Chapter Six
Six
Before I can resume reading the diary, my grumbling stomach reminds me that dinnertime came and went hours ago.
Now that we’re living like the women of New Avalon, we apparently must fend for ourselves.
And even though in Daisy’s diary, it was Mrs. Semple who kept the others fed, I highly doubt someone like Violet Wright is going to be making all of us dinner.
Since the cottage has no kitchen, I grab one of the lamps and venture outdoors like a pioneer woman in search of sustenance.
The obvious place to go is the main house and the kitchen Brad had pointed out earlier.
He, by the way, is nowhere to be found. Likely because he, Ronan, and Loretta are off enjoying a secret five-course meal in one of the upstairs rooms.
Not knowing what else to do, I explore the kitchen. Brad was correct. It’s truly terrifying.
Because there’s no electricity here, either, the kitchen hasn’t received a groovy seventies update like the bathroom in my cottage.
Everything here entered antique status decades ago.
The oven is a cast-iron monstrosity that seems as big as a locomotive.
It and the open-hearth fireplace nearby are both wood-burning, so I toss a few logs into each one and light them up.
Remembering Brad’s warning about not drinking the lake water, I then haul a giant pot onto the stove and start boiling water for drinking and brushing my teeth.
From the emptiness of the kitchen and lack of other containers of water, I assume I’m the first person to think of this.
Either that, or they’re holding out on the newbie.
Even though I was—and, let’s face it, likely still am—a waitress and not a chef, I’ve spent enough time in restaurants to know how to whip up a meal.
A search of the kitchen yields a variety of old-timey foods stored in old-timey ways.
A pantry full of flour, sugar, rice, and beans.
A spice rack. A larder bearing potatoes, onions, and carrots.
An icebox with an actual block of ice inside, which does a decent job of chilling a glass bottle of milk, a stick of butter under a ceramic lid, and a dozen brown eggs.
There’s even some bacon wrapped in butcher paper and a smoked ham dangling from a hook on the pantry door.
I decide to dice several potatoes and toss them into a cast-iron skillet with some onions, carrots, and cubes of the smoked ham.
Despite there being yeast in the pantry, making bread this late is out of the question.
Instead, I mix some flour, salt, and butter together to create a batter for drop biscuits that go into a separate skillet.
As the food cooks, I find an ice pick and start breaking off chunks from the block of ice. This should cool down the water after it’s done boiling and make it halfway drinkable.
The whole time, I try to convince myself that all this effort will be good for the movie.
That toiling in this oppressively hot kitchen will connect me to the women of New Avalon, if not Daisy herself.
That I’ll be able to channel this moment when the cameras are rolling, giving my performance extra authenticity.
In truth, all it really does is make me miss my microwave.
Still, the result of all this work is a halfway decent dinner of hash and biscuits, the scent of which travels from the open kitchen windows to the cottages outside.
Within minutes, Heather, Julianne, and Susie have drifted inside, staring hungrily at the food I’m piling onto a plate.
The only cast member missing is Violet Wright.
Disappointing but not surprising, given her stature.
She’s probably getting her meals flown in by drone.
“You didn’t need to make us dinner, Marin,” Heather says.
I want to tell her that I didn’t. That I made it for me.
But then I think about Daisy and what she’d do or say in this situation.
Smile, probably, while claiming it was her pleasure.
Even though I feel the opposite as Susie, the woman who only hours earlier assumed I must be sleeping with the director, loads up her plate.
“Is this keto?” she asks, sniffing the food like a finicky cat.
“I don’t know.”
“Well, some of us have dietary restrictions.”
And that makes it official. I hate Susie Hutchinson.
“You’re welcome to cook your own dinner,” I say.
Susie says nothing after that, spooning more food onto her plate in silence.
We eat at a rough-hewn table in a nook of the kitchen, at first too hungry to make small talk. Only after several hearty bites does one of us come up for air. Heather, who says, “Marin, this is amazing.”
“Absolutely delicious,” Julianne says. “Thank you again.”
“I can’t believe Loretta wouldn’t spring for a caterer,” Susie says, which I can only interpret as a commentary on my food. “It’s, like, the least she could do. Instead, we have to fend for ourselves.”
“I didn’t see you doing any fending,” Heather tells her. “If it wasn’t for Marin, all of us would have starved tonight.”
Another check in Heather’s column, which puts her way ahead of Susie’s score of zero.
