by Anna Schmidt
Grace stuck out her hand. “Pleased to meet you. My name is—”
Polly ignored her outstretched hand. “I do not have time to learn all the names. There’s work to be done. Assuming you recall your training, I’ll set the empty places with cups to indicate a customer’s choice of beverage. Tell me what each person has ordered.”
She’d just gone through four weeks of demanding training and answered the same doubt from Miss Kaufmann. Was she to be tested yet again? Grace stiffened slightly, wondering just how far Polly’s authority extended.
They moved to the first setting. Polly set the cup upright on the saucer. “Coffee,” Grace said and moved on to the next place where Polly turned the cup over. “Hot tea.” Polly set the next cup upside down but tilted against the saucer. “Iced tea.” The final cup was also upside down but completely removed from the saucer. “And milk,” she said.
“Impressive. Of course, there is not yet the pressure of the rush. You’ll need to keep your wits about you.” Polly pointed at the giant urns. “As for these”—she took the cup set for coffee and turned to the urns—“we do not leave pots of coffee or tea at the counter as we do in the dining room. You fill the cup three quarters full in case the customer uses cream and sugar,” she explained. “Of course, in time—if you last—you’ll get to know the regulars and their preferences.” She set the cup and saucer on a small silver tray, then opened the door to a refrigerated section below the urns and removed a glass pitcher of cream. “Never prepare the creamer in advance and leave it sitting out,” she instructed. “No matter how busy we are.”
Grace nodded. It had been the same in training; otherwise, she might have suspected that Polly was either testing or deliberately misleading her. “Thank you, Polly. I really appreciate this. I think I can manage now.”
“Good. Now reset these places with clean dishes, and remember, you are to serve beverages only. I will handle everything else,” Polly said. She glanced at the entrance to the café and suddenly broke into a radiant smile. “I’ll take this one,” she said, thrusting the tray into Grace’s hands. “Dispose of this.” She hastily moved to the end of the counter.
“Hello, Polly…and Miss Rogers.”
That voice. Grace spun around and looked directly into Nick Hopkins’s deep-brown eyes. The color of black coffee, she thought before she realized Polly was scowling at her.
“Hello,” she murmured. The small tray shook, and the cream sloshed dangerously close to the rim of the pitcher.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Polly muttered as she relieved her of the tray and disposed of the dishes in a dance of efficiency before turning back to their customer. The smile returned as she posted herself directly between Grace and Nick, setting a fresh cup and saucer in place as she did—cup turned upright. “So good to see you back, Mr. Hopkins,” she said. “Will you be having your usual order?”
“Just coffee today. How ’bout you let Miss Rogers serve me? I expect she could use the practice and a friendly face on her first day here.” He grinned at her.
“I wasn’t aware the two of you were acquainted,” Polly said as her smile stiffened into something that appeared quite painful.
“Met on the train from Kansas City. Isn’t that right, Miss Rogers?”
Admittedly, she had hoped she hadn’t seen the last of Nick Hopkins, but this was her first day. Could he not see he was making matters worse? “I’m still in training,” she managed. “Miss Forrester is—”
“Not at all,” Polly said. “The customer has made a reasonable request that should be your privilege and pleasure to fulfill.” She stepped aside and disappeared around the corner, leaving Grace on her own. Grace had the suspicion that Polly had not gone far and would be silently observing every move and every word.
She set his cup and saucer on a tray and went to the urns.
“By the way, I take it black, but just to give you the practice, how about you bring me some cream and sugar as well? If you like, of course.”
“Yes, sir,” she replied and turned to face the shelves. There were the creamers, but where were the sugar bowls? She scanned the shelves.
“Two compartments to your left,” she heard Nick mutter softly.
She retrieved one of the small silver bowls filled with lumps of sugar as well as a pair of miniature tongs, and set the cup below the spigot of the urn. This was going better than she’d hoped. Nick was obviously a regular at the counter and was giving her tips to make her job easier. She relaxed and touched a finger to the lever as she’d observed Polly do. But Polly evidently knew exactly how much pressure to apply. Grace did not, and the coffee came rushing out like a creek breaking free of its ice bonds in spring. It spattered onto the counter and worse, onto her pristine white apron.
Polly was at her side instantly. “Go and change,” she hissed. “I’ll do this.”
Mortified, Grace hurried around the corner and into the kitchen on her way to the back stairs, nearly colliding with a young man carrying a tray loaded with clean dishes.
“Whoa, Nellie,” he said as he steadied his tray, but he continued to block her way. He glanced at her apron, and his laughing eyes turned sympathetic. “No need to go all the way upstairs. The girls keep clean aprons right over there.” He jerked his head toward a row of hooks near the exit to the back stairway. “Go on. I’ll just set these down and be right back to help you.”
By the time he returned, Grace had removed the soiled apron and dropped it in a laundry bin that was already nearly full of tablecloths, dish towels, and other linens. At least laundering her uniform was one less thing Grace needed to worry about. She slipped a fresh apron over her head, trying not to muss her hair or ribbon. The man returned as promised and stepped behind her to tie the sash. He was not much taller—or older—than she was, but there was little doubt he was far more experienced. She could feel him whipping the sashes into a proper bow as if he’d done it dozens of times before.
