Becoming the Talbot Sisters

by Rachel Linden

  Late that night Artur came for them unexpectedly. Charlie was already asleep, and Waverly was working on the next day’s recipe, trying to decide on an easy dish involving grilled meat. It was the main ingredient for the next day’s show, and she didn’t want to be upstaged by her younger costar, whom she’d taken to privately referring to as Antagonist. She stared at the piece of paper and wrote American hamburgers at the top. She was also trying not to think about Andrew, wondering what he was doing. Where was he? Had he flown to Europe? Or was he still at the cabin, and if so, did he even know she was gone? Or, horrible thought, was he home, carrying on with his work, content to let the authorities sort out his wife’s disappearance? She felt her heart crumble at that thought. No, she needed to focus on the positive, not dwell on the unknowns.

  She wrote down the words caramelized onions and balsamic glazed mushrooms, then paused. Should she do an onion jam or a blue cheese dressing for the burgers? Her thoughts turned from the burgers back to Andrew. He loved his burgers stuffed with Stilton and coated in cracked black pepper. She wondered again if he knew about her disappearance. If so, was he worried? Surely he still cared about her. But maybe not enough to come after her. They were separated, after all. She acknowledged the term for the first time. It was true. They were still married but wanted very different futures. She wrote brioche buns? with a question mark. She had no inkling of what this separation would mean long term. She loved Andrew. She believed that he loved her. But what could they do, faced with such irreconcilable visions of the future? Waverly laid the pen down and glanced over at her twin’s sleeping form across the room, at the round ball of the baby curled within her belly. It was irrevocable, the path Waverly had chosen. But she had no idea how it would play out.

  A pounding on the door snapped her out of her thoughts. Artur poked his head into the room and motioned for them to come with him. Waverly woke Charlie, and a few moments later they were padding behind their silent guard, following the beam of his flashlight to the outbuilding. Following Charlie, who was in her pajamas, Waverly sniffed the fresh, cool evening air. It smelled of manure from the garden and woodsmoke. Gravel crunched beneath their feet, the only sound in the darkness. In the outbuilding the large main room was dark, but a light was on in the office. Artur left them at the door to the office and grunted, gesturing for them to go inside. Erjon sat alone at the computer, studying something on the screen. He looked up when he heard them come in.

  “Ah, come.” He motioned them over to the computer. “Come see.” He pointed at the screen. It was a paused YouTube video of the cooking episodes they had taped the first day. In the video Waverly was frozen with her mouth open, just biting into one of Antigona’s kurabies, a strained smile plastered on her face. Antigona was standing in her sequined gown and tiara watching Waverly try the cookie, with an equally strained expression. The video was titled “Waverly Talbot—Captive Cookie Showdown.” It already had over a hundred thousand views.

  “Oh wow.” Charlie gaped at the screen, her expression disbelieving.

  Waverly looked at her own frozen wide-open mouth on the video and felt a twinge of annoyance. Of all the things to go viral, a video of her in a forced cookie bake-off with an Albanian pageant queen was not anything she would have chosen. It was fame for all the wrong reasons. She frowned.

  Erjon looked pleased. “This is good,” he announced. He gestured to the screen. “Many people see it all over the world. This is good.” He sat back, satisfied. “We will make more videos. The world is watching. You rest now. Tomorrow we make another video and send it to Beau Beecham for YouTube.”

  Waverly’s heart sank and she exchanged a brief look of dismay with Charlie. It was exactly what they did not want to hear. Erjon showed no sign of letting them go soon, especially not after this new development. Waverly and Antigona were suddenly YouTube sensations, the grand kind of publicity Erjon was hoping for.

  Waverly bit her lip, staring at the screen. How in the world were they going to get rescued? Every day the no-fly date for the baby drew closer, as did Charlie’s date to testify for the trial. Somehow they had to get away, and they were running out of time.

