When she went back to her station, she remembered what Butcher had told her, how he made her practice each recipe in the same way he told her he had practiced with his gun as a new recruit in the army. The steps were nearly automatic now—a pleasant distraction from the encounter with Mona. She heated the milk slowly on the stove, stirring it gently, then removed it from the burner to cool just before it came to a boil. She dropped soft butter into the hot milk so it would melt. In a large mixing bowl, certainly larger than any she had used at home, she sifted together flour, salt, baking powder, a touch of sugar. She made sure to first scoop the flour into a cup until it overflowed and then leveled it off with a knife. Butcher had reminded her again and again of the importance of this step—too much flour and the popovers would be tough. Too little, they would collapse. Next, she beat together eggs, and when the milk had cooled, she stirred them in. She then combined the milk and the eggs with the flour into a relatively smooth batter. “The lumps will even out,” Butcher had told her. “Don’t want to overbeat it. Nothing wrong with a few lumps.” Finally, she added a small splash of vanilla, something Butcher claimed was his own trick. “It gives ’em just a touch of mystery. Like the perfume you wear. Don’t quite know what it is, but it is pleasant.” It surprised Virginia that he would speak to her so personally, but knew he felt the food allowed them such intimacies. Now Virginia had to let the batter rest. “Forty-five minutes minimum,” said Butcher. “An hour if you can stand it. But remember, the pans have to heat first, then they have to bake for forty minutes.” Virginia counted backward from eleven o’clock. The extra fifteen minutes would allow her to leave the batter to rest for the full hour. It would also provide her with ten full minutes on either side of the baking to fill the pans and then to put them on the plate.
Most of the women busied themselves with a test batch of their biscuits or pancakes or waffles. Some were obviously frustrated with the scale of the kitchen, off balance. She watched Wadena drop a circle of dough into the sizzling oil in the cast-iron fryer on her stove. “This flame is too hot,” she said to no one in particular. “It’ll burn the outside and leave the inside raw.”
Virginia motioned to the hostess who had helped her before. “My batter needs to rest before I can bake,” she said. “I thought I might take a minute to walk out in the lobby.”
“Do you need someone to assist you?” the woman asked.
“No,” said Virginia. “I can find my way. I just want to get some air.”
“I’ll stay close at hand,” said the hostess. “Don’t want to leave it unattended for too long. I will just keep an eye on it for you till you get back.” Virginia was a bit surprised by the implication that someone might tamper with her batter. Would she do the same if given an opportunity? Turn the heat up so high under Wadena’s doughnuts that they would crisp like cinders? It frustrated her she wasn’t free to return to her own room, but she did want to find a private spot for just a moment or two. Long enough to take a sip if her nerves demanded.
As she made her way from the kitchen into the dining room and lobby of the hotel, she was reminded of the theater, the world backstage where everything was orchestrated chaos and noise, while out front, there were no signs that anything beyond these walls even existed. People sat chatting, sipping coffee in the lobby, reading the Constitution. She thought briefly about slipping into the Ladies’ Lounge but knew it would be crowded with the friends and families of her competition. She hesitated in front of the door when she saw Clayton Claiborne emerge from the Gentleman’s Lounge. He motioned to her to join him.
“Miss Virginia. This is a surprise. I would expect you to be in the kitchen making something . . . delicious.”
“I hope it will be,” she said. “I am making popovers. And I brought some homemade preserves to serve with them. But the batter has to rest a bit. Gives the dough time to relax. I thought I might as well do the same.”
“Delightful,” he said. “If you have a moment, I would consider it a great privilege to have you sit with me for a visit. I will order a beverage. We have coffee, tea—I can order something cool for you if you prefer.”
“What would you be having?” Virginia asked.
“Well,” said Claiborne, “I must confess a fondness for the Ramos Fizz. But I don’t want to tempt you with spirits if you are not so inclined.”
“A Fizz would be perfection,” she said, removing her gloves.
Claiborne motioned to one of the colored workers nearby—Virginia was relieved it wasn’t George—and told him to bring the drinks. “And be snappy about it,” he said. “My friend has only a short time with me.” After the man had left, Claiborne turned to her. He was still as homely as she remembered, but seemed oblivious to the fact; she also thought him to be a bit of a fop, like a gentleman’s valet in a Ginger Rogers comedy. She knew it didn’t matter what he looked like or how queer he was—all that mattered was who he was. “As a young man, a dear friend of the family took me to New Orleans for an extended visit over Carnival and Mardi Gras. I can still see the boys at The Stag Saloon mixing up batches of Ramos Fizz all day and night, shaking and shaking those shiny metallic urns till I thought their arms would fall off or they would turn into butter like Little Black Sambo. It may just be the fondness of memory for certain places or times, but I do sometimes enjoy one in the morning when I do not have business concerns.”
The server returned almost immediately with the drinks. After he set them down, Claiborne asked, “Miss Virginia, how long do you have for this break?”
“I really should be back at work no later than quarter till ten.”
Claiborne took his watch from his vest and addressed the waiter: “Boy, what is your name?”
