7

John laid his copious notes on Bradley’s desk. “Here are all the details for the nature walk we plan to take the presidential party on Saturday evening.”

Another day had flown past with details, planning, meetings, and of course the constant guests to attend to in the hotel.

The manager studied the page. “This looks outstanding, John. Thank you.” He scribbled something on the paper. “How is Brennan working out?”

“Fine, sir. He’s a hard worker.”

“Did you know that he’s part owner of an outdoor equipment company?”

“Yes, sir. I did.” Would there come a time when Allan would share with the manager about John’s failings? Of course it wasn’t like Bradley didn’t know about the death of Allan’s father.

“A very enterprising young man. He even mentioned the possibility of speaking to the railroad about selling some of his gear here in Curry.”

John nodded, a knot forming in his throat. “If you don’t need anything else, I’d better get moving. We are taking a group fishing this afternoon.”

“Well, I hope they catch the big one.”

“Thank you.” John headed out the side door of the office. The biggest problem he seemed to have right now was not the full schedule, not the training of his apprentice, and not even the fact that Thomas had a tendency to bumble up even the simplest of tasks.

Right now, he battled himself.

With Allan’s appearance in Curry, the confrontation up at the park, and their conversation in the basement yesterday—John couldn’t get past the one glaring issue.

He couldn’t forgive himself.

The circumstances around the death of Henry Brennan haunted him. He thought he’d put the situation behind him. But all of Allan’s questions brought it back to the forefront of his mind.

Had there been anything else he could have done to save Henry?

And now, Henry’s son was here. Flesh and blood. Seeking answers.

While John knew what Allan sought could only be found in God, he still felt responsible. Even more than that.

He felt guilty.

For failing Henry.

And for failing Henry’s family.

Taking the stairs down to the basement, John prayed for wisdom. Cassidy had noticed he wasn’t himself and had questioned him. No sense in worrying anyone else with his problems.

Boom!

The stairs shook. John rounded the corner into the section gang dining room. “Hello! Everyone all right?”

“Mr. Ivanoff—help! Over here!” Thomas’s voice came from the laundry on the other side of the basement.

A cloud of white smoke billowed out of the door.

John raced over. “What’s happened?”

“One of the pipes burst. I had just brought a load down from the train and fell. I thought it was my own clumsiness, but when I looked up, the ladies were on the floor.”

It hit him. This wasn’t smoke. It was steam. John looked at the south wall where Thomas pointed. Mrs. McGovern and two maids lay crumpled in the corner. Hissing came from the burst pipe.

“Thomas, you’ve got to get help. Everyone you can.”

Allan collided with Thomas as the young man raced up the stairs. “Whoa, what’s your hurry?”

“Mr. Ivanoff said to get everyone I could to help. A pipe burst in the laundry.”

Allan nodded. “I’ll go down. You grab everyone you find.”

“Yes, sir.”

He’d felt a jolt as he’d stood on the train platform. But since the train was leaving, he didn’t give much thought to it.

The whole laundry was steam powered. That meant if a pipe burst, then boiling hot steam was flooding that area. The initial pressure would be abated, but the pumps would keep sending it until they could shut it off.

At the base of the stairs, Allan slipped. The floor was already wet from the water vapor and mist from the cooled steam, and the humid air almost choked him. As he reached the laundry, sweat poured down his face.

He found John carrying Mrs. McGovern out of the room. “Any more?”

“There’s at least two more maids huddled in the southwest corner.”

Taking a closer look at Mrs. McGovern, he noticed that her face was very red. Had she been burned by the steam? Allan didn’t have time to think about the condition of the others. He plunged into the simmering room and went down to his hands and knees. He’d be more apt to find them that way.

Steam filled the room in a great white fog. Allan reached out and found hands grabbing for him.

“It’s so hot! Help us, please!”

Allan latched on to an arm and pulled. A young maid’s head hit his shoulder.

“Please help Marie. She’s not talking anymore.”

He carried the maid out and passed John on the way. “There’s another maid unconscious in that corner. Her name’s Marie.”

