Page 5 of The Golden Spoon
I guide her through an archway off the foyer and down a short hall. This part of the manor is welcoming and warmly lit compared to where we were upstairs. I tentatively approach a tall set of polished wood doors. I can already hear the pleasant buzz of voices behind them.
“I never ever would have found my way here, Lottie. Thank you.”
“Are you ready? I believe this is the dining room,” I say, feeling like a tour guide. Stella looks at me, her eyes wide.
“Here we go!”
We each take one of the brass handles and push the doors open. A massive chandelier casts a festive glow above a long table where five people are already drinking wine and chatting. They look up at us as we enter, their faces bright and a bit trepidatious, like children on the first day of school. There are already several open bottles of wine and the remnants of some bread and cheese on a platter.
At the head of the table, I recognize with a sudden lurch in my stomach, is the queen of baking herself, Betsy Martin. I feel Stella’s hand squeezing my shoulder.
“Welcome! Come join us,” Betsy commands, smiling regally. She gestures to the empty seats. She looks, in a word, wealthy. Swathed in a light pink cashmere sweater, her earlobes punctuated with pearls, she has the kind of glow that at our age comes only with very subtle, very expensive plastic surgery.
I have to say I was surprised to read she’d be joining us for dinner tonight. I’d always assumed she kept a professional distance between herself and the contestants.
A handsome man stands up, pulling out the chair next to him. I hesitate and look to Stella, who gestures for me to take a seat. I watch her sink into the chair across the table from me next to a very pretty and exceptionally young woman with white-blond hair cut in a straight line above her shoulders.
The man next to me picks up a bottle of wine, tipping it toward my glass and raising his brows.
“Just a very small glass,” I say.
He fills my wineglass up over halfway, then brings the bottle back to his own glass, filling it nearly to the brim. He passes a tray in my direction.
“You have to try this cracker, it’s divine.”
I take one and set it on my plate.
“I’ll have one of those,” a man in a plaid shirt calls from across the table, sliding several onto his palm. “I hear that Betsy made them herself.”
“I’m Peter, by the way.”
“Pradyumna,” the man next to me says.
“I think I saw you out front earlier. Did you bring the BMW?” Peter says, munching on a cracker.
“Ridiculous car, I know.” Pradyumna laughs modestly.
“Beautiful car,” Peter says, shaking his head appreciatively.
I catch Stella taking a long gulp of white wine. Pradyumna turns toward me, hooking a lanky arm around the top of his chair.
“And what was your name?”
“I’m Lottie,” I say, feeling a bit flushed.
“So, what do you do when you aren’t baking, Lottie?”
It’s been a long time since a handsome young man has taken such a keen interest in me. For a moment I almost feel like it’s a line and he’s trying to pick me up. Sometimes I forget my age. It’s a blessing and a curse, I suppose, to not feel my seventy-two years. Back when I was young, I remember thinking older people were practically a different species. Now I realize we are always the same inside, it’s just the packaging that changes.
“I was a nurse, but I’m long retired now,” I say. I’m starting to feel uncomfortable with all the attention directed at me, so I deflect by turning the questions back on him. If there is one thing I know to be true, it is that men love answering questions about themselves.
“And what broughtyouto baking, or was it something you’ve always done?”
A small frown forms on his face, and he looks down into his wine. “Well, I don’t know really. I suppose I wanted to impress women.”
I let out a surprised laugh. He smiles impishly, pleased with himself. “No, seriously, I just think it’s quite fun. Takes my mind off things, takes up time.” I wonder how the life of someone so young should be so empty that it needs time taken up, but before I can dig any deeper the dining room doors open and a man rushes in. He’s wearing a cream-colored linen suit, wrinkled from a day’s travel. He drags his suitcase noisily behind him, coming to a momentary pause he pulls a handkerchief out of his pocket and mops his brow, then carries on, making a beeline for the table. He comes to a sudden stop at the far end of the dining table.
“Hello, everyone, I’m Gerald,” he addresses us, but his eyes focus only on Betsy. He gives a small, melodramatic bow in her direction. “I’m mortified that I’m late. It was the trains, you see. The schedules were inaccurate.” His voice rises as he says this last part. Across from me, Peter’s eyebrows go up.
