Amos trusted the man. He dug in his pocket and counted out the amount needed. He slid the coins across the counter. “I hope to get my farm where I want it before my hair turns gray.” He tried to speak lightly, as if he were making a joke, but his voice came out tight and strained instead.
The grocer clanked the coins into his cash register drawer. “Now, don’t defeat yourself even before you get started. As I said, you’re young. You’ve got time.” He gave the drawer a push, and the massive register echoed with the solid slam. “I’d have to say you’re in a better spot than most of the young men here in Florence. Lots of them work at the quarry outside of town. Good work—honorable, with a decent wage. But I can’t help but wonder what they’ll all do when the rock runs out. It’s bound to happen by and by.” He shot Amos a smile. “But you aren’t likely to run clear out of eggs, and folks will always need what you’re peddling. So hang on to your plans, young man. See ’em through.”
The man’s advice, given in such a fatherly manner, warmed Amos. And encouraged him. He smiled his thanks. “I will, sir. Good-bye now.”
Out on the boardwalk beneath the sun, Amos glanced at the three remaining eggs nestled in the straw. He could take them home and eat them—a treat he rarely allowed himself. Or should he give those eggs to the hotel cook as a gift? He could ask him to tell the manager he was working on expanding his flock, as he’d been told to do. “Hang on to your plans … See ’em through.” Mr. Root’s advice propelled him in the direction of the hotel. It wouldn’t hurt to let the manager know he’d taken his words to heart and was working to win his business.
Ruthie
Ruthie swung the rug beater like a baseball bat and gave the rug hanging over the clothesline another good whack. Dust swirled from the thickly woven yarns. A gust of hot wind tossed the dust in her face. She turned aside and coughed. From her spot farther down the line, Dinah coughed, too. Of all the tasks assigned to the chambermaids, rug beating was Ruthie’s least favorite. Thankfully they only had to do it once every two months.
Raising the beater again, Ruthie took aim. But before she swung, a shadow creeping up alongside her caught her by surprise. She lowered the beater and turned to find one of Papa’s parishioners, Amos Ackerman, standing nearby. Immediately, her pulse increased its tempo. She’d never been tongue-tied around anyone, but the first time she’d seen Mr. Ackerman’s square, handsome face and broad shoulders nearly a year ago, she’d found herself smitten. Having him so near turned her legs to rubber. Her lips quivered into a shy grin.
He spoke first. “Good morning, Miss Mead.”
Up ahead, Dinah was pounding her rug with steady whumps. Between the noise and the dust flying through the air, conversation would be a challenge. But Ruthie could overcome challenges. “Good morning, Mr. Ackerman.” Her voice emerged as wobbly as her knees felt. She swallowed a nervous titter.
“You girls are working hard.” His gaze drifted to Dinah. Admiration seemed to shine in his eyes.
Ruthie liked his eyes—the color of sapphire with darker blue rims around the irises. He had incredibly thick and long eyelashes for a man, and most of the time he averted his gaze so his eyes hid behind the lashes. She preferred it when he held his head high, the way he was doing now. But she wished he’d look at her instead of at Dinah.
She cleared her throat—partly to rid it of the dusty feeling, but mostly to gain his attention. It worked on the latter. She beamed. “Yes, we are. With all the feet coming and going through the hotel, the rugs needed a good beating. Dinah and I are only too happy to rid them of the travel dust. Aren’t we, Dinah?”
Dinah paused in her pounding and flicked a brief glance over her shoulder. Her gaze bounced from Ruthie to Mr. Ackerman, and color climbed her cheeks. She nodded, then returned to swatting the backside of the rug with even greater gusto than before. If she didn’t slow down, her arms would fall off before they finished all the rugs. Ruthie started to issue a warning, but Mr. Ackerman spoke again.
“I came to see the hotel manager, but I wasn’t sure if he’d be too busy right now to talk to me. Do you know his morning schedule? I don’t want to intrude.”
