‘‘I don’t think you need worry that Chef René is going to steal your mother away from you.’’
‘‘What is that supposed to mean?’’
Olivia tugged at a clump of weeds near the base of the tree. ‘‘Are you going to play naïve with me after your obvious objection to his interest in your mother?’’
Fred grasped her hand. ‘‘I didn’t object. I merely wondered at his intent.’’
Her brows lifted in two perfect arcs. ‘‘Fred! You were obviously upset by the idea your mother might consider marriage.’’
‘‘She barely knows him. I don’t dislike him or even object to him as a person. I said they were complete opposites. And they are.’’
‘‘How can you say they are opposites? You don’t even know him. Your mother is a good judge of character, and she enjoyed his company. He made her laugh and brought joy to her life.’’
Fred waited until a group of soldiers passed by. ‘‘You make it sound as though he’s dead.’’
‘‘Oh, he’s very much alive. Didn’t you hear the anger in his voice when you arrived? He’s been sullen and angry ever since he accepted the fact that you didn’t want him to court your mother.’’
‘‘Since the strike began, I’ve been involved in nothing but union business, yet now I’m blamed for my mother’s unhappiness and Chef René’s anger. I had hoped to spend a peaceful hour or two enjoying your company. Instead, I’m confronted with accusations that I’ve ruined my mother’s future.’’
She tipped her head to the side and offered a winsome smile. ‘‘You could set things aright easily enough, you know.’’
‘‘And how do you propose I do that?’’
‘‘Tell Chef René that you would be pleased to have him court your mother.’’
‘‘
What?
My mother would be appalled. That would sound as though I’ve decided to marry her off to the first eligible man.’’
A light breeze rippled through the tree, and a leaf floated to the ground near Olivia’s skirt. She folded the leaf in half and pressed it between her fingers. ‘‘They are two halves that make a whole.’’ She opened the leaf. ‘‘Don’t make excuses. Simply find the proper words and speak to him. You’ll be glad you did. And so will your mother.’’
‘‘Now?’’ He didn’t want to spend this short window of time apologizing to Chef René and fumbling for the proper words to give the man permission to court his mother. The idea seemed ludicrous. He’d come here to deliver a message for Mr. Heath-coate and to enjoy a brief time of relaxation with Olivia. But he knew she’d not relent until he’d spoken with the chef. He pushed to his feet. ‘‘Wait here,’’ he said and strode toward the kitchen.
Once inside, he waited. The chef didn’t like to be interrupted while working. Fred had learned that much from Olivia. When the rotund man turned to retrieve a large crock from the shelf, his thick brows lifted. ‘‘There is a problem, Mr. DeVault?’’
Fred took a tentative step closer. ‘‘When you have a moment, could we speak in private?’’
Fred detected what appeared to be a hint of suspicion in the chef ’s eyes, or perhaps it was merely apprehension. He couldn’t be certain. Unlike Olivia, he barely knew the man. Chef René slid the bowl onto the worktable. It skated across the wooden surface, and Fred waited, expecting it to drop to the floor and break. Though it wobbled several times, the crock finally came to rest at the edge of the table without incident. With a wave, Chef René beckoned him forward. They must be heading for the office Olivia had described to him on several occasions.
The chef ’s body swayed with each footstep, the shoulders of his white jacket dipping in a rhythmic motion until he came to an abrupt halt. ‘‘We will talk in my office.’’ He turned the doorknob and walked inside. ‘‘Come in,’’ he said without fanfare. ‘‘Close the door behind you.’’ He maneuvered around the desk and wedged himself into the chair. ‘‘Sit down.’’
Fred dropped into the chair. He pressed his sweating palms on the chair arms and attempted to swallow the cottony dryness that constricted his throat. The chef shrugged his shoulders and arched his brows, obviously Fred’s signal to speak. ‘‘I . . . uh . . . asked to speak to you,’’ his voice cracked, and he coughed.
The chef turned and poured a glass of water from a pitcher sitting on his desk. He reached across the expanse. ‘‘See if this helps.’’
Fred gulped the contents and gave a quick nod. ‘‘Thanks. About my mother.’’
Chef René held up his palm. ‘‘You need not concern yourself, Mr. DeVault. I have bowed to your opposition, but I hope you have not come to tell me she must now quit her job in the hotel. You have my word that I will not pursue her affections.’’