“Name’s Jake Collier,” he said. “I’m the kitchen manager. And you are?”
“Grace Rogers. Thank you, Jake.” She was close to tears, certain that Polly would report the incident to Miss Kaufmann. “I can’t lose this job,” she blurted.
Jake stepped around to face her. “Who says you will? Polly? She probably set you up. Those urns can have a mind of their own—takes a special touch. Everybody makes mistakes, but you’ll catch on soon enough. Now give me that smile I know is hiding somewhere behind those big blue eyes.”
She couldn’t help it. She smiled, sniffing back tears before they could overcome her.
“There you go,” Jake said. “Now get back out there and show Polly you’re here to take her job if she don’t watch out.”
The idea was so preposterous that Grace hooted a laugh and realized she felt better. Of course, there were going to be people like Polly who might try to intimidate her, but there would also be people like Emma and Lily and now Jake who would be there to help her make sure the Pollys of the world did not succeed.
When she stepped back to the counter, Polly was serving three men at the far end. Nick Hopkins glanced up, clearly surprised to see her back so soon.
“Would you like more coffee, Mr. Hopkins?” She was fully aware that Polly was watching her.
“Thank you, miss,” he replied.
She discarded the dregs that remained in his cup before very carefully touching the lever on the large silver urn. This time, it obeyed her, and she allowed coffee to dribble into the cup until it was precisely three-quarters full. She presented the fresh coffee to him with a triumphant smile. “Will there be anything else, sir?”
He grinned at her. “That’ll do fine, miss—just fine.”
Grace continued to smile as she turned to address a customer who had just arrived and taken the remaining seat at the counter. “May I offer you some coffee, sir?”
“Orange juice,” the man
muttered.
Grace froze. Mr. Harvey’s rules said that anyone ordering orange juice got it freshly squeezed and the glass set on a bed of crushed ice, and that posed a whole new set of issues. She looked at Polly—who had heard the man order and was now smirking at her. Instead of stepping forward to help, Polly deliberately turned her back to speak with the businessman seated at the opposite end of the counter.
“Yes, sir,” Grace said, her voice faltering. She edged a little away so that she was closer to the corner that led to the kitchen, praying that Jake might be there to rescue her yet again.
“Tray, juice glass—shelf to the right,” Nick muttered under the guise of blowing on his coffee to cool it. “Oranges are in the bowl above the fruit press there.”
She followed his whispered instructions, her hand shaking a little as she removed the bowl and caught sight of the press to her left. The confidence she’d felt when she conquered the coffee urn faded. She located a knife and cutting board and sliced oranges, willing herself to concentrate so she would make no more mistakes. She set the glass in place to catch the juice as she pressed it from the fruit. In less than two minutes, she had filled the glass. Pleased with herself, she placed the glass on a tray and prepared to serve the man when she heard Nick clear his throat on the word, “Ice.”
As if by magic, Jake came around the corner just then and set a shallow bowl of shaved ice on the counter next to her before retrieving the used orange peels and juice extractor to take back to the kitchen for cleaning. Grace set the glass in the center of the shaved ice and presented it to her customer. “Miss Forrester will be here to take your order shortly, sir.”
The man studied her, then grinned. “How about you take my order, missy, and maybe later, you’d also enjoy taking orders of a more private—”
Nick Hopkins was on his feet in an instant, standing just behind the man. “Maybe you need to find some manners, cowboy. She may be new, but there’s no cause to disrespect her.”
The man glanced over his shoulder, clearly recognized Nick, nodded once, and turned back to his juice. “Didn’t mean nothin’ by it, miss. Just my way.”
“Miss Forrester will be with you soon to take your order, sir.” Grace began wiping the counter as Jake appeared to reset the citrus press with clean parts ready for the next order. He grinned at her and gave her a salute to let her know she had done well.
“Thank you, Jake,” she murmured, then turned to Nick Hopkins’s vacated seat to collect his cup and saucer and the coins he’d set beside them to pay his bill. He’d overpaid by ten cents.
“Mr. Hopkins—”
“See you again, miss,” he said as he tipped two fingers to the brim of his hat and walked away. Three times that morning, he’d stepped in to help her, and it occurred to her that having Nick Hopkins around might not be so bad.
* * *
The minute the train pulled into the station, Nick had intended to pick up his horse from the livery and head straight for the ranch, but he’d gone to the lunch counter on a whim. He could get coffee at the station or one of the saloons. He certainly didn’t need to walk across the street to the hotel. But aware that she was over there, he couldn’t deny he was curious. More than curious—he was attracted.
Fess up, Hopkins, he thought. This is a lot more than idle curiosity.
These Harvey Girls were not the usual sort of females seen in these parts. Men had settled the West, built the towns, established law and order. Even now, they outnumbered the women by a margin of probably ten to one. One or two men he knew had resorted to sending back east for what had come to be called a mail-order or catalog bride, desperate for a woman’s help in managing the house and easing the brutal loneliness that was life on the frontier. Others found solace in the arms of the girls in the saloons—soiled doves, they were called—but a man would rarely consider marrying a girl like that. So when Harvey’s girls started showing up, men in the area took note, even going so far as to agree to wash up, put on a clean shirt—and a jacket if they wanted to eat in the dining room—and leave their pistol at the door for the privilege of spending an hour enjoying good food and the smile of a pretty young waitress.
