The frown on Paul’s face reflected he’d had no luck finding work in Chicago. He’d taken to the dangerous practice of jumping freight cars for his daily treks into the city. But desperate circumstances caused men to take chances they might otherwise never consider. With so many men out of work now, even the occasional day jobs he’d located in the city had dried up— and so had his congenial attitude. His elder daughter, Lydia, followed behind him and stood leaning against the doorjamb.
He kicked a chair away from the table with the toe of his shoe and dropped onto the seat with a thud. ‘‘If this strike doesn’t soon end, we’re all going to starve to death.’’
Suzanne glanced at her daughter, whose eyes had instantly opened wide at the comment. ‘‘Do stop those remarks, Paul. The girls hear what you say, and they believe every word of it.’’ She looked at her daughter. ‘‘Your father is exaggerating, dear. We’re not going to starve to death.’’
Paul extended his arm, and Lydia ran to receive his embrace. ‘‘Don’t listen to me, girl. I’m just angry because I can’t take care of you children and your mother the way you deserve.’’
Lydia sat down on his lap. ‘‘Mrs. DeVault says God’s watching over us and there’s no need to worry, Daddy.’’
Paul patted his daughter’s blond curls. ‘‘Sometimes that’s hard to—’’
His wife’s stern look stopped him.
‘‘Hard to
what
, Daddy?’’ Lydia’s hazel eyes shone with expectation.
‘‘Hard to remember God will take care of us. Sometimes, it’s hard for your daddy to remember God cares about us.’’
The child stretched to kiss his cheek. ‘‘I’ll remind you each day. Will that help you remember?’’
‘‘That will help. Thank you, Lydia. Now go and play with your sister. I’ll call you when supper is ready.’’
Suzanne remained silent until the screen door slammed and then turned to face her husband. ‘‘I’ve told you over and over—’’
Fred held up his hand to stave off what could escalate into a family argument. ‘‘I have some information to pass along from today’s meeting.’’
The interruption halted Mrs. Quinter’s angry invective. Fred’s news regarding the distribution of donated food and cash brought an immediate smile to her face and an appreciative nod from her husband.
‘‘So you’ll be taking charge of the kitchen now that Mrs. DeVault has taken this new position?’’ Paul asked.
His wife nodded. ‘‘I’m pleased to help out, but don’t expect my cooking to match Mrs. DeVault’s.’’
‘‘You’ll do fine,’’ he said with a wink.
A blush spread across Suzanne’s cheeks, and she turned back toward the stove. ‘‘I imagine we should go ahead with supper. Before your mother left for the hotel, she said I should remain on our regular schedule and not worry about her.’’
Once Lydia had set the table and all of them had washed up, they gathered around the table for supper. After they joined hands, Fred offered a prayer for God’s continued provision and thanks for the meal set before them.
‘‘And for this strike to end soon,’’ Paul added, with a final amen.
The stew was thin and lacked flavor, but the hot cross buns helped fill him up. Hannah was the only one who complained that their supper wasn’t as good as usual. ‘‘No grumbling, young lady,’’ her father admonished. ‘‘There are many who would be pleased to eat at this table tonight.’’ At her father’s reminder, eight-year-old Hannah wilted and offered an apology.
‘‘I’m home!’’ The group turned in unison at the sound of Mrs. DeVault’s greeting.
Fred pushed away from the table and met his mother in the hall. Bright color dotted her cheeks. He expected her to appear weary and haggard after her first day at work. Instead, she appeared several years younger.
He pecked a kiss on her cheek and stepped back. ‘‘You sound quite energetic for someone who has been hard at work all day.’’
She propped her hat on the hall tree and gently slapped his arm. ‘‘And what has changed? I have always worked hard each day. Who do you think has been keeping this house clean, cooking meals, washing and ironing your clothes, and—’’
‘‘I didn’t mean to suggest that your household duties aren’t taxing, but it’s different working for someone else—having a supervisor watching your every move.’’ He tipped his head to the side. ‘‘Don’t you think?’’
She laughed and nodded. ‘‘Well, I agree with most of what you’ve said. I will admit that my feet ache and I’m eager to relax and enjoy a cup of coffee.’’
‘‘Sit down and rest your weary bones,’’ Suzanne said. ‘‘I’ll pour you a cup; then you can tell us all about your day.’’