‘‘I don’t know how you came to the conclusion that I would oppose my mother’s decisions about her own future. Because she has been without a husband for so many years, my mother is more independent than most ladies. And I truly find no objection to you. I barely know you. Any concern is based upon the fact that I didn’t think she knew you well enough to consider marriage.’’
The chef arched his back and straightened his shoulders. ‘‘But I have not yet proposed.’’
‘‘Well, no, but I thought you might, and I suppose I gave the appearance of being less than pleased my mother was keeping company with you.’’ He shrugged. ‘‘I want you to know that if you make her happy, then that’s all that is important to me.’’
The chef ’s eyes glistened. ‘‘And that is what is important to me, also. I find your mother a lovely woman. We are somewhat different, yet we seem to balance each other. She has great joy—though not so much lately. I miss seeing her smile.’’
Fred surmised that his mother’s smile had disappeared when the chef had withdrawn his attention. That issue could be set aright easily enough, but Fred braced himself before asking one final question. ‘‘What about my mother’s faith?’’
‘‘Her beliefs are not so different from my own. Do you think me a heathen?’’ Chef René’s lips curved in a lopsided grin that reminded Fred of a question mark.
‘‘No, no,’’ he stammered. ‘‘I have no idea what you do or don’t believe, but I would like to know.’’ Summoning his courage, Fred leaned forward and rested his arms on the desk. ‘‘Are you a Christian?’’
‘‘Oui. I believe Jesus is the Son of God and that He died for my sins. Is that what you want to know?’’
Fred gave a hesitant nod. ‘‘But you don’t attend church regularly?’’
He laughed. ‘‘Attending church does not make one a believer. This much I know for sure.’’ He patted his heart. ‘‘Attending church strengthens faith and teaches, and sometimes those who don’t believe learn the truth in church.’’ He wagged his index finger. ‘‘And sometimes the people who attend church turn people away from God, too. Not a pleasant thought but true nonetheless.’’ He pointed to his eye. ‘‘People watch how you churchgoers act, you know. Sometimes they don’t like what they see and decide Jesus isn’t the answer for them.’’
Fred leaned back in the chair as though he’d been slapped. ‘‘Is that how you perceive me? Have I turned you against the church?’’
‘‘I am not blaming you, Fred, but I must say that I didn’t approve of the way you treated Olivia after you discovered she’d been telling lies about her past. Of course, all is now well between the two of you, but you were less than forgiving when she attempted to make amends for what she had done. I thought your mother behaved in a kind and forgiving manner toward Olivia while you . . . you didn’t inspire me to attend church on Sunday mornings.’’
Fred knew he was correct. His behavior had been less than praiseworthy during that period of his life. He’d asked God’s forgiveness and Olivia’s, as well. ‘‘Is that why you attended church only once? Because of my behavior?’’
The chef chuckled. ‘‘I don’t mean to heap blame upon you, Fred. I have my own past that has contributed to what I believe and how I conduct myself. It would have made the situation more difficult between your mother and me if I had continued to attend the same church these last two weeks after we ceased seeing each other.’’
Fred didn’t know what else to say. The conversation had veered off into an entirely different direction than he had anticipated. Their talk was supposed to resolve matters rather than intensify them. ‘‘I plan to speak to my mother before I return to Chicago. May I mention our discussion and tell her that you and I have come to an understanding of sorts?’’
‘‘Exactly what would that understanding be? I want to be entirely certain before we part company.’’
‘‘That I have no objection should you decide to court my mother and that whatever she may decide for her future will be acceptable to me.’’ He met the chef ’s intense stare. ‘‘Is that satisfactory?’’
‘‘If that is truly how you feel, then it is completely satisfactory.’’
‘‘And you will reestablish your relationship with her?’’
‘‘If she is disposed to the arrangement, I will be delighted.’’ He leaned across the desk and extended his hand. ‘‘We are agreed. And you have my word that I will do everything in my power to make your mother happy.’’
The men retraced their footsteps to the kitchen, and Fred glanced toward the stairs leading to the bakery. ‘‘May I go down and speak with my mother now?’’
Chef René clapped him on the shoulder. ‘‘But of course. And I must see to preparing food for the soldiers.’’
Fred’s shoes clattered on the steps as he descended the stairs into the baking kitchen. He smiled at his mother when she saw him, pleased at the surprise that shone in her eyes. ‘‘You’re the last person I expected to see coming down those stairs,’’ she said. ‘‘Are you hoping for a piece of pie?’’
He shook his head. ‘‘Nothing as simple as that.’’