His voice, deep and slow as if every word was too important to rush, reminded her of Papa’s when he was reading aloud from the Bible. The warm feeling in Ruthie’s chest expanded. “He’s likely overseeing the baking. Monday is bread-making day. I think he spends lots of time in the kitchen since he was a head chef at a big-city hotel before he came to Florence. But there are lots of kitchen helpers, so he’d probably have a few minutes to speak with you.” She paused, gathering up her nerve. Papa would frown if she behaved flirtatiously—even though she was nearly nineteen and definitely of a marriageable age—while speaking with one of his unmarried male parishioners. “Would you like me to take you in and ask him to speak with you?”
If she wasn’t mistaken, Dinah suddenly decreased the strength of her swing. The thuds from her beater seemed less intense. Mr. Ackerman must have noticed, too, because he sent a questioning look in Dinah’s direction.
Ruthie said, “I’d be glad to do it.”
Mr. Ackerman continued to watch Dinah. She delivered another three, weaker whacks, and then her arms drooped to her sides. The curved wire tip of the beater hid in the grass. In the silence that fell, Ruthie’s voice boomed out shrilly.
“Dinah could come, too. She’s never beaten rugs before, so I’m sure she’s tired.” Had she really intended to disparage Dinah? Not deliberately, but she realized her words sounded spiteful. She hurriedly added, “And we both need a drink after swallowing so much dust.” She offered Dinah an apologetic look. “So we’ll all go, yes?”
But Dinah shook her head. She lifted the beater and returned to work, although her swings showed her weariness.
Ruthie turned to Mr. Ackerman, who gazed at Dinah with sympathy in his expression. Ruthie’s heart rolled over. He was such a nice man. She dropped her beater at her feet and took a step toward the open doorway leading directly into the kitchen from the backyard. “Come along, Mr. Ackerman. The kitchen is this way.”
He hesitated for a moment. Then he released the handle on the child’s wagon he’d been pulling and plucked three eggs from the bed of straw filling the wooden box. Ruthie thought he would follow her, but instead he moved across the yard toward Dinah with the eggs cradled in one of his wide hands. His gait was clumsy, his left leg refusing to travel as far as the right one. But he closed the distance fairly quickly, considering his limp.
Ruthie tipped her head, listening in.
“Are you sure you don’t want to take a short break, Di—” Pink stole across his cheeks. He looked at Ruthie.
She read the silent question. “Hubley. Her name is Miss Hubley.”
He nodded a thank-you and turned back to Dinah. “Are you sure you don’t want to rest a bit, Miss Hubley? Your arms must be aching.”
Dinah skittered away from him to the next rug waiting on the line and raised the beater. “I’m fine.” She whacked the rug.
He frowned.
Ruthie fidgeted impatiently. As much as she admired Mr. Ackerman’s consideration, it was ill placed. Dinah held everyone at arm’s length. Why would she treat him any differently? He’d only feel snubbed if he continued trying to persuade her. Ruthie couldn’t have that. He was far too kind a person to suffer being rebuffed by a rich girl from Chicago.
“Mr. Ackerman, I’ll bring Dinah a cup of water when I return from the kitchen. It’s just this way.” Ruthie inched toward the building, hoping he would follow.
After another moment of hesitation, he turned and scuffed after her. Relieved, she sent a smile over her shoulder. Even though he marched along in resignation rather than eagerness, victory straightened her spine. She’d saved him from certain humiliation and hurt feelings. She hoped he’d be grateful.
To Ruthie’s frustration, the moment she took Mr. Ackerman to Mr. Phillips, she ceased to exist. Or at least it felt that way. The two men began a lightning-fast conversat
ion—Mr. Phillips did everything quickly, and Mr. Ackerman responded in kind, although it seemed out of character for him to rattle off his words—over eggs, of all things! Ruthie nearly rolled her eyes. Eggs were so important? But apparently they were, because Mr. Phillips turned an egg this way and that with one eye squinted shut. He acted as though he were a jeweler and the egg were a diamond. Even though she’d intended to walk Mr. Ackerman back to his wagon, she realized very quickly the two of them might talk for quite a while.
So she said, “Good-bye, then, Mr. Ackerman.”
He didn’t even look at her.
Now she felt rebuffed. She took two tin cups from the hooks on the sideboard, filled them with water from the drinking bucket, and carried them out to the yard. Dinah turned as Ruthie approached and reached eagerly for the cup. Ruthie sipped, but Dinah guzzled her water, then wiped her moist lips with the back of her hand—an undignified gesture that took Ruthie by surprise. But if someone from Dinah’s background could slurp water without reserve, so could she. Ruthie finished her cup in one long draw.