  CHAPTER 25

  Andrew shifted his Lexus into drive and carefully bumped down the rutted dirt trail that led away from the tiny log fishing cabin where he’d been holed up for the past two weeks. The cabin was tucked away in a remote patch of wilderness in the Adirondack Mountains, the nearest town miles away. He’d purchased it years ago as his own private retreat, long before he met Waverly. She’d never even seen the place. It was without Internet or cell reception or indoor plumbing, but to Andrew it was perfect, a simple space where a man could listen to the quiet of the forest and collect his thoughts. He rarely used it anymore, but he liked knowing it was waiting for him should he need it. This time he had needed it.

  He cast a last look in the rearview mirror before the cabin was obscured by the dense foliage. It had been a good and productive time away. He’d had the time and space to seriously reflect on the current state of his marriage and the trajectory of his life. And he had come to a decision. It was not an easy or simple one, but he was confident it was the right one. Now to share the news with Waverly.

  Andrew glanced at his watch, resolving to call her as soon as he had cell reception. He calculated the time difference in his head. Six hours ahead in Budapest, where Waverly had gone to visit Charlie and the growing baby. Their growing baby, he corrected himself. He needed to start thinking differently about the child if this was going to work. It was early afternoon in Hungary and time to call his wife.

  As he drove, Andrew glanced at his phone every few minutes, checking to see if he had service. He wound his way toward Interstate 87 and began the four-hour drive home to Greenwich. Finally, his phone made a dinging sound. He had cell reception and evidently a text message. His phone dinged again and again. He glanced at it and almost swerved into the next lane. The screen was filled with text messages.

  With a sinking sensation in his stomach he looked for somewhere to pull off the road, forcing himself not to look at the messages while he drove. What had happened while he had been away? Was it Waverly? Was she okay? Or maybe something with the baby? Hoping it was just a work crisis, he pulled into a gas station and slammed the car into park, fumbling for his phone. The first text message he saw was from his secretary, Nancy.

  Andrew, I can’t get ahold of you and the press is going crazy. What do I say to them? CALL ME!

  He scanned the next one, his heart pounding. It was from his sister in London.

  Just saw the news. Shocking! Are you okay?

  “News? What news?” Andrew muttered, frantically scrolling through the remaining messages. They were all similar—dramatic, concerned, and devoid of any useful solid information. He ran a hand through his hair, distressed, and glanced up at the service station. There on a newspaper stand on the sidewalk in front of the station was his wife’s face in full color under the headline Kidnapped TV Star Still Missing.

  The next few minutes were a blur. Andrew bought the paper, shoving the quarters into the machine and ripping the edition from the stack inside the case. He read the article speedily, greedy for information. His hands were shaking.

  She’s alive, she’s okay, was his first thought, accompanied by a flood of relief so strong it made his knees buckle. He sank down in the driver’s seat and read the article again more slowly. His initial relief gave way to a growing sense of disbelief as he digested the scanty lines of the article. Kidnapped. Accompanied by her sister, international aid worker Charlotte Talbot. Held in an unknown location. Viral YouTube videos of cooking demonstrations. International manhunt under way.

  Andrew set the paper down in bewilderment, heart pounding. His wife had been kidnapped. It seemed too bizarre to be true. All the time he had been imagining Waverly safely cozied up with Charlie enjoying a break in Budapest, she had in fact been held prisoner in some unknown location. While he had been enjoying cooking his da
ily catch in a cast iron skillet and reading a bit of Thoreau before bed, content with the silence and the room to think, Waverly was being held against her will and forced to make sham cooking videos by unknown kidnappers.

  Was she scared, in distress? Was she being harmed in any way? He closed his eyes, overcome with a wave of emotion. He felt guilty and protective and monumentally worried all at the same time. What was being done to find her? Did the police have any leads?

  He picked up his phone, intent on finding out as much as he could, then stopped. Whom could he call? He scrolled through his list of contacts, hoping for inspiration. Waverly’s producer, Beau . . . What was his last name? He had to think for a long moment before he dredged it up from the recesses of his mind. Beecham? Was that it? There was no Beau Beecham in his contact list. Why had Andrew never put Beau’s phone number into his phone? What about Waverly’s assistant, Sophie? He checked his numbers again with a growing sense of helplessness. No Sophie. Why had he never thought to get her number either? It was because he let Waverly handle all the details of her Simply Perfect empire. He didn’t concern himself with the particulars. Well, now he was regretting not concerning himself at least a bit more.

