“I’m afraid we disturbed you the other day in the library car,” Carey said. “We were frivolously passing the time, and you looked far more industrious when we stormed in.”
“You hardly stormed in,” Lynnelle said. “The distraction was not unwelcome.”
“You seem to have more purpose in going to Denver than we do.”
“A sort of business errand on behalf of my father and perhaps some pleasure as well. I hope to learn more of the West. I’ve traveled in the East, and the South to a lesser degree, but never past the Mississippi.”
“Then you are having an adventure as well, at least for a few days.”
“I hope so.” Lynnelle’s travel history was accurate even if she had embellished her reasons for going to Denver.
Several hours later, after resting and freshening up in her compartment, Lynnelle sat shoulder to shoulder between Willie and Clarice, while the men sat opposite. A fashionably late lunch—or a quirkishly early dinner—seemed to be a popular idea—at nearly four in the afternoon. When they arrived in the dining car, the only open table was meant for four, but Willie and Clarice were intent on making the arrangement work, and they had, with cooperation of the waiter who relaid the table according to their instructions.
“It’s a bit cozy, but it will do just fine,” Clarice pronounced.
“The aunts would be proud of your resourcefulness,” Henry said.
“The aunts?” Willie said.
Lynnelle and Clarice chuckled in tandem. Clarice launched into imitations of Ivy, Ida, and Iola. Arranging place cards at the dinner table. Discussing which book might be most appropriate for a thirteen-year-old neighbor girl. Expounding their opinions on changing fashions and the loosened ways women wore corsets these days. Scowling at the growing acceptance of automobiles.
They perused the menus, which offered three kinds of soup, half a dozen hot sandwiches, a Cobb salad, and three full-course entree options, including broiled mutton chops, breaded veal cutlets, and roast goose with apples. Even diners with high-end palates and budgets would find delectable experiences. The waiter had just brought warm bread to the table and topped off their water goblets when the train lurched.
“What happened?” Spilled water soaked through the linen tablecloth as Lynnelle scrambled to right a couple of glasses.
Behind them, an elderly woman gasped. “Not another robbery.”
“What does she mean?” Lynnelle said.
“Let’s all stay calm,” Carey said.
The train listed and slowed.
The elderly woman reached for her cane and pushed herself up out of her seat. Lynnelle and Clarice exchanged glances. It was hard not to think of Cousin Marabel, and Clarice must be thinking of the aunts.
“I’ve been robbed once before,” the woman said. “They probably killed the engineer. They’ll shoot out the mail car and then come looking for jewelry.”
Carey stood and raised his hands, palms out. “Easy now. Would you like to sit at our table while I go see what I can find out?”
“Does anyone have a gun?”
“Surely it won’t come to that.” Lynnelle caught Carey’s eye. “Come sit with us. I’m Lynnelle. Mrs.—?”
“Sweeney.”
Carey delivered the woman to the table before leaving the dining car, as a couple of other men had done before him.
“Perhaps I should go as well,” Henry said.
“Perhaps you shouldn’t,” Mrs. Sweeney said. “If I wanted to be at a table with no man, I could have stayed where I was sitting alone.”
“You’re very welcome to stay with us.” Lynnelle raised the bread basket. “Did you have a chance to eat anything yet?”
Mrs. Sweeney took a brown roll. “I do love these.”
“Butter?”
“Thank you.” Mrs. Sweeney picked up an unused knife.
“What is your destination today, Mrs. Sweeney?”
Willie nodded at Lynnelle’s efforts to keep Mrs. Sweeney calm and occupied.
“I wish it were Council Bluffs. I have happy memories of visiting there years ago with my husband. But my daughter insists I come to Denver and stay with them for the summer. She doesn’t like me being on my own.”
“I’m sure you’ll have a lovely visit.”
“My grandchildren are rather noisier than I would prefer, and the house is not overly large.”
“They’ll play outside. Children do as soon as the weather warms.”
“And they might have matured since you saw them last,” Henry said.
