Olivia paced across the black and white kitchen tile. She hadn’t expected Chef René would wait until so late in the day to see Mr. Mahafferty. After glancing at the clock for the fifth time in the past half hour, she decided to prepare the food baskets on her own. The rest of the staff had already left for the evening, and even though Olivia was eager to speak with Fred, she must await the chef ’s return. ‘‘No need to sit and idle the time away,’’ she muttered.
With quick, precise cuts, she sliced the leftover loaves of bread, divided thin pieces of lamb from the noonday meal, and located extra fruit and pound cake. There appeared to be enough for six baskets. If more of the guests had departed as she’d expected, more baskets could have been filled.
Her palms grew damp when she looked up to see Chef René enter the kitchen. ‘‘Did you speak to Mr. Mahafferty?’’
‘‘I did. Your prayers have been answered. He didn’t give you the original vase. However, you must pay to have the broken vase replaced.’’
‘‘But I—’’ The chef ’s stern look was enough to halt her objection. ‘‘Thank you for speaking to Mr. Mahafferty. I will make arrangements to pay for the vase.’’
‘‘No need. He will have it withheld from your pay.’’ Without further discussion, the chef checked the baskets and gave a firm nod. ‘‘Let’s go and deliver these.’’
‘‘I had planned to meet with Fred.’’
‘‘Then we must hurry. You deliver three and I will deliver three. I’m sure your Fred wouldn’t want us to quit helping those in need merely because the strike has begun.’’
The chef was correct. How could she argue with such logic? Many of the families had come to depend upon the goodwill of the chef, and all recipients had been sworn to secrecy. Soon after the closing ceremonies of the Columbian Exposition, layoffs at the car works had commenced. Shortly thereafter, a decrease in employee wages had taken effect throughout the company—except for supervisors and managers, of course. The affected families were now without adequate funds to purchase groceries. Yet fine dining had continued at Hotel Florence, where the wealthy remained unmoved by the depression plaguing the common man. Economic downturn or not, the capitalists and their families expected fine cuisine.
Several months earlier, during the preparation of some of those fine meals, Olivia and Chef René had devised a plan whereby each of them contributed a portion of their pay toward the purchase of food. With this method, they could prepare extra food and distribute the leftovers to families with hungry children each evening. Though what they offered was little in comparison to the need, Olivia had successfully developed a rotation plan to feed as many of the children as possible. At the end of the day, all of the luncheon and supper leftovers, along with any remaining baked goods, were divided and packed for individual families.
Balancing the food baskets on her arm, Olivia bid the chef good-night. The homes she would visit tonight were located nearby, so her deliveries shouldn’t take too long. Apparently the union meeting had not yet ended, for she saw few signs of life in the park as she approached. Just a few women and children were out enjoying the evening. The town seemed far too quiet.
Olivia hurried to the end of the street and entered the alley behind the row of brick houses where the Barker family resided. She and Chef René never delivered to the front door. Too many prying eyes and loose lips might see and report their visits. Mrs. Barker welcomed Olivia with an effusive gratitude that embarrassed Olivia.
‘‘I was praying you would come today, and God has answered my prayer,’’ the woman said while ushering Olivia into the tiny kitchen. Mrs. Barker tucked a loose strand of hair behind one ear. ‘‘Do sit down.’’
Olivia settled the baskets on the wooden table. ‘‘I can’t stay. I have other deliveries to make.’’
Marilee, the oldest of the Barkers’ five children, leaned against the doorjamb. A tattered plaid dress hung from her thin frame. She offered a faint smile, but her hollow eyes reflected a sadness that caused Olivia to look away.
‘‘This strike is going to provide the answer for us, don’t you think?’’ Mrs. Barker asked while she unpacked the basket.
Olivia noticed the spark of hope in the woman’s eyes. ‘‘I surely hope so, Mrs. Barker.’’
‘‘Lamb! Look, Marilee. What a treat to have meat to feed the children. These baskets you bring contain the only fruit and meat the children get.’’ She pulled an apple from the basket and rubbed it on her apron. Fear clouded the woman’s eyes when she looked at Olivia. ‘‘With all the folks on strike, we’re not going to be receiving the food baskets as often, are we?’’
