“Begging your pardon, Madame, but I require no such nutritional supplementation. I am in tip-top health, according to my doctor.”
“He might need to go back to medical school, then. To me, you look like something the wind could blow over. ’Course, it’d have to make its way through those …” She pointed at his sideburns. “Whatever you call those.”
Neville’s eyes widened, but he said nothing in response.
“At any rate, we’ll fatten you up. A skinny waiter is no walking advertisement for good cooking.”
“From what I’ve gathered, you don’t need advertisement.” Neville walked over to the pegs on the wall and grabbed an apron, which he tied around his waist. “I’ve never seen so many hungry patrons in my life.”
“Patrons? Is that what we call ’em now?” She released a long, hearty laugh, then slapped her thigh. “I call ’em hoodlums, and that’s on a good day.” She used her apron to wipe her hands. “’Course, even a hoodlum needs a fitting meal, so I treat ’em same as I would the banker or that snooty mercantile owner.” Her brow furrowed.
“The mercantile owner was perfectly friendly to me,” Abby objected.
“Humph.” Cookie increased her stirring. “If I didn’t already know you were new to town, that statement would be a dead giveaway. But let’s talk about the locals after lunch, shall we? Won’t be long before this place is filled to the brim with … what did you call them again?” She looked Neville’s way. “Ah, yes. Patrons.”
“I don’t recall ever seeing so many different types of people in one place before,” Abby observed.
“Even in this room, if you stop to think about it,” Cookie said. “I’m from good German stock. You’re English. Sammy’s … what are you, Sammy?”
“Technically, I’m Welsh, but the family has been in America for some time now, so let’s just settle on American.”
“Sammy’s American. Jin is Chinese. Neville is …” She paused and her gaze lingered on him.
“Do you even have to ask?” He squared his shoulders.
“British. He got a double-dose, I think.” Cookie slapped him on the back. “Point is, we’re all from different places and yet somehow—miraculously—the Lord managed to bring all of us together to this place. Right here. Right now. For such a time as this.”
“Like Esther,” Abby observed.
“You can be our Esther, honey. I’m too old.”
“Just don’t try to marry me off to the king, please,” Abby said with mock seriousness. “Might turn out badly.”
“Well, I promise not to marry you off to a king, but I don’t promise not to try to marry you off.” Cookie’s lips curled up in mischievous fashion. “I have a special gifting, you see. Matchmaker.”
“Time for me to get to work on that stew.” Abby dove into her task, stirring until her hand ached, and then—just as Sam rang the lunch bell—heaped bowls with the yummy smelling stew. Beads of perspiration soaked through her dress, but she didn’t mind. Not until Sam came through the kitchen to check on the pie situation. She swiped her brow with the back of her hand and started cutting slices, willy-nilly.
“Best let me do that, Miss Abigail.” Neville took her job, and she filled a tray with plates then delivered them to the men in the dining room, who took to whistling as she entered.
“Lookie here!” Jedediah Tucker called out. “If Cookie’s pie wasn’t already sugary enough, I’d have a big dose of sweetness right here.”
“You ever gonna give up and marry me, Abby?” another fella hollered out.
“Too busy learning to cook,” she countered.
“Soon as you learn, I’ll be waiting.” The man gave her a wink. “Good things are worth waiting for.”
“Humph.” She continued to serve pie until the lunch hour ended. When the fellas dispersed, Abby was finally able to swallow down a few bites of the stew, but still felt queasy. Probably a combination of the heat and all her hard work.
Just when she thought she might be able to take a break, Cookie’s voice rang out. “Time to pluck the chickens.”
“Pluck the chickens?” Abby grabbed her apron and lifted it to wipe the perspiration from her brow. “What?” She pushed back a wayward strand of hair.
“Well, sure. Gotta start getting things ready for supper. Monday nights I serve fried chicken, remember.”
“Well, yes, but …” Abby didn’t have the energy to finish the sentence.
“You didn’t think they waltzed into the skillet already plucked, did you?” Cookie laughed.
“I don’t suppose I ever gave it a second’s thought. The only chicken I’ve ever confronted was the one on my plate, fried to a lovely golden color. Are you saying they come with feathers?”