The steam filled the basement of the hotel quickly. Allan set down the young girl as thunderous footsteps were heard on the stairs. “The floor’s slippery. Be careful!” He only hoped they’d heed his warning.

He followed more men back into the laundry as John carried the other maid out.

John shoved her into Thomas’s arms. “Get her out of here.” He ripped off his jacket and vest and threw them down the hallway.

The suffocating heat had to be taking its effect on his boss. But Allan followed his lead and ran once more back to the laundry. Several men were turning the giant valve to shut off the steam supply. John stood in front of the busted pipe with towels to keep the steam at bay. Allan grabbed more towels and went to help. The heat was almost unbearable. But if John could sacrifice himself to help the men, then so could he.

It took several minutes, but the room began to clear. Every man was soaked from head to toe. Two maintenance workers came in with large wrenches and clamps.

Mr. Bradley slipped as he came around the corner, and he grabbed on to the doorjamb. “Oh, thank goodness, you got it stopped!” The manager looked around the room at each man. “Thank you all.”

The men all nodded, each gasping for air. “It took too many of us to get that wheel turned. Too hot and too slick,” one of the men said. “That needs to be fixed. Coulda been a disaster.”

“Do we know what happened?” Mr. Bradley asked.

“No, not exactly,” the same man replied. “Must have been a weakness in the pipe. We’ll get it repaired right away.”

“It’s a tragedy to be sure. Do we know how badly the women were hurt?”

“Not yet,” John replied. “We just managed to get the last one to safety.”

Allan breathed heavily, his hands on his hips. “It was John and Thomas who rescued the women, sir.”

Mr. Bradley went over and shook John’s hand.

Allan left the room and walked slowly to the dining room. Chaos ensued as everyone started cleaning up. Water was everywhere.

But his thoughts kept going back to John. He’d risked his own life over and over again to save someone else. Even blocking the boiling steam so the other men could shut it off. How many men would put themselves in harm’s way like that?

But then an even more troubling question seared his heart—if Allan hadn’t had an example to follow, would he have done the same?

The individual crystal dishes filled with luscious chocolate mousse sat in the large icebox chilling. Cassidy couldn’t be prouder. They were her best yet.

“They turned out lovely. The texture is simply divine.” Mrs. Johnson licked her lips. A sure sign of her satisfaction and pleasure.

Cassidy bounced on the balls of her feet. She kept her hands clasped in front of her to keep from hugging the older woman for the praise. “Thank you, Mrs. Johnson.”

“I pity the men and women who’ve never tasted a mousse like this.”

Wow. Three compliments in a row. She wasn’t sure she was that deserving.

“All right. Well, we seem to be ahead of schedule.” The head cook checked her watch and then wiped her hands on her apron. “Let’s try a single batch of soufflé for the staff to enjoy. And if it turns out properly, we can do them together for the dinner guests.”

What a challenge! Mrs. Johnson’s lemon soufflés were famous. Cassidy had longed to make them since she’d arrived. And how incredible would it be to serve them to the wealthy crowd at dinner?

They gathered the ingredients together and set it all out on Cassidy’s station. The older woman gave the eggs to Cassidy. “Separate them.”

“Yes, ma’am.” This was a job she could do in her sleep. Well, almost. Cassidy giggled to herself.

“What on earth has struck you as funny this time?”

“Nothing. Sorry.” She worked very hard to look serious but feared she looked more like a fish.

Mrs. Johnson smiled and shook her head. “No one could ever accuse you of being melancholy, that’s for sure.” She grabbed a whisk and a clean bowl, and went right back to business. “Wipe the bowl down with a drop of vinegar. Only a drop, mind you.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“It’s time to whip the egg whites. Now one of the most important things is to make sure you do not overbeat them. They need to hold a stiff peak but not be dry.”

The recipe really wasn’t that difficult. Whipping the yolks with sugar and lemon zest, gradually adding hot cream, and cooking until it was pudding-like. Then folding the fluffy egg whites with lemon into the mixture. In no time, Cassidy felt she’d have it down to a perfectly timed routine.

As she gently set the tray in the oven, she said a little prayer.