‘‘You need not worry. I believe many others will come forward to help. You may receive more than the occasional basket Chef René and I deliver. I’m certain the union will make every attempt to locate resources to feed all those in need.’’
The older woman glanced at the open door. ‘‘I do wish Mr. Barker would return from the meeting. I want to know exactly what the union has planned. Everything has been such a secret up until now. Why, I didn’t even know they were going to strike this morning, did you?’’
Olivia shook her head. ‘‘No. I hadn’t been told, either. I imagine the men decided secrecy was best because they didn’t want members of management to know their plan ahead of time.’’
Mrs. Barker ruffled the blond curls of the young boy who entered the kitchen and hungrily eyed the apple in his mother’s hand. ‘‘Let’s pray Mr. Pullman will listen to reason and the men are soon back to work and earning a livable wage. Our rent continues to accumulate, and each day I wonder how I will feed these children.’’ As tears began to form in her eyes, she swiped them away with the corner of her apron.
Two more gaunt children clattered into the kitchen and hurried toward the food on the table. Mrs. Barker held up her hand. ‘‘You must wait until I have finished speaking with Miss Mott.’’
Olivia gathered the empty basket together with those still requiring delivery. ‘‘I’ll be on my way. I know you are all eager to have your supper, and I must complete my rounds.’’
Delivering the remaining two baskets proved just as heartrending as the first. Both Mrs. Landers and Mrs. Wilson were grateful, but seeing their emaciated children made Olivia’s effort seem futile. How many children in this town went to bed hungry every night? She prayed there would be much more leftover food tomorrow. They must fill more than six baskets each day.
When Olivia finally left the Wilsons’ flat, she saw a group of men returning from the union hall in Kensington, the small town located a mile and a half outside of Pullman. Regulations forbade union meetings within the town of Pullman, but Kensington had welcomed the workers’ presence—and their money—with open arms. Although the union leaders discouraged drinking, many of the men consumed liquor while in Kensington, yet another prohibition in the town of Pullman.
Olivia searched the crowd for Fred and soon found him in the park, surrounded by a group of workers and their wives. She approached the edge of the gathered residents and listened while he attempted to answer their many questions. Olivia could hear the fear in the women’s voices as they inquired how they were expected to withstand the strike.
‘‘We remain certain those who live in Pullman will not be evicted from their houses,’’ he was telling them. ‘‘You’ve had near nothing to live on all winter. Though our wages have decreased, our rent has remained the same and Mr. Pullman continues to withhold it from our pay. However, we believe aid will be offered to us in our time of need, and we’re hoping for swift negotiations.’’
Murmurs of assent filtered through the crowd. Then Fred signaled to Olivia. ‘‘If you’ll excuse me, I’ve promised to escort Miss Mott to visit my mother.’’ Fred edged his way through the group and offered his arm.
Taking hold, she offered him a smile. ‘‘It appears some of the wives are frightened by the prospect of the strike. I do hope their husbands discussed their intentions beforehand.’’
‘‘I imagine some did, but after hearing a few wives’ angry questions just now, it appears there are many who didn’t.’’ They turned the corner, and he rolled his fingers into a fist and poked his thumb back in the direction of where he’d been standing a few minutes earlier. ‘‘I wonder if some of those men now wish they were single—at least for a fleeting moment.’’
‘‘So that’s why you’ve never married. You’re afraid you’ll be no match for a wife!’’
He suddenly grew serious. ‘‘I believe I could be a good match for you, Olivia.’’
Her breath caught in her throat. She hesitated, certain he would declare his love for her. Instead, he only mentioned a meeting that had been scheduled for later in the evening.
With a sigh, Olivia rested her back against the trunk of a large oak that offered her shade during the morning respite. As promised, she had arrived earlier than usual, but the many breakfast orders had kept her on the run from the instant she had entered the kitchen. She had hoped for a moment to visit with Fred during the morning, though she hadn’t yet spotted him among the group of men assembled in the park. The striking workers were playing baseball and lawn tennis as though they were on holiday. She wondered if their carefree attitude would disappear once they learned Mr. Pullman had fled the city for one of his summer homes far from Chicago. At least that’s what Mr. Howard had told Chef René earlier that morning.