This brought a raucous laugh from Cookie, Jin, and Neville.
“That’s priceless, Abby.” Cookie wiped her hands on her apron. “Yes, they come with feathers. Feathers which have to be plucked. Jin usually takes care of that for me, but he’s got to get busy on your room, remember?” Tiny wrinkles formed on Cookie’s brow. “We’ll take some time to pluck while he’s away so we’re ready to start the evening meal promptly at five.”
“But we just finished lunch.”
“Hardly finished.” Cookie pointed to the sink full of dishes. “We’ll tackle those first and then deal with the feathers.”
“I’ll do the washing.” Neville rose and stretched his back. “You ladies pluck to your hearts’ content.” He walked to the sink, muttering under his breath that no proper English butler should be subjected to dirty dishes.
“I heard that, Neville,” Cookie called out as she grabbed a large box and set it on the chopping board. “Around here, if folks care to eat, they have to pitch in.” She pulled the lid off the box, and Abby suddenly found herself staring down at a slew of headless chickens.
A wave of nausea hit Abby all at once. “I … I …” The room began to spin. Neville bolted her way and slid a chair underneath her. She landed with a plop and leaned her forehead on the chopping table. Her stomach continued to roil.
“It’s just too much for you, Miss Abigail.” Neville’s voice brought some degree of comfort as he fanned her with an empty plate. “I’ll help Cookie with the plucking. Can you tackle the dishes?”
She lifted her head and nodded, though she honestly didn’t feel she could stand at the moment, all things considered.
“You can’t go on swapping out tasks with her forever, you know.” Cookie clucked her tongue. “She’s got to learn.”
“I will learn. I promise.” Abby placed her hands on the chopping table and eased herself to a standing position. “Today I’ll learn to wash dishes. Tomorrow I’ll pluck chickens.” She offered what she hoped would look like a convincing smile.
“Are you telling me you’ve never washed dishes before, child?” The worry lines deepened along Cookie’s brows and under her eyes.
Abby shook her head. “Never. But I’m sure it’s a mite easier than what you’re proposing.”
Cookie began to rant about how all young women—particularly those of a marrying age—should know how to wash a dish. Abby only heard half of it. She found herself distracted by the headless chickens once again as she passed by them on her way to the sink.
Minutes later, hands deep in a sudsy sink, she went to work scraping and scrubbing messy stew bowls. She began to mutter under her breath, recounting some of what Cookie had said.
“I’ll learn to wash dishes. And sleep with bats. And pluck chickens too, if that’s what it takes to bring Mama back home again.” Yes, she would do anything it took, even if the process killed her.
After listening in to the conversation in the kitchen, Sam cleared his throat to make his presence known. “Am I to understand that women of marrying age should know how to pluck chickens?”
Abby turned his way, her cheeks as red as the tomatoes in Cookie’s stew. “How long have you been standing there?”
“Long enough to know that you’re of a marrying age
. Oh, and long enough to discover that chickens have feathers. Who knew? This has been quite the revelation.”
Cookie reached for a dishtowel and used it to swat his arm. “Enough, Sammy. Don’t you dare make fun of her.”
“Make fun of her?” He bit back a laugh. “On the contrary. This is better than one of those dinner shows Father proposed a while back.”
“Very funny.” Abby rolled her eyes. “But never you mind. I’ll learn how to pluck a chicken, and how to fry it in a pan too. Just you wait and see.”
“Since you’re of a marrying age and all, that’ll be handy. I’m sure your husband—whoever he is—will be very grateful not to have to pick feathers off his plate.”
Abby groaned and turned toward the sink, submerging her arms in the soapy water.
Cookie swatted him again. “Get on out of here before we pluck and fry you.”
“And miss all this? Not on your life. Besides, I just came in to remind you about the apple pie. It’s Monday.”
“Apple pie?” Neville turned to face him, looking a bit ashen. “Didn’t we just serve cherry at lunch? Are we really baking again, so soon in this heat?”
“Sure,” Cookie responded. “We always have apple pie on Monday nights. That’s the day Les goes to the farmers’ market for fruit.”