Mrs. Johnson wiped her hands on a towel and headed toward her desk in the opposite corner. “Let me know when they’re done. I need to check the list for the night cook and then must speak to Mr. Bradley. I shouldn’t be long.”

“Yes, Cook.” Cassidy stared at the oven with her hand on her watch. Mrs. Johnson said it was a precise amount of time. But what if she messed it up in some way?

Several minutes passed as Cassidy cleaned up her worktable, glancing at her watch every ten or fifteen seconds. Time would never pass at this rate. The rest of the staff moved in steady rhythm, preparing their parts of the sumptuous feast for tonight. But she couldn’t stand it any longer. Maybe if she just peeked in the oven it would set her mind at ease.

Mrs. Johnson spoke with two of the kitchen maids and headed toward the dining room. Now was Cassidy’s chance. She pulled on the handle of the massive door and gently opened it a few inches.

Well, they didn’t look like they were supposed to. In fact, they were all a touch lopsided. She closed the door. Maybe they rose up one side and then the other?

Trying to hide her disappointment, Cassidy checked her watch. Three and a half more minutes to go. She stomped her foot. The job of assistant cook hadn’t just been handed to her. She’d worked really hard for this position and had studied and cooked and cooked and studied some more. Why, of all the kitchen workers, she could make the best hollandaise. Mrs. Johnson even said so, and that’s why the job was always hers. Everything from demitasse to the perfect poached egg, chocolate mousse to roast lamb, Cassidy could cook it.

She just needed confidence in herself. The soufflés would be fine. She knew what she was doing.

One more glance at her watch told her it was time. Opening the oven door with towels in hand to grab the soufflés, she hoped for success.

But when she set them down, disappointment crept up her spine. They were all still crooked.

One by one, the individual soufflés deflated into their cups like turtles into their shells.

She wouldn’t cry. She refused.

A couple of the kitchen maids walked by. One frowned and tsked at her. “Those don’t look like the chef’s.”

The other whispered. “It’s because it’s Friday the thirteenth, don’tcha know? Nothing can go right today. Just look at the mess down in the basement.”

Mrs. Johnson chose that moment to reappear, and Cassidy wanted to hide under the table. Instead, she placed her hands on her hips and studied her creations. Like a good student would do. Learn from her mistakes.

Without a word, the head cook grabbed a spoon. Dipping it into a cup, she filled her spoon with a bite. She blew on the hot morsel before popping it into her mouth. “Delicious, Cassidy.”

She frowned. “But they collapsed.”

“Yes, they did. But at least they taste like they are supposed to. Now we need to figure out what went wrong. And it had nothing to do with Friday the thirteenth. Such foolishness.” The older woman scowled at the young help, and handed Cassidy another spoon. “Try it yourself.”

Not wasting a moment, Cassidy did just that. And while the pleasing flavor and texture made her feel a sense of accomplishment, that didn’t make up for the fact that they didn’t look like they were supposed to.

“Before they collapsed, I noticed they were a little uneven.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“So I’m guessing you forgot to run your finger around the edge of each cup to ensure they were clean of batter?”

“Um . . .” Had she? “I probably did forget.”

“And did you use upward strokes with the butter when you prepared the dishes before sprinkling them with sugar?”

“Hmm, maybe not upward strokes.”

“Did you perchance open the oven while they were baking?”

She winced. “Yes, I did.”

“I had a feeling.” Mrs. Johnson almost smiled. “I did that my first time too. Opening the oven will make them collapse almost every time. And while all soufflés will still go down after a few minutes, you want them done, not soupy, and nice and high for the presentation. That’s why they are served immediately.”

Cassidy nodded. She’d wanted to impress her boss, and now she’d made classic mistakes. All because she was in too big of a hurry—not wanting to be patient.

“There’s a lot to learn, Cassidy. But you need to remind yourself that you are the assistant cook here! That’s a hefty position.” The woman waved for the staff to come over. “Now, while everyone tastes your delicious first efforts, you can work on the second.”

A little bit of shock rolled through her limbs. “Truly, you want me to make them again?”

“As my father always used to say, when you fall off the horse, you must get right back on.” The woman grabbed another spoonful. “And Cassidy?”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Yum.”