“We’re all heading to Denver,” Lynnelle said. “At least you won’t be alone on the train.”
Waiters were making their way around the dining car replacing tablecloths and dishes and even removing plates of upended food. None of them seemed to know what caused the train to slow and eventually stop. Clearly, though, their instructions were to resume service as seamlessly as possible, and food began flowing again while Lynnelle, Clarice, and Henry kept Mrs. Sweeney chatting. They ordered, with Willie choosing on Carey’s behalf and Clarice once again asking the waiter to rearrange the snug table to include Mrs. Sweeney.
Carey returned and leaned in. “The news is not good. They’ll have something official to say soon enough, but I wrangled information out of one of the conductors. A piston rod threatens to eject from a cylinder on the engine. They think they can position it well enough to slowly get to the nearest depot—Luzerne—and telephone to arrange help. But it would be a great danger to resume full speed.”
“Goodness,” Lynnelle said. “How long will the delay be?”
“They haven’t said.”
“My guess is at least overnight,” Henry said. “It will be dark in a few hours, and a piston is not a minor repair. They’ll have to send a crew out from somewhere to assess. If they can’t fix it, they’ll have to get another locomotive out here, and they’ll still have to clear the damaged one from the track somehow.”
“You’ve done this before,” Lynnelle said.
“Unfortunately, yes,” Henry said. “We’re past Cedar Rapids, which is much larger than Luzerne, and there’s no turning around a train this size. The best we can hope for is moving forward at all.”
“People will be worried about late arrivals and missing connections.” Lynnelle would have to rearrange her own appointment with Mr. McParland. Her chest clenched at the thought, but she framed her features evenly.
“The railroad will have to make new bookings, obviously,” Carey said. “A small depot won’t want their telephone line tied up with everyone on the train trying to make calls, but I imagine they will handle telegrams.”
“Mrs. Sweeney, let’s see about letting your daughter know you’re all right.” Lynnelle also began mentally composing her own message to the Pinkerton’s office in the fewest words possible.
CHAPTER TEN
English cucumbers
Mint
Fresh dill
Chinese eggplant
Shallots
Tarragon
Heavy cream
Prosciutto
Baby Swiss
Chickens, two
Tenderloin roast (from butcher, not grocery)
Leg of lamb, four (also butcher)
Barley
Long grain wild rice
Fresh rosemary
Mushrooms, half pound
Portobello mushrooms, six large
Chervil
No doubt he was forgetting something, but for now Nolan set down the pen, slid the half sheet across the granite breakfast bar so that it touched Jillian’s place mat, and opened the refrigerator to double-check available resources.
“Dad, what is this?” Sitting on a stool at the breakfast bar, Jillian stirred her oatmeal and tapped the sheet of paper.
“We’re having a dinner party tonight. One of us needs to go shopping. You are incapacitated, but I felt you should still be fully informed.” Nolan pulled his head out of the refrigerator, arms full of bounty. “The good news is we
have plenty of celery and onions and a couple of ordinary cucumbers that will do. And we always have garlic.”
“Excuse me?” Jillian’s spoon clinked against the bowl. “Dinner party?”
“Yes. I also need you to invite the guests to try out some recipes. Luke and Veronica will do nicely. And Kris, if she’s free.”
Jillian tilted her head. “When did this idea strike?”
“Two hundred meals, Jillian.” Nolan unloaded his arms and braced himself on the counter. “Two hundred people are plunking down good money—overpriced if you ask me—and expecting a fancy meal at the Inn.”
Jillian tapped the list. “Three meats? Wait, prosciutto makes four.”
“The menu is not final.”
“I can’t exactly sort out what the menu is.”
“The list is not complete. Obviously we’re going to need some vegetables, and a salad that makes an impression. I haven’t decided whether to have a fish course. Perhaps herb-crusted red snapper? I don’t need to experiment with breads, and desserts will be a variety tray. I’ll just make a little bit of everything in advance.”
“Dad.”
