have gotten turned around too,” I tell her. “But I think I have my bearings now.” I smile to reassure her, feeling motherly. If I had to guess, I’d say she’s probably in her early thirties, though I am terrible at guessing people’s ages. Give me someone between twenty-five and forty-five and I would be hard-pressed to give a remotely good answer. Nearly everyone looks young when you’re my age.
“I don’t know how I got so lost.” She still looks rattled.
I try to make her feel better. “Well, it’s not surprising, given how big this place is. I seem to have the hang of it, though. If you want, I can show you the dining room. I should be getting there myself.”
“Yes, that would be wonderful.” She smiles gratefully, the color returning to her cheeks, which flush a dark pink. She’s quite pretty when she smiles, I notice. I want to convince her I’m not an old loon, so I try to strike up a conversation.
“I’m Lottie, you must be another baker?”
“Yes, I am!” She puts her hand out toward me. “I’m Stella, and I really am so excited to be here, even if I don’t seem it.”
I take her hand in mine, shaking it. It is cold and clammy.
“Lovely to meet you, Stella.” Gently I lead her back the way I came, out onto the main landing. Far overhead the ceiling is crisscrossed with carved wooden beams, giving it the feel of a medieval church. A wide central staircase cascades down to the main floor, its wood banister curving elegantly to meet the flagstone of the foyer. Tall windows flanking the main door show a view of the tent, its white peaks set up in the hollow between the house’s two main wings, which jut forward on each side.
“It really is stunning here, isn’t it?” Stella breathes.
I nod in agreement, feeling a bit uneasy as we approach two menacing suits of armor guarding the front entrance. “I agree. It’s absolutely unforgettable.”
“So, Betsy Martin lives in that part of the manor?” Stella asks, pointing up to the left side of the landing where the larger staircase splits into two.
“That’s what I hear,” I say, trying to remember what I’ve read online about Betsy Martin’s personal life. “I guess she wanted her own space during filming. She probably doesn’t need the entire place to herself. The stairs to the left are to her private quarters. It’s called the East Wing, I think.”
As we descend the staircase, I get a prickle on the back of my neck and have the strangest feeling that we are already being filmed. But of course, that’s not the case. I don’t share my suspicion with Stella, who already had enough of a scare for one evening. I watch as her eyes dart around, taking everything in.
“I kind of can’t believe I’m here,” she muses. “Betsy is a hero of mine. My only hero these days. I’ve had one of Betsy’s cookbooks since I was a kid.The Pleasure of Dessert.It was my favorite book growing up. I mean, what little girl loves a cookbook? But there was something so special about it and it was all because of Betsy. Sorry, I must sound so annoying. Like such afan girl.”
I watch her, amused. Her face is still flushed, but I’m relieved to see that her anxiety seems to have given way to excitement.
“Not at all.” I brush her concerns away and try to match her enthusiasm. “She’s an… institution really, isn’t she?”
Stella nods vigorously. She leans in to confide to me. “She’s a comforting figure to me. Whenever I read one of her books or watchBake Week, I just feel so calm, like the world is a good place and nothing can harm me. You know?”
She turns toward me, her eyes searching, and I realize suddenly that Stella is someone who is unmothered. An ache of recognition forms in my chest. I pat her affectionately on the shoulder. “Shall we continue on to dinner?” I ask softly. “The others are probably waiting.”
Stella shakes her head as though to reset it. “Oh, yes please! Lookat me jibber-jabbering away about Betsy Martin and making us late to meet her in the process.”
“It’s just down here, I think.”