Still, Susie’s not wrong. Feeding the cast is the least that Loretta could do.
In fact, I thought on-set catering was required.
Then again, we’re not on a set. We’re in the real-life place where the real-life events that we’ll be acting out later on a movie set occurred. That’s a whole other ball of weirdness.
“This is all kind of unusual, right?” I say, lowering my voice in case Ronan or, God forbid, Loretta is listening nearby.
“What do you mean?” Heather says.
“This.” I gesture to my plate, my dress, the ham dangling from the pantry door. “It feels…off.”
“I don’t know,” Heather says with a shrug. “There’s always some kind of training involved. I once had to spend a week at a police academy learning how to be a cop.”
“And Disney made me take singing lessons,” Susie adds, surprising no one. Even as a tween listening to her music nonstop, I could tell she’d been auto-tuned to within an inch of her life. “Dance classes, too.”
“But you didn’t have to live like your characters,” I say. “Without electricity. Or your phones. Or water you can drink without boiling.”
“I suppose this is a little more unusual than normal,” Julianne admits. “In my experience, it’s up to the actors to decide how deep they want to sink into the lives of their characters. Some go full method, others just read the lines.”
“They should at least make us comfortable,” Susie says. “It’s not fair that only Violet gets to avoid staying in one of those shitty cottages.”
Heather lowers her fork. “They’re not that bad.”
“Maybe not for you. But I’m used to staying in suites.”
Instead of calling out Susie for being the entitled brat she clearly is, I roll my eyes, stare at my plate, and say, “Has anyone heard anything strange in their cottage?”
“Strange how?” Heather says.
“Like a scratching sound.”
“Have you heard scratching?” Julianne says, exchanging a fraught look with Heather.
“Yes.” I pause. “Is that a problem?”
“You might have bats,” Susie says through a mouthful of food. “I saw a TikTok about it.”
Her questionable sourcing aside, I’d consider Susie’s theory if not for the fact that, if it had been bats, I would have seen them flying around inside the cottage. Since I didn’t—and since I don’t think bats make much noise to begin with—I can only assume it was something else.
“I wouldn’t worry about it,” Heather says. “It was probably nothing,”
“Nothing,” Julianne echoes, leaving me to think the noise was indeed something and that maybe I should indeed worry.
But when I return to the cottage after Heather and Julianne offer to wash the dishes, all is quiet.
For a few minutes, that is. The scratching sound starts up again just as I’m about to brush my teeth with the water I boiled in the kitchen.
Toothbrush in hand, I search every inch of the cottage, even scanning the ceiling in case Susie was right about bats.
But there’s nothing to see. The cottage itself is empty, even as the scratching continues from seemingly every direction.
It stops after a few minutes, going away as abruptly as it arrived, only to be replaced by a different sound, this time clearly from outside the cottage.
Footsteps.
Accompanying them are a steady rattle and the distinct clinking of glasses. Within seconds, they’re joined by knocks on the cottage door.
I rush to open it, finding none other than Violet Wright standing on the doorstep.
Like the rest of us, she’s now wearing her character’s clothes.
A lavender dress with a high neck, mother-of-pearl buttons, and sleeves that puff out at the shoulders.
The costume gives her a classic, regal look.
If not for the two martini glasses and massive Yeti thermos she’s holding, one wouldn’t be wrong in thinking she was on her way to play Hedda Gabler.
“Forgive the intrusion,” she says, giving the thermos a tantalizing rattle. “But I think it’s time we got better acquainted, don’t you?”
“Um, hi. Yes, please come in.”
“Are you sure you don’t mind?” Violet asks, as if I could possibly be annoyed at the idea of hanging out with a movie star. Taking my silence as an invitation, she sets the thermos and glasses on the bare wooden shelf along the wall. “I took the liberty of making us martinis.”
“I’m not sure Ronan would approve,” I say as Violet fills both glasses close to the rim.
She carefully passes one to me before taking a darting sip from her own. “It’s fine. They had gin in the twenties. It was probably pure rubbing alcohol, but whatever gets the job done, eh?”
Violet takes another sip, prompting me to do the same. Her martini is light on the vermouth and very heavy on the gin, which hits me hard. It may not be rubbing alcohol, but it’s not too far off.
“Too strong?” Violet says. “I knew I should have used more ice. But it was so exhausting. My poor arm! I’ve never used an ice pick before.”