Her attention settled upon a man walking with a determined stride toward the entrance of the car works. She couldn’t distinguish his features, yet there was something familiar about him. While he stood in front of the building reading the sign that had been posted the previous night, she continued to study him. He turned in her direction. She shielded her eyes from the sun and watched him rake his fingers through his sandy brown hair. Was that—could it be Matthew Clayborn? When he waved his hat, she knew he’d spotted her and she’d been correct. He loped across the street and came to a halt directly in front of her.
‘‘Olivia! I was hoping to see you or Fred. What a stroke of good fortune.’’ He settled his hat on the back of his head. ‘‘I’m covering the strike for the Chicago
Herald
, and I want to get my story from the perspective of the employees rather than the managers or supervisors. My editor thought it would give our newspaper a distinctive slant and would set us apart from the other Chicago newspapers.’’
‘‘I’m not one of those on strike, Matthew, but you’ll likely have little difficulty locating Fred. If you don’t find him among those men playing baseball, you can stop by his flat. I’m certain his mother can advise you of his whereabouts.’’ She glanced over her shoulder toward the hotel.
‘‘Worried you’ll be seen fraternizing with the enemy and lose your job?’’
She stiffened at the note of condemnation in his voice. ‘‘Though you may find it difficult to believe, I can be of more use to the cause if I continue my employment at the hotel— unless I’m seen talking to newspaper reporters.’’
He donned his hat and strode off without another word. It had been her contact with Matthew, back when she’d been riding the rails, that had led to her confrontation with Mr. Howard. She’d been placed in a precarious position during that time and had been forced to wrestle with a difficult decision. She had prayed long and hard when Mr. Howard had issued his ultimatum last November.
Although Olivia was confident Mr. Howard never believed she had given Matthew Clayborn any of her notes regarding the treatment of the Pullman porters or the dining car staff, nevertheless he had threatened to fire her.
That is, until she had countered with knowledge of his unethical practice of hiring unqualified employees whenever enough money would cross his palm. Money that had been placed in Mr. Howard’s pocket without Mr. Pullman’s knowledge, and hiring practices that the company owner would have known to be detrimental to his car works.
Once she’d revealed knowledge of his wrongdoing, Mr. Howard had offered a bargain. If she remained silent, he wouldn’t fire her. After much prayer, she’d returned with a counteroffer. She would remain silent if he would immediately cease the unethical hiring practice and would make restitution to Mr. Pullman or to those who had paid for their positions. She believed her offer provided an opportunity to put an end to Mr. Howard’s shoddy dealings. She had no way of knowing if he’d ever complied with her repayment provision, but the unethical hiring practice had ceased. Even now, she harbored doubt whether she’d heard God whisper His answer or if she’d merely listened to her own heart. Knowing the difference had proved to be an unexpected conundrum. She had questioned several believers regarding that particular issue, but they’d all said the same thing: continue to meditate on God’s Word and spend time in prayer. Day after day she had done that very thing, but when she’d made her agreement with Mr. Howard, God’s answer hadn’t been entirely clear.
‘‘Are you planning to spend the entire day lounging against this tree, Miss Mott?’’
Olivia startled at the sound of Chef René’s voice. ‘‘No, no. Of course not. Have I kept you waiting?’’ She jumped to attention and brushed an invisible wrinkle from her jacket. ‘‘You are ready to begin the noonday preparations?’’
‘‘I have already begun, and I am waiting for you to assist me.’’ He stretched his arms outward. ‘‘I have only two hands. Can I stir all of the pots myself?’’ Without waiting for her response, he lumbered toward the kitchen, waving her onward.
Olivia laughed. ‘‘You have kitchen boys and scullery maids who can stir your pots.’’
‘‘You are correct, but I have only one Miss Mott to prepare fine gravies and sauces. Come along. We don’t want to keep the board of directors waiting when their meeting ends.’’ He held the kitchen door open and then followed her inside.
The gravies and sauces would be ruined if she prepared them this early, and she wondered exactly why Chef René had hurried her indoors. She glanced about the kitchen. ‘‘It appears everything is well cared for.’’
‘‘Everything except your behavior. Did you consider that someone might see you speaking with that newspaper reporter? What if Mr. Howard thinks you are sharing disparaging information with Mr. Clayborn? Do you so quickly forget what happened the last time that man wrote an article about the Pullman employees?’’