Mrs. DeVault didn’t hesitate to accept the offer. She sat in her usual spot next to Fred. Once Suzanne had placed a steaming cup of coffee and a hot cross bun in front of her, she took a sip of coffee and then explained the details of her new position.
‘‘Chef René is a wonderful supervisor. He came downstairs to the baking kitchen several times during the day to compliment me. He said he’d never had anyone accomplish so much in such a short period of time.’’ She beamed and glanced from face to face.
For a moment, his mother reminded Fred of a young girl. Each time she spoke of Chef René , the color in her cheeks heightened and she became more animated. He watched her closely, uncertain what to think of her unusual behavior. She appeared somewhat smitten by the man—or was it merely the fact that someone other than family had acknowledged her talents? In the past Olivia had spoken highly of Chef René , but she’d also mentioned a few of his faults: a short temper, the need for perfection, and his lack of faith.
Fred squeezed his mother’s arm as the girls excused themselves from the table. ‘‘I’m pleased he realized what a gem he’s recruited for his kitchen. His gain is our loss.’’ He quickly cleared his throat. ‘‘I’m sorry, Suzanne. I didn’t mean to imply that your cooking isn’t . . .’’
Suzanne laughed. ‘‘You don’t need to apologize, Fred. We all know my food doesn’t hold a candle to your mother’s fine fare.’’
The older woman smiled. ‘‘Practice makes perfect, Suzanne. My new position will give you time to hone your skills. This will be a fine opportunity for all of us. God has answered our prayers.’’
‘‘Let’s hope God answers our prayers to end this strike,’’ Paul said.
Mrs. DeVault nodded. ‘‘I understand your concerns, Paul. But for this one day why don’t we simply thank Him for what He has given us.’’
‘‘I need to practice what I preach to my daughters,’’ Mr. Quinter said with a chuckle. He pushed away from the table. ‘‘I’ll send the girls in to help you with the dishes, Suzanne.’’
Fred leaned close to his mother. ‘‘I hope you told Chef René that once the strike is over, you don’t intend to continue working at the hotel.’’
She arched her brows. ‘‘I’ve done no such thing. Who knows what will happen over the next months? I may discover I’m well suited for this position.’’ She tapped her son’s chest with her index finger. ‘‘If I am able to support myself by working in Pullman, you may finally have the opportunity to leave and seek work in Chicago without fear of forcing me to move.’’ His mother smiled broadly. ‘‘Now there’s a possibility I don’t think you’ve considered.’’
The following morning Fred stood outside Greenstone Church wearing his good suit and crisp white shirt. Olivia’s heart thumped a quick staccato rhythm at the sight of him. Since mid-April he’d been threatening to attend Sunday services in Kensington, and each Sunday morning she rounded the corner and wondered if he’d be waiting for her. Fred had grown increasingly unhappy with the preacher. And Olivia understood Fred’s disdain.
The preacher ought not be using the pulpit to promote his own views. However, since his arrival in Pullman back in January, Reverend Oggel had made his position clear: he supported management. And as winter had worn on and tensions continued to mount in town, the preacher had become increasingly anti-union. One of his mid-April sermons had been a tribute to George M. Pullman that recounted, in painstaking detail, the man’s rise from poverty to a position of fame and fortune throughout the country. The discourse had set Fred on edge. For nearly forty minutes, the preacher had touted the model town as an experiment in contemplated beauty and harmony, as well as a place of health, comfort, and contentment for the residents. Never once did the preacher mention the suffering or current needs of his flock.
Since that time, the preacher hadn’t been quite so flagrant with his remarks, but he never failed to include at least an oratorical ‘‘tip of the hat’’ to Mr. Pullman or members of management in his sermons. While most members of his congregation wore the white ribbons tied to their wrist that displayed unity with the strikers, the preacher’s lapel continued to bear the small flag that signified his alignment with the company.
Olivia grasped Fred’s arm and offered him a bright smile. ‘‘I’m pleased to see you. I had hoped to stop by last evening, but with the shortage of help in the kitchen, I worked late. By the time I left, I wanted nothing more than a soft bed.’’
‘‘I thought my mother had been hired to fill the vacant position. Was there some misunderstanding on her part?’’
She heard the concern in his voice. ‘‘There was no misunderstanding. Both of the bakers left, and though your mother is quite talented, she can’t complete the work of two women. I stayed behind to restock items for her so she wouldn’t be overwhelmed come Monday morning.’’
Fred greeted several groups of men before the two of them ascended the steps and entered the vestibule. ‘‘I’d think there would be a number of women eager to apply for the other position.’’