“Les?” Abby turned back to face Cookie. “Who’s Les?”
“Everyone around here needs to get to know Les. Talk about an inspiration.”
“What does he look like? I’ll be on the lookout for him.”
“He?” Cookie slapped her knee and laughed out loud. “I guess I forgot to mention that Les is a woman. A prospector, to boot. One of the few female 49ers.”
“A female prospector?” Abby looked genuinely stunned by this news.
“Yep. Lesley Jenkins,” Sam explained. “We’ve been friends from the get-go.” He smiled, just thinking about her.
“Les, for short,” Cookie explained. “Owns the biggest house in town. Well, on the outskirts of town, anyway. She happens to love the farmers’ market and makes a trip every Monday for me. She’ll be along any minute with some apples for the pies, and you’ll meet her face to face.”
“So, we’re to meet this … Les … soon and start baking apple pies,” Neville said, as he pluck, pluck, plucked the chicken in his hands. “Because God forbid we should have cherry twice in one day.”
“We don’t break with tradition,” Cookie said. “The men would have my head. It’s apple pie on Monday; carrot cake on Tuesday—on account of the carrots we don’t use in Monday’s stew; lemon pie on Wednesday—Mr. Harris says you should give ’em something tart midweek so they’ll come back craving sweet the next day; buttermilk pie on Thursday, and on Friday I make the most luscious chocolate cake you’ve ever laid eyes on.” She gave him a little wink. “With my own secret ingredient.”
“Cookie and her secret ingredients.” Sam laughed, remembering how she’d made these same claims back in Missouri. Of course, her audience was smaller back then.
“Secret ingredient?” Neville lifted a now-featherless bird in triumphant fashion. “Chicken feathers, perhaps?”
This got a laugh out of everyone in the room, including Sam.
“Not even close,” Cookie countered. “But stick around and you will see.”
“I’ve never been a fan of chocolate, thank you very much,” Neville added. “So, I will have to forgo that one.”
“You’ve never had Cookie’s chocolate cake or you’d be singing a different tune altogether,” Sam added.
“You don’t drink coffee and you don’t eat chocolate?” Cookie put her hands on her hips and clucked her tongue. “You are not a man to be trusted.”
Neville’s brows elevated. “I will be happy to not be trusted from a private suite at the Ivory Tower, thank you very much.”
Cookie slugged him on the arm.
Poor fellow flinched.
Sam did his best not to laugh at their exchange. “Now, if you folks don’t mind, I’ve got some work to do upstairs.”
He spent several hours helping Jin clean and organize Abby’s new room. He coughed and sneezed at the dust they stirred up along the way. As they worked, he thought about what Abigail’s life must be like, back in Philadelphia. No doubt her room was a far cry from this. Well, no worries. He would spiff up this place, make it as womanly as possible.
And he knew just where to start.
Sam made his way to his room and dismantled the bed, then carried it into Abby’s room, swapping it out with the cot, which he brought back to his room. Sacrifices had to be made, but there was no point in Abby making them, not when he could do the deed.
With the bed now set up, the room was starting to take shape. Sam went back to his room and opened his storage chest, a flood of memories washing over him. Inside he found most of his mother’s keepsakes, including a quilt she’d made just a few years before her passing. He lifted the beautiful hand-stitched beauty from the chest and gave it a shake.
In that moment, as his gaze landed on the perfectly pieced squares, Sam found himself awash with emotion. How diligent his mother had been. How godly. How kindhearted. And oh, how he missed her.
Jin put fresh sheets on the bed and Sam covered it with the quilt. A perfect fit. Hopefully Abby would like it. If she knew the story behind it, she would certainly try, anyway.
“Les is here with the apples.” Cookie’s words roused Abby from her near-slumber at the sink.
“Hmm?” Abby turned and almost gasped aloud at the sight of the woman in Levis and button-up shirt. “Oh, my goodness.”
“Not every day you see a gal lookin’ like me, I s’pose.”
Les extended her hand and Abby shook it, getting greasy wash-water all over the poor woman. “Oh, sorry.” She quickly wiped her hands on a towel.