“Matthew, sir.”
“Matthew, I assume you can tell time.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, then, Matthew, I am going to have you stand over there where I can see you, and I am going to give you this watch to hold. And when it is twenty-two minutes till ten, not a minute before or after, then I want you to bring the watch back to me. Not a minute before or after—otherwise, there will be the devil to pay.”
“Yes, sir.”
After Matthew had walked to the other side of the room, positioning himself beside a potted palm, Claiborne retrieved his drink. “They have to be good for something,” he said. “I guess a clock is about as good a thing as any.”
“By why twenty-two minutes till the hour?”
“I like to give them an odd time to tell,” he said, smiling. “You would be surprised how often they get it confused.”
“And then . . .”
“Makes the day a bit more interesting. But Matthew’s a good boy. Smart as they come. He won’t make a mistake.”
“You know him. . . .”
“I know all the staff at my hotel,” he said. “White and colored. But they don’t need to know that, do they?”
He raised his glass to her: “You understand, Miss Virginia, that should you win this contest, you and I will be working very closely together.”
“Yes, I suppose we would,” she said. She could not discern the direction of his remarks, wanted to get out in front of them, avoid an awkward encounter. After all, he was one third of the voting—hell, he might even hold all the cards for all she knew. She sipped her drink. The gin floated through her on a cloud of white froth. “This is delicious,” she remarked.
“May I tell you something?” Claiborne asked.
“Certainly, Colonel Claiborne. As you said, you may be my boss here very shortly.”
“Yes. Yes, indeed I may. You know, you strike me as different from these women. Somehow I have a hard time imagining you putting up preserves in the summer, getting up early to make batter for breakfast. You would seem more to me the type of lady who would have those things served to her.”
“Times are hard for us all,” she said. “It is important to be resourceful. And I have only a widow’s pension to live on. It is a godsend, but it doesn’t
go far, I can assure you.”
“Still,” he said, “you strike me as a woman with a level of sophistication that is absent from some of our other contestants.”
Virginia thought of Wadena and her cake hat. She thought of Jubal’s bonnet. “It wouldn’t be very becoming of me, Colonel Claiborne, to comment on my competitors. Why, just not more than an hour ago, Inez Honeycutt led us all in a lovely prayer of sisterhood. I think you are wicked to tempt me to speak disparagingly of them.”
“Yes,” he said, “I suppose I am. But Mystic White belongs to me. And I am a man used to getting what I want.”
Virginia understood he was laying out terms here for her. “And what is it you want from this, Colonel Claiborne? What will The Lady in the White Hat bring to you?”
“She will be the representative of my company.”
“Yes,” said Virginia, “and that is something I would be honored to do. But the contest. The publicity.”
“Yes,” he replied with a smile. “The publicity. It’s an image, Miss Virginia. We will become the flour of the refined Southern lady. Pure Southern, if you will. And by doing that for Mystic White, it will also enhance my image.”
“How so, sir?”
“As I said, the contest winner and I will work very closely together.”
“I believe the contract terms are for a year.”
She thought he looked at her with a slight bit of astonishment, that she would have even an awareness of such a thing. “Yes, for one year. To start. Who is to say what would happen after that?”
“I suppose all things are negotiable,” she said.
“I have many dreams, Miss Virginia,” Claiborne said, leaning over toward her as if sharing an intimacy. “Business is just one of them. You may be interested to know that some folks—people with influence and connections—have encouraged me to turn my attentions to politics. God knows, with all that is happening in the world, so much is slipping away from us. But it would be difficult to entertain those notions as a bachelor. There is too much importance placed on the image of family for that. I would hope that whoever is chosen to represent Mystic White Flour will also be available to assist me. Would be available . . .”
Virginia stiffened in the chair. “I hope, sir, that you understand this business arrangement would be simply that.”
“Indeed,” he said. “But as you said yourself—all things are negotiable.”
Virginia was suddenly aware that Matthew was standing next to them.
“Sorry to interrupt you, sir, but it is twenty-two to ten,” he said, holding the watch out to Claiborne for verification.
“So it is,” Claiborne said. “Thank you, Matthew. If you will escort Miss Virginia back to the kitchen.” Claiborne did not rise from his chair, but extended his hand to her. She took his hand, and again noticed that he held it for an improper amount of time. She knew this was no accident. It was a test. She did not flinch or pull away, waited for him to release her.
“Thank you for the beverage, Colonel Claiborne,” she said.
“The first of many, I hope,” he replied.
She saw Claiborne again that morning in the dining room as he and Roland and Jocelyn Hind Crowley sampled the items that had been placed for them to taste and made comments. Looking at Claiborne, it was hard to imagine him as a senator or possibly even governor. But he did have money. He did have power. And what would that do for her?
After the judges conferred, Roland delivered the verdict: “The following ladies will stay to compete,” he said. “Wadena Chastain, Muriel Sallis, Virginia Yeager, and Jubal Hart. To our other contestants, thank you very much.”