‘‘Has something happened?’’
The tremor in her voice startled him. He hadn’t intended to frighten her. ‘‘No, nothing has happened. I have come to offer an apology for my childish behavior.’’
She wiped the flour from her hands and pointed to a stool near her worktable. ‘‘What are you referring to, Fred?’’
‘‘I have already apologized to Chef René and asked his forgiveness. He is a good man, and I have judged him harshly, I fear. I hope that the two of you will reestablish your . . . your . . . companionship,’’ he stammered.
‘‘Exactly how did René respond to all of this?’’
Tears gathered in his mother’s eyes as Fred recounted the discussion. ‘‘I believe you’ll once again have your companion back by your side.’’
‘‘Thank you, Fred.’’ She kissed his cheek. ‘‘You are a good son.’’
He laughed and shook his head. ‘‘I wish I could take full credit, but it is Olivia who you have to thank. She convinced me that I needed to set this aright. And I’m glad she did.’’
‘‘Didn’t I tell you? Olivia is a fine girl. You are very fortunate to have her in your life.’’
‘‘You’re right. I’m a very lucky man,’’ he agreed before bounding up the stairs. And he was. It had taken Fred a good while to come to that conclusion, but he now realized that he was indeed most fortunate.
The train left the station on time. Fred peered out the window and waved to Olivia as the locomotive slowly gained speed. Chef René had sent Olivia along to bid him good-bye. It was a tribute of thanks, Fred suspected. He leaned against the seat and closed his eyes. Except for the news he’d been forced to deliver to the workers, the day had gone well.
The train passed through the grassy expanse between Pullman and Chicago. As he stared through the window, Fred decided that once the strike ended and he was back to work, he and Olivia would have a fine wedding. He recalled Martha and Albert’s wedding, which Olivia had helped to plan. A ceremony and reception such as theirs would be good. Then again, with the growing deficit in his savings, Fred didn’t know how he could possibly pay for anything as nice as Albert’s wedding.
He wondered if Olivia would settle for a small private ceremony instead. Even more, he wondered if he would have a job once the strike ended. If their efforts failed, management might not see fit to hire him back. He’d realized that when he’d agreed to become a delegate, but he hadn’t considered the long-term consequences at the time. He’d been certain they would win. Olivia wouldn’t want to quit her job at the hotel, and if he wasn’t permitted to work in Pullman, he couldn’t live in Pullman. Had his involvement in the union jeopardized their future together?
Perhaps it was time to resume their earlier conversation about his future in Pullman, which daily became increasingly bleak.
Chicago, Illinois
Charlotte, Morgan, and Fiona were the last of their group to enter the church on Sunday morning. Charlotte preferred to sit near the end of the pew in case Morgan became restless during the sermon and she needed to step to the rear of the church. They had settled themselves when Morgan let out an excited squeal and raised his arms. Charlotte looked up to see Matthew standing at the end of their pew.
He reached forward, lifted Morgan into his arms, and then squeezed into the small space beside Charlotte. ‘‘Good morning,’’ he said with a broad grin.
‘‘You promised you would stay away,’’ she hissed while glancing toward the rear of the church. ‘‘What if Mr. Rehnquist sees you?’’
‘‘He lives on the other side of town. Besides, I was careful to make sure nobody followed me.’’ He tipped his head and his lips grazed her ear. ‘‘I’m a reporter, remember?’’
‘‘That doesn’t make you infallible,’’ she whispered.
Mrs. Priddle cleared her throat with a shrill rattle that left no doubt she expected their whispering to cease.
Pressing an index finger to her pursed lips, Charlotte signaled Matthew to refrain from further comment.
When the voices of the congregation melded into the stirring second stanza of ‘‘Revive Us Again,’’ Matthew sang along until they began the chorus. He nudged Charlotte, and when she looked at him he said, ‘‘I may not be infallible, but I know it’s safe for me to be here.’’
He’d barely uttered the final word when Charlotte saw the end of Mrs. Priddle’s parasol jab Matthew in the arm with a fierceness that made him jump. Matthew’s brows furrowed into a tight frown, but his talking ceased and his singing began. Mrs. Priddle appeared pleased by the result.
When they walked out of the church and into the warm July sunshine an hour later, Mrs. Priddle motioned them to wait beside her while she directed the other Priddle House ladies to form their line and begin the walk toward home. Fiona carried Morgan. Mrs. Priddle expressed her dissatisfaction over Matthew’s recent behavior.