“You’re using that tone.” Nolan reached into a lower cabinet for a large pot, deciding to pull out two. His daughter had a vocal way of warning him she was about to give some advice. She claimed she learned it from him, but he refused to accept responsibility.
“I just wonder if you couldn’t put on a very nice meal with not quite so many moving parts.”
“It needs to be classy, Jillian. I can’t serve an Irish stew on Nia’s Victorian china.”
Jillian scooped oatmeal into her mouth. He was right on that point, and she knew it.
“If these dishes don’t work out,” Nolan said, “I have some other ideas. But we’ll start with these, and you’ll get some hungry people here who will be honest.”
Jillian lifted the list. “Chinese eggplant?”
“I might have to go to that store that sells all the organic food.”
“The one halfway to Denver?”
“Is that where it is?”
“Perhaps we could allow for some substitutions.”
Nolan hesitated. “If absolutely necessary. But we have a butcher’s shop in town, don’t we?”
“Surprisingly, yes. A vestige of another era.”
“Then I’ll go there.”
“What is chervil, anyway?”
“In the parsley family. I’m sure I’ve seen it somewhere.”
“A dubious claim, since you don’t actually shop,” Jillian said. “Why not just get parsley?”
“I need that too. I’ll try the new health food store for the chervil.” Nolan pulled three knives from a drawer. “The tourists love that place.”
“This is a lot of running around, Dad.”
“I know you don’t believe I can buy groceries, but I’m sure I can manage.”
“Do you know where the butcher whose meat you like so much is located?”
“Canyon Mines is a small town. I’m sure if I drive around I’ll see it.”
“And the health food store that might or might not have the fancy parsley?”
Nolan wiggled his fingers. “It’s over down by Cutter Creek, near the bridge.”
“Eastbridge or Westbridge?”
“Does it matter?”
Jillian scraped the last of her breakfast from the bowl. “I’ll go upstairs and put some shoes on.”
“What about your bad foot? Are you sure you can drive?”
“It’s been two days. It’s not so bad if I don’t walk fast, and I’ll drive carefully. You make sure there’s nothing else you need. But try to keep it to something the regular grocery store will have. Deal?”
“Deal.”
Nolan picked up his pen.
Parsley
Eggs
Carrots, three pounds
Almonds
While Jillian shopped, Nolan checked his office email and answered a couple of phone messages. Then he set out soup pots, roasting pans, saucepans, cutting boards, knives, and ladles. On a series of sheets of paper, he recorded every item of equipment he arranged in his kitchen and began a tentative time line for food preparation that would result in a complete meal with all dishes ready at the same time. Experimenting with a menu for five people would be a far cry from cooking for the Legacy Jubilee, but he had to start somewhere.
In the mood for cooking, he couldn’t help singing as he worked. Donizetti’s “L’elisir D’Amore” comic opera.
Una furtiva lagrima negli occhi suoi spuntò:
Quelle festose giovani invidiar sembrò.
Che più cercando io vo?
Che più cercando io vo?
M’ama! Sì, m’ama, lo vedo. Lo vedo.
Un solo instante i palpiti del suo bel cor sentir!
What was a good opera about if not a dream of love? A love potion—even if it was fake—and a comedy of errors made the happy ending all the sweeter. Ah Bella, Nolan thought, we had our love where our hearts beat as one. Perhaps one day our girl will find hers—without first suffering the indifference poor Adina had from Nemorino.
By the time Jillian returned with canvas bags stuffed with his requests—everything but the chervil—he’d prepped as much as he could and was ready to get to work with the array of fresh ingredients while she took refuge in her office. He hummed, occasionally breaking out with the words playing through his mind.
I miei sospir, confondere
per poco a’ suoi sospir!
I palpiti, i palpiti sentir,
confondere i miei coi suoi sospir
Cielo! Si può morir!
Di più non chiedo, non chiedo.
Ah, cielo! Si può! Si, può morir!
Di più non chiedo, non chiedo.
Si può morire! Si può morir d’amor.