Inez Honeycutt burst into tears on the spot. Neelie Bryson simply walked to the table and picked up her plate of rejected waffles and tossed the whole kit and caboodle into the trash on her way out the door. “I should have never entered such a carnival sideshow,” she said. “My family warned me.”
“But your waffles were delicious, Mrs. Bryson,” Jocelyn Hind Crowley called out after her. “It’s just that Mrs. Sallis put sour cream and chopped nuts into hers. A very original approach.”
Roland gave Jocelyn Hind Crowley a look so dark that she stopped talking and took her place back in line. “As I said,” he continued, “we thank all of you for your efforts. And Mystic White flour will be sending you a year’s supply of flour.”
The gift seemed of little consolation to the discarded women who looked as if they had just been told the last lifeboat had been filled. Too bad that all hope for them had now been abandoned. Slowly they made their way to consoling daughters, nieces, sisters, friends. To the four remaining women, Roland said, “The next round will begin at two o’clock and will last three hours. If you will confirm with me before you leave for lunch what you will be baking, I will make sure everything you need is waiting for you. And congratulations.”
Claiborne didn’t speak to any of the winners, but the women all hugged one another.
“I am so thrilled,” said Jubal Hart. “When I saw all the fancy things that you all were making—and I just had pancakes.”
“But you were the only one with pancakes,” said Wadena Chastain. “That was the difference. Waffles were the low suit today. I could have told you this morning that only one waffle would be chosen. Chopped nuts—who knew, Muriel?” She then looked to Virginia. “And those popovers were a grand idea,” she said. “Plus, using your own preserves—inspired. I must find out from you how you make them.” When Virginia didn’t offer any recipe tips, Wadena continued. “We have to watch out for this one, ladies,” she said to Inez and Muriel. “She didn’t just come to play. She came to win.”
Virginia didn’t linger longer than necessary to chat with the women, eager to return upstairs. When she arrived, she discovered the room had been cleaned, but Mona wasn’t anywhere to be found. Fortunately, her bag was in the wardrobe. Everything ordered, in its place. She was not gone for good, but this was not like her. Virginia tried not to panic, but she had difficulty even in getting out of her dress alone. Mona took care of these things for her—helped her dress, drew her bath, poured her coffee. The windows were closed and all the air seemed to have been sucked out of the room. She found it hard to breathe. But she forced herself to settle, opened the window, changed into her dressing gown.
And she ordered a tray. She could only hope that it was Butcher who delivered it.
When he put the tray down on the table, she felt a sudden tenderness toward him, like a music student who has mastered a difficult piece and wants the teacher to take pride in the accomplishment. She would have embraced him, but knew she could not.
“I am on to the next round,” she said.
“I heard,” he replied. “I also heard you had time with the man himself.”
“Yes,” she said. “Totally by coincidence. He is such a curiosity. So absolutely sure of himself. But such a . . .” She sighed, catching herself. “But I shouldn’t say. It sounds like there is a veritable network of information going on behind the scenes.”
“That’s why I came, isn’t it? To see. To hear.”
“So they do comment on us,” she said.
“It’s of high interest,” he replied.
“Did you see the popovers, George? They baked up just as golden as could be. Roland even commented on the vanilla. Called it a note. Said it helped to make them sing. I saw that Crowley woman write it down. It will probably be in the newspaper.”
“I didn’t see ’em,” he said. “But I heard the cooks say they all liked the preserves that came with ’em.”
“Yes,” she said. “The preserves were a nice touch.”
It struck her suddenly as odd that he hadn’t looked for, asked for Mona.
“I think Mona has deserted me,” she said.
He didn’t reply.
“George,” she said. “I had a terrible fight with Mona this morning. Now she is gone. Something could happen to her. She is not nearly as tough as she makes out.”
“S
he’ll be okay,” he said. “You can trust that.”
“If you know where she is, then you need to send her back to me.”
Butcher didn’t say anything.
“There is a great deal of pressure on me,” she continued. “I need to have her here to assist me.” She sat, smoothing the dressing gown down over her legs. “Don’t you understand, you dolts, that if I don’t win, then no one gets anything. Do you know she has demanded the majority of the winnings? What would she do with that great a sum? Am I to assume that she is going to split this with you? What makes you think she is any more trustworthy than I am?”
Butcher lowered his head, avoiding her eyes. “I think everyone is just watching out for themselves.”
“Fine,” she said. “And where will that get you—us? Send her back to me. When it is over, then we will decide what to do. But you both cannot desert me now.” She put her head in her hands and began to cry.
He felt suddenly ashamed now of the slip of paper in his jacket, a letter he had written to Clayton Claiborne that read:
Mr. Clayton Claiborne,
My name is George Butcher and I work for you in this hotel. I am also associated with Mrs. Virginia Yeager. She is indebted to me for the recipes she has used to compete in the contest.
George Butcher
He had intended to show it to her, to frighten her that if she thought she could run out on him, that he knew ways to get at her as well. Mona had wanted him to put in about her being Miss Virginia’s daughter, but Butcher would not. “This is just business,” he told her. “The other is personal between the two of you.”
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