‘‘Indeed. But so far, Chef René hasn’t received authority to hire anyone else. I don’t think Mr. Howard was overly pleased when he discovered your mother had been hired without his approval.’’ Olivia inched her way in front of a couple who refused to scoot to the center of the pew and sat down. ‘‘He may feel that Chef René needs to be taught a lesson for overstepping his bounds. Let’s don’t forget what happened last week when Mr. Billings hired a washwoman.’’
The closing of the laundry had presented Mr. Billings with a difficult situation: mountains of dirty hotel linens that must be laundered. Without Mr. Howard’s permission, the hotel manager hired a washwoman. When Mr. Howard discovered the hotel manager had set up an independent laundry and usurped Mr. Howard’s authority as company agent, a public argument ensued between the two men that permitted comic relief for both strikers and management alike.
The incident had led to a general agreement that no one would ever override Mr. Howard’s authority in the future. But now it had happened again. And Chef René could well suffer the same dressing-down Mr. Billings had received.
Mrs. DeVault bustled into the church and entered their pew while the organist struck the opening chords of the hymn that signaled services would soon begin. ‘‘I thought I was going to be late,’’ she whispered to the two of them.
Fred grinned at his mother. ‘‘You
are
late, but your secret is safe with us.’’
While the congregation stood, his mother touched a gloved hand to her lips in an effort to stifle a giggle. The hymn singing and Scripture reading continued without incident, but when Reverend Oggel stepped to the pulpit, he delivered an attack that condemned the strike and branded the union leaders as agitators. He sent the congregation home with his final words ringing in their ears—half a loaf was better than none.
Fred jumped up from the pew and grasped Olivia by the elbow. ‘‘Until that man has been replaced, I’ll be attending church in Kensington. It’s one thing to have an opinion about the strike, but it’s quite another to use the pulpit to promote that agenda.’’
Olivia noted the look on Mr. Howard’s face when he passed their pew. He’d obviously been quite pleased with the morning’s sermon.
‘‘You could smile,’’ she said to Fred as they neared the flat her cousin Albert had rented shortly before he and Martha had wed.
‘‘I was looking forward to spending time alone with you after church.’’ He pushed his hat back on his head and sauntered a little more slowly. ‘‘I don’t think I’m going to be welcome at Albert’s home. I could meet you in the park at four o’clock.’’
‘‘Don’t be silly. I’m certain Albert and Martha will be pleased to visit with both of us. Albert tells me Martha has been quite lonely and misses her work at the hotel.’’
Fred nodded. ‘‘Now that the strike’s begun, she has Albert to keep her company.’’
‘‘Yes, but that’s not the same as having others pay a call. I’ve been doing my best to remember all of the latest news from the hotel.’’
Fred grinned. ‘‘You mean gossip?’’
‘‘No! I mean
news
,’’ she said, playfully slapping his arm.
They continued their banter until a short time later when they mounted the steps to the flat and Olivia knocked on the door. Albert offered a broad smile when he saw Olivia, but his eyes shone with concern when he caught sight of Fred standing beside her. He opened the door and motioned them inside while peering up and down the street.
‘‘Are you expecting someone else?’’ Fred asked.
‘‘No, I uh . . . well, I . . .’’ Albert shook his head. ‘‘No. We’re not expecting anyone. Come in.’’
‘‘Why don’t we go and play a game of lawn tennis?’’ Fred suggested.
Albert instantly declined. ‘‘A bit too warm for me out there, but we could go into the kitchen and give the ladies time to visit alone, if you like.’’
Fred didn’t argue. ‘‘The kitchen it is,’’ he said.
‘‘Come join me in the parlor, Olivia,’’ Martha called.
As the men walked down the hallway, Olivia entered the parlor and leaned down to embrace Martha. ‘‘You look wonderful.’’
‘‘Thank you.’’ She patted the seat cushion beside her. ‘‘Sit down. I want to hear all the latest news.’’
With the men out of earshot, Olivia answered each of Martha’s questions, adding as much detail as possible. ‘‘I do miss having you at the hotel,’’ she said when Martha’s inquiries finally ceased.
‘‘And I miss being there, too, but I must admit I don’t miss Mr. Billings and his snoopy ways.’’
Olivia chuckled. ‘‘He hasn’t changed much. Are you certain you’ve been feeling well? Albert appeared concerned when I inquired about your health yesterday.’’