“Never you mind that, honey. A little grease never hurt Les Jenkins.” The stranger swiped her hand on her pants. “Now, you must be Abby. I’ve heard all about you.”
“Yes, nice to meet you. I’m guessing you’re from …” Abby paused to think it through. “California, born and raised. You’ve rarely, if ever, traveled elsewhere.”
“Remarkable guess.” Les nodded. “Grew up with seven brothers, all miners. Come from Sacramento way.”
“Rich western tone in your voice,” Abby observed. “Strong. I like it.” She had to wonder at the attire, but couldn’t fault the woman on her speech.
“Aw, thanks.” Les turned to face Neville. “And you, I’m guessin’ you’re the butler?” She gave a little bow, as if he was royalty, then spoke in prim and proper fashion with a rich, “How do you do?”
“I do just fine, thank you. But I am no longer a butler. You may refer to me as Chief Feather Plucker.”
This got a laugh out of Les. “Got a crate full of apples in my wagon. Who’s gonna help me haul ’em in?” Her gaze went straight to Neville, who dropped the chicken he’d been plucking back into the box. He brushed his palms against his apron and he and Les disappeared out the kitchen door, deep in conversation.
“That Neville’s got a witty sense of humor, albeit a bit on the dry side.” Cookie laughed. She turned to look Abby’s way. “You doin’ all right over there, honey?”
“Yes, I’m sorry if I didn’t greet her as I should have. I’m just … surprised, is all. Don’t often see women dressed like that.”
“’Specially considerin’ she’s the richest gal in town.”
“Fascinating. Certainly couldn’t tell it from the way she’s dressed,” Abby observed. “If you hadn’t told me she was a woman, I might’ve thought otherwise.”
“Oh, she’s a woman, all right.” Sam’s voice sounded from the doorway. “Wait’ll she pulls that Stetson off and you see that long mane of dark-brown hair tumble out. And she plays cards like a girl too. She can’t win a hand to save her life.”
This led to a lengthy discussion about women and cards, another topic Abby knew absolutely nothing about.
A couple of
minutes later Neville entered the kitchen carrying a large crate of apples.
Les followed behind him but stopped to greet Sam as she came through the door, her face lighting in a smile. “Well howdy, Sam. Thought maybe you’d gone missing.”
“Nope. Upstairs working on Abby’s room.”
Abby swung around to thank him, but his gaze was on Les.
“What’s a gal gotta do to get a cup of coffee and a couple of biscuits around here?” Les asked. “Put on a show? Song and dance number?”
“Nope.” Sam jumped to attention and fixed a cup of coffee right away.
Abby found herself completely distracted by Sam’s gentlemanly ways when Les entered the room. So, this was the sort of woman to catch his eye? Fascinating. Not that Abby minded one bit what sort of woman a guy like Sam was interested in, of course.
Not much, anyway.
At the end of a very long day, Abby dragged herself up to her room, worn out. As she climbed the stairs, she did her best not to think about the sad condition of her new living quarters. She also tried not to think about mice. Or bats. Instead, she focused on how good it would feel to finally sleep after such a lengthy and exhausting day.
“You’ll hear the wake-up bell at five fifteen,” Cookie called out from below. “I’ll put on the coffeepot and you can help me with the flapjacks and ham steaks. Fellas start arriving at six.”
“When do you rest?” Abby muttered under her breath, then called out a cheerful but forced, “Goodnight!”
She barely made it to the top of the stairs, her feet and ankles caused her such grief. As she reached the landing, she glanced down at the dining hall, amazed to find Neville and Cookie still working to clean the place and make it tidy for the following day’s crowd. Did those two ever stop?
“Have a good night’s sleep.” Sam’s voice sounded from the stairway behind her. “Enjoy your new room.”
She turned to face him and offered a smile, along with a quiet, “Thank you.” Images of the dirty room flashed across her mind and she shivered. “I appreciate having my own space.”
“We’re happy to have you, Abby.” His words were laced with tenderness. “Hope you feel welcome.”
My Heart Belongs in San Francisco, California Page 8