Ah, love. That feeling that love is heaven, and you could ask for nothing more than love. When Jillian was younger, Nolan told himself he was not ready to love again, as he had loved Bella. It would only confuse his daughter. It would have confused him as well. But Jillian was older now, and she was the one he hoped would find love that made her heart quicken. Someday. Perhaps soon.
Nolan stuffed the chicken breasts with prosciutto and baby Swiss for his own version of chicken Kiev and simmered the rest of the birds to create stock for soups. The beef, after he browned it, would be wrapped in a flaky bread dough for beef Wellington to roast later and served with a mushroom-laden sauce that would cook quickly. The lamb was stuffed with garlic slivers and rosemary sprigs to roast medium rare. Nolan hadn’t decided what to stuff the portobellos with yet, but he would need a vegetarian option for the jubilee dinner, so he might as well try something tonight.
At lunchtime, surrounded by enough food to feed at least two dozen people, Nolan nevertheless shooed Jillian out of the kitchen, dispatching her down the street for sandwiches from the Canary Cage coffee shop. She disappeared into her office with hers. He barely touched his. The chicken stock was ready to begin making soups.
The rolling pin got away from Nolan as he flattened the dough, to a thin casing to go around the roast, and clattered to the floor and then bounced between cabinets.
“Hey, hold it down out there!” Jillian’s admonishment came from her office.
Nolan dropped the rolling pin in the sink—with another clangor—before taking a small bowl out of a cupboard and ladling a bit of warm liquid into it.
“A peace offering,” he said to Jillian as he proffered the bowl at her desk.
“What is it?”
“Nourishment.”
“Specifically?”
“Taste it.”
She did. “It’s terrific, Dad. Onion soup, but creamy. Delicate.”
“See? Elegant.” Nolan examined Jillian’s whiteboard, which still bore the evidence of her late-night—or all-night—brainstorming from a couple of days ago. “Any progress on the foul play theory?”
“You’re supposed to be helping with that.�
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“Two hundred meals, Jillian. It’s a bit of a distraction.” Whatever happened a hundred and ten years ago would be unchanged if it wasn’t solved until after the Legacy Jubilee. He scanned the board, looking for shifts in her thinking, something she might be focusing on too much. “Besides, I delegated. Luke may come up with something.”
“What you really need help with is the two hundred meals.”
“Are you volunteering?”
She made a face. “There must be somebody in town more qualified to help in the kitchen. Have you even thought about who you could ask?”
“First I have to figure out what I’m cooking.” His eyes returned to the whiteboard with its names and arrows and color codes. “So you’re tracking name variants.”
She nodded.
He put his finger on one at the bottom of the list. “And you think this one means something.”
“I’m not sure it is the same person, but I’m not sure it’s not either. Genealogically speaking.”
Nolan considered his daughter’s hedging expression. If he were a betting man, he’d bet she felt more sure than she was admitting.
Jillian scrunched her nose. “What do I smell?”
“I’m cooking half a dozen things.”
“I think one of them is burning.”
Nolan pivoted and loped back to the kitchen with Jillian right behind him. The brown sauce. He’d left it on the stove when he started rolling out the dough, and it had boiled over. What was left of it was seared to the bottom of the pan. Grabbing a pot holder, he transferred the pan to the sink. As soon as he turned on the faucet, sizzling steam rose toward his face.
“I’ll have to start over.” First he’d have to wait for the stove to cool down enough to clean it up.
“Or do something simpler,” Jillian said.
“I’ve already browned the roast, sliced the mushrooms, and rolled out the dough. I’m not giving up on beef Wellington now.”
“You could always save that for another night. We have the chicken and the lamb chops—and the soup.”
Nolan waved her off. “A slight setback. Just a brown sauce. I’ll make another. Go back to whatever you were doing.”
“Looking for a long-lost sibling who is legally entitled to a share of his mother’s estate, even though they haven’t spoken in twenty years, he doesn’t know she died, and the rest of the children are not too thrilled about him.”
When I Meet You Page 8