  He gripped the steering wheel and tried to think. It was unlikely he could find out anything useful sitting in a petrol station parking lot. He needed to head for home and regroup. He bought a double espresso, downing it without tasting it, then laid the paper with the color photo of Waverly on the seat next to him and raced for home at speeds roughly double the posted limit. There was no time to waste. He had to find his wife.

  As soon as he walked in the door of their house, Andrew tossed his leather overnight bag on the kitchen chair and called the Food Network. For the next hour he worked fruitlessly to reach someone who would give him any information. He asked for Beau, only to be told that he was filming on location in Europe and was not available. He tried to cajole and reason with each person he managed to talk to, but to no avail. No one believed he was actually Waverly’s husband, and all cited various confidentiality and legal reasons why they could not give him any information. He finally lost his temper with the last one, swearing elegantly and thoroughly at the stunned woman on the other end before hanging up. It was pointless. All the people who could verify that he was who he said he was were apparently somewhere in Europe trying to find his wife. Meanwhile he sat in his kitchen and got nowhere.

  He ran his hands through his hair, exasperated. Unable to think of what else to do, he listened to his dozens of voicemail messages. A few from friends and work colleagues. Most from reporters wanting a statement. He deleted all of those one by one. When he got to the last one, he listened absently for a few seconds.

  “Hi, this is Jessica Archer with Channel 9 news out of Athens, Ohio.”

  Another reporter. He started to delete the message, then hesitated. That name seemed vaguely familiar for some reason. He listened to the rest of the message.

  “I’m an old friend of Waverly’s from high school. I did an interview with her when she was in Cooksville last fall. Of course we’re all just horrified to hear about Waverly’s disappearance. I was hoping to talk to you for a few minutes, just to hear your side of things, see how you are holding up. We’re all so worried. Please call me if I can help in any way. I’d love to hear from you.”

  Andrew remembered seeing the segment last fall when they had been in Cooksville for Mae’s funeral. It had been a brief snippet of airtime, a startled-looking Waverly being accosted over breakfast by a fiercely peppy redhead in a vivid pink suit. But she knew Waverly. He paused, considering. Perhaps this Jessica Archer could help him. She was only a small-town reporter, but perhaps as a reporter she would have special clearance or connections that could get him the information he needed. At the very least she might be able to convince someone who mattered that Andrew was who he said he was. He liked the idea of contacting someone who actually knew Waverly. Andrew scribbled the woman’s number down on the corner of the newspaper, right above the blond crown of Waverly’s head, and then he called her back, hoping against hope that she would somehow be able to help him find his wife.

  Jessica Archer answered her phone on the first ring with a brisk eagerness that took Andrew aback. He stumbled through a hello and briefly explained why he was calling. He tried not to sound pleading or pathetic, clearing his throat and summoning his best London banker voice, the posh and polite method that had stood him in good stead all his adult life. He needed this woman’s help but didn’t want to grovel.

  He needn’t have worried. Jessica was very keen to assist Andrew in gleaning any information she could about Waverly, but she wanted something in return.

  “I’ll even go with you to try to locate her,” Jessica said. “But when she’s rescued, I want the first exclusive interview with the two of you.”

  “Done,” Andrew agreed promptly, secretly relieved that she had said when she was rescued and not if. As though it was only a matter of time until Waverly was found. With the help of this Jessica person, Andrew intended to be there when they found her.

  “I’ll make some calls,” Jessica promised him. “See what I can dig up. What did you say her producer’s name is? Beau what?”

  He could hear her scribbling something down as he spelled out Beau’s last name, at least what he hoped was the correct spelling. He really needed to start paying more attention to the particulars of his wife’s professional life.