Dinah twiddled the cup in her hand, her gaze fluttering toward the kitchen doorway. “Was … was Mr. Phillips available to talk with Mr. Ackerman?”
“Yes.”
Dinah nibbled her lower lip. Worry creased her brow. “They’re talking a long time.”
Ruthie stifled a disgruntled huff. Papa didn’t approve of snide expulsions of breath. “They are. About eggs.”
Dinah turned so sharply she nearly dropped the cup. “Did you say eggs?”
Ruthie nodded. She held her hands outward, her frustration getting the better of her. “Can you imagine? Mr. Phillips was so intent on examining the eggs Mr. Ackerman had brought, neither of them even noticed when I left the room.” She folded her arms across her chest and tapped the tin cup against her shoulder. “I found it rather insulting, to be honest.”
A smile grew on Dinah’s face. The biggest smile Ruthie had seen since the girl arrived. “Good. That’s good.”
Ruthie gave a jolt. It was good that she’d been insulted?
Dinah thrust the cup at Ruthie and then reached for the beater, which she’d discarded in the grass. Without another word, she set back to work and hummed as she swung the beater.
Ruthie stood staring at Dinah for several seconds. What had made her so happy? Clearly she would never understand Dinah Hubley. She shook her head and started to return the cups to the kitchen. Then she remembered the way the two men had ignored her, and she turned around. After dropping the cups near the clothesline, she yanked up her beater and aimed a mighty blow on the closest rug.
Dinah
After two hours of swatting at the rugs, Dinah’s arms and back ached so badly she wanted to crawl in a hole and wail. She gazed down the line of rugs and gently rotated her neck, willing the stiff muscles to relax. She hadn’t been so sore since—
She slammed the door on the thought and turned her attention elsewhere. Despite her physical discomfort, she couldn’t deny a great feeling of relief. The chef from Chicago and the egg man—Mr. Ackerman, Ruthie had called him—had talked about eggs. Not about Dinah.
For one brief second, disappointment smote her. He’d been so considerate, asking if she needed a break from the hard labor. Even though his attention made her jittery, it also pleased her. And she’d found herself wanting to hold on to it just a little longer. The feeling surprised her. She’d never wanted a man’s gaze to linger on her or to be drawn into conversation, but Mr. Ackerman was different. Maybe she felt safer because she could outrun him, given his limp. But she sensed there was something more. She only wished she knew what it was.
Ruthie walked over, her steps slow and labored, and took Dinah’s rug beater from her hand. She heaved a deep sigh. “I’ll go tell Mr. Irwin the rugs are ready to go back on the floor. I’m glad the busboys will carry them inside. I can barely lift these things.” She swung the pair of beaters and grimaced. “I wish we could take a nap before we start cleaning rooms, but there isn’t time. We’ll probably both sleep like logs tonight.”
Dinah hoped her tiredness would result in deep sleep. Terrifying dreams about the gentleman in Chicago had kept her from fully resting for weeks. At least she’d been able to set aside her concern about being with child. She’d never been so happy to welcome her monthly time. Even so, she needed an uninterrupted night of sleep.
Ruthie started toward the hotel, then paused and turned back. “Oh, Dinah, I almost forgot. Would you take the cups we used to the kitchen? Just put them in the tub for the dishwasher. They’re on the ground right over there.” She waved one of the beaters in the direction of the clothesline and then headed off across the grass.
Dinah opened her mouth to ask Ruthie to take the cups instead, but she held the request inside. Ruthie would ask why, and Dinah couldn’t explain. So she walked stiffly to the discarded pair of tin cups, picked them up, and trudged toward the kitchen. As she crossed the sunny yard, she consoled herself. The washtub would probably be near the back door. At the Yellow Parrot the slop bucket was by the door, and Rueben always said it made sense to have the washtub near the slop bucket. She could probably drop the cups in the tub and slip away without anyone even seeing her.