Nick had been as drawn to Fred Harvey’s waitresses as any other red-blooded male would have been. A couple of times, he had invited Polly Forrester out to a band concert on the plaza or sat with her on the veranda of the hotel on a Sunday afternoon. Polly was nice enough, but Nick wasn’t looking for anything permanent. He’d tried to be clear about that with Polly. He’d not once held her hand or tried to kiss her. He’d explained to her that he had plans—plans that eventually included marriage and family, but that was down the road a ways. She’d assured him she understood and talked about her own ambitions for a career with the Harvey Company.
After leaving the counter, Nick mounted his horse and rode out of town. He mused about the three women he’d met on the train. Emma Elliott would make a success of her new assignment. Everything about her posture and restrained smile said she understood the rules and had no intention of breaking them. Lily Travis, on the other hand, was trouble tied up in a shirtwaist that tested the limits of its button front, with cheeks and lips far too perfectly rosy to be genuine. And then there was Grace Rogers, the new girl. The one yet to be tested. What was her story? She was young, and yet she’d taken this job hundreds of miles from home without knowing a single person. That alone was a sign she had a spirit of adventure, and Nick admired that.
But it wasn’t just her spunk that had her coming to mind more often than any female he’d ever known. The way she’d stood her ground in refusing to have dinner with him had made him smile—and made him tell Ollie he would move her carpetbag when the conductor came to collect it. And what about heading over to the hotel for coffee, telling himself he just wanted to see if she’d gotten settled in?
Admit it, Hopkins, he muttered. Where Miss Grace Rogers is concerned, you’re finding it hard to keep your mind on your work—and the future you’ve mapped out for yourself.
In the distance, he saw some of the men he managed working the herd. He waved his hat in greeting. Later, they would all gather in the bunkhouse for their nightly card game, and he’d hear all about what had happened while he’d been in Kansas City. That should do the trick when it came to getting his mind off the perky waitress and back onto the job—and the life—he loved.
He spurred his horse to a canter and headed over the rise that would lead to the Lombardo Ranch, which he’d managed since he was seventeen years old. It was a good job working for good people. After his folks died, the Lombards had taken him under their care. They’d given him the responsibility for managing their large land holdings and herd, and they had encouraged him to think beyond just working for them the rest of his days. He felt a loyalty to them that was hard to explain, but at the same time, he looked forward to the day when he might have a place of his own. He had his eye on a little patch of land in a valley not far from the Lombard place, and he’d finally managed to put aside enough of his pay to make a down payment. All he needed was for the bank to approve a loan, and since John Lombard had offered to cosign that loan, Nick was pretty sure the bank would allow him to buy the land. So first land and stock of his own, then a proper house, and maybe after that…
He was back to thinking about Grace.
* * *
That first night, as Grace sat in bed writing her family, gunshots rang out from down the street. All three of the women rushed to the window and witnessed two men staggering unsteadily in the street, waving pistols in the air and yelling obscenities at each other.
Lily raised the window and leaned out for a better view.
“Lily, get back in here,” Emma instructed. “You’re in your nightgown! Not to mention you could be shot by a stray bullet.” She herded them into the hall, away from any windows, where Miss Kaufmann, Polly, and the other girls were already gathered, seemingly untroubled
by the ruckus outside.
“Welcome to the Wild West,” Polly said sarcastically.
“Does this happen regularly?” Grace asked.
Another girl snorted. “Just every night. They’ll calm down directly, and then we can get some sleep.”
Lily chuckled. “There was a time back in Chicago before I became a Harvey Girl when I worked for the Marshall Field department store,” she told them. “I worked in the tearoom, and our customers were mostly society ladies dressed to the nines with apparently more money than they knew how to spend. One day, this man came in. He was wearing a suit that looked like he’d slept in it, and when he sat down at one of my tables, he placed a large revolver on the table. You should have heard the titters and outright screams from those women.”
“What did you do?” Grace asked as she realized they had all forgotten about the ruckus in the street.
Lily shrugged. “I told him we preferred firearms be left at the door, used a napkin to pick up the thing, and handed it to the maître d’.”
“And what did the customer do?”
“It was a tearoom, so he ordered tea and cakes,” Lily replied with a grin.
All the girls laughed, and soon others were sharing tales of their experiences. Grace listened intently to all the stories, but truly, they only made her miss the farm and her family. She’d been so excited about the adventure of being on her own that she’d failed to realize how lonely that might be.
When they could no longer hear anything from the street, Grace turned to Emma. “I’m going to bed.” She had spent most of the previous night sitting up on the train, and then she’d been on her feet serving customers at the lunch counter much of the day as the trains came and went. And when there weren’t any customers around, she’d spent hours cleaning and polishing the silver coffee urns, marble counters, and glass display cases. She was exhausted and more than a little homesick, and morning would come all too soon.