  A moment later Jessica hung up with a promise to call him as soon as she had any news. And then Andrew was alone in the huge, echoing house. He looked around at the kitchen—Waverly’s mother’s apron hung on a hook by the spice cabinet; a wedding photo of the two of them sat in a silver frame by the office nook where her collection of vintage cookbooks was shelved. His stomach rumbled, and he realized he hadn’t eaten since early morning.

  Getting up, he poked around the kitchen, feeling a little lost. Waverly kept him efficiently and thoroughly fed, and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d done more than pour his own scotch. Julia Child’s Mastering the Art of French Cooking lay on the counter, open to a recipe for crème brûlée. Waverly had scribbled indecipherable notes along the margins. Andrew put his finger on her familiar looping cursive scrawl and blinked back an unaccustomed prickle behind his eyes. He missed his wife. And he was worried about her, worried sick and feeling utterly helpless.

  He made himself a piece of toast, fiddling with the gleaming silver toaster until the third slice came out unblackened, and then poured two generous fingers of eighteen-year-old Macallan and sat in his favorite leather club chair in his study.

  When Jessica Archer called back just ninety minutes later, Andrew was deep into his second scotch and repeatedly watching the YouTube videos of Waverly on her bizarre hostage cooking show. He paused the video—Waverly, wearing a fixed smile and a sequined evening gown that displayed rather a lot of cleavage, was dipping perfectly round cookies into a bowl of sugar. Andrew tore his eyes away from his wife’s face and answered the phone, trying to compose himself. He felt a little woozy from the alcohol, but Jessica didn’t seem to notice.

  “I can’t get anyone to give me any information,” she said immediately, “but I have a few leads in Europe. We’re going to have to do this the old-fashioned way. Pack a bag and meet me at LaGuardia tomorrow morning at five. We’re catching the early flight out. We’ll start in Budapest.”

  CHAPTER 26

  Charlie woke in the middle of the night with a gasp, immediately aware of the tightening in her pelvis, low and strong, stronger than she’d ever felt before. She’d been having practice contractions for weeks, gentle little tightenings that lasted a few seconds. This wasn’t that. She sucked in her breath, counting the seconds, every molecule of her being focused on the baby and what was happening within her. Was this labor? It was too early. She was barely twenty-nine weeks. She squinted at the clock across the room. Five in the morning. She lay still, tensed, willing it to go away, deeply afraid t
hat something was going wrong, something beyond her control.

  “Not here, please. Not like this,” she whispered, trying to relax her body. Another contraction squeezed her pelvis, this one even stronger. She looked again at the clock. Ten minutes had passed between the two.

  In the bed opposite her, Waverly was lying on her side, one hand curled under her cheek, wheezing gently. She had endured another long day of taping several back-to-back episodes. Erjon, delighted with the success of the first YouTube video, had posted two more in the past forty-eight hours, both of which had garnered hundreds of thousands of views. The mood in the studio was increasingly buoyant as the videos went viral, but the crew and Waverly and Antigona were working longer and longer hours. Waverly had come back to the room late that evening with a plate of her own deluxe American hamburgers with homemade mayonnaise and onion jam and Antigona’s grilled cevapi and fresh kajmak for Charlie.

  Charlie shifted the turgid ball of her stomach, trying to get comfortable, trying to relax. She clutched the medal of St. George, making a valiant effort to calm down and encourage her body to stop whatever it was doing. She was breathing fast and shallow. What if she was in labor? She couldn’t have the baby here. Would a twenty-nine-week-old baby even survive without a sophisticated NICU? She shut her eyes and concentrated on breathing slowly, deeply, trying to consciously relax the muscles of her body. She was shaking with fear. Her thumb pressed hard into the little metal knight and the dragon he fought as she tried to control her emotions, to convince herself that everything was going to be okay. It had to be, for Waverly, for the baby inside of her. She couldn’t allow herself to think of any other outcome. She tried not to think about the baby, how tiny and vulnerable he still was. The thought of something happening to him pierced her, sharp as an ice pick to her heart.