As she neared the door, which was held open by a brick, the wonderful aromas of fresh bread and roasted meat wafted out to greet her. The smells grew more pungent as she closed the distance, and busy noises—scurrying feet, pans clanking, low-voiced commands to fill the serving bowls and be careful with the gravy—warned her she shouldn’t tarry in the kitchen. She’d be in the way.
She peeked inside, cups extended to drop into a tub. But no tub waited near the door. In fact, she couldn’t see a washtub at all from this position. She scanned the room, taking note of the workers scurrying around, as industrious as a nest of ants. She’d thought the dining room servers were the only ones who raced to complete their tasks. Serving drinks and a three-course meal to as many as sixty guests during a twenty-minute watering stop left no time to pause between duties. But apparently the kitchen workers were just as taxed. And no one had time to stop and direct her to the washtub.
She considered leaving the cups on the floor inside the door. Someone would come upon them. But how many times had she found items out of place at the Yellow Parrot, which she then had to return to their rightful locations? She didn’t want to create extra work for anyone. With a sigh, she stepped into the kitchen and inched her way along the outer edge, keeping well out of the way of those rushing around to fill plates and slide them through the serving window.
When she’d gone halfway across the room, she spotted a counter with a pump handle sticking up. A wooden tub rested on the floor in front of the counter. The washtub, surely. She hurried in that direction and ran smack into a little girl who was crouched on the floor against the wall. The tin cups went flying as Dinah reached out to catch herself from falling on the child.
The girl began to wail, and a woman carrying a stack of white plates with Mr. Harvey’s specially chosen blue swirl design painted on the rims careened from a little room behind the counter. “What’s wrong, Laura?” The woman plopped the plates into Dinah’s hands. “Take these to the serving window so I can see to my daughter.”
Too stunned to argue, Dinah balanced the plates against her ribs and waddled to the counter. Next to Mr. Gindough stood Mr. Phillips, who bobbed his head toward an empty space on the counter. “Put them there and then stand back. We’ve got to get these filled.”
Dinah lowered the plates to the surface, holding her breath. She didn’t dare look into his face, fearful he’d recognize her from the Yellow Parrot. The plates clunked together as they met the wooden counter. “Careful,” he said, then turned away.
Her head low, Dinah scurried off. She flicked a glance over her shoulder. The man was too busy dishing up food to take notice of her. Relieved, she turned toward the door. But the woman who’d handed her the plates waved her hand and called, “Wait!”
Dinah h
esitated. She needed to get to work. She and Ruthie had spent so much time beating the rugs, she was behind on cleaning rooms. She might even need to skip lunch. The woman added, “Please come here,” and Dinah couldn’t ignore the pleading in her voice. She hurried to the woman’s side.
The little girl clung to her mother, hiding her face in the folds of the woman’s grimy skirt. The woman offered a quick, apologetic smile. “I’m sorry to trouble you—I know you aren’t one of the kitchen workers—but my little girl here needs the outhouse and she’s afraid to walk all the way out there alone. I need to bring out more clean plates. Would you take the plates for me? They’re in the butler’s pantry.”
Dinah’s stomach churned. The longer she stayed in the kitchen, the more likely it became Mr. Phillips would take a good look at her. She needed to leave. She made a snap decision. “I’ll take your little girl to the outhouse.” She released a nervous laugh. “I almost dropped those plates, and the cook wasn’t too happy with me.”
The woman tugged the child loose. “Laura, you go with this nice lady. She’ll help you and bring you right back.” She pressed the little girl toward Dinah, then disappeared into the pantry.
Dinah looked down at the child. Laura looked back with round, desperate eyes. Dinah said, “Let’s hurry.”
They took off at a trot. Dinah started to step inside with Laura, but the little girl shook her head, making her silky yellow curls bounce. “I can go by myself.”
Arguing would only prolong things. “Go ahead, then.”
Dinah waited outside the outhouse while Laura went in and saw to her needs. The child was in there several minutes, and twice Dinah started to go in and check on her, but she could hear her singing, which told her she wasn’t distressed, so she paced outside the closed door and waited. Finally Laura emerged. Her skinny little chest rose and fell in a sigh. “All done.” The hem of her pink checked skirt was caught in the back of her cotton drawers, and she allowed Dinah to straighten things out. Then she stuck out her hand.
Through the Deep Waters Page 9