In the Shadow of Denali

by Tracie Peterson

Several minutes passed as Cassidy cleaned up her worktable, glancing at her watch every ten or fifteen seconds. Time would never pass at this rate. The rest of the staff moved in steady rhythm, preparing their parts of the sumptuous feast for tonight. But she couldn’t stand it any longer. Maybe if she just peeked in the oven it would set her mind at ease.

  Mrs. Johnson spoke with two of the kitchen maids and headed toward the dining room. Now was Cassidy’s chance. She pulled on the handle of the massive door and gently opened it a few inches.

  Well, they didn’t look like they were supposed to. In fact, they were all a touch lopsided. She closed the door. Maybe they rose up one side and then the other?

  Trying to hide her disappointment, Cassidy checked her watch. Three and a half more minutes to go. She stomped her foot. The job of assistant cook hadn’t just been handed to her. She’d worked really hard for this position and had studied and cooked and cooked and studied some more. Why, of all the kitchen workers, she could make the best hollandaise. Mrs. Johnson even said so, and that’s why the job was always hers. Everything from demitasse to the perfect poached egg, chocolate mousse to roast lamb, Cassidy could cook it.

  She just needed confidence in herself. The soufflés would be fine. She knew what she was doing.

  One more glance at her watch told her it was time. Opening the oven door with towels in hand to grab the soufflés, she hoped for success.

  But when she set them down, disappointment crept up her spine. They were all still crooked.

  One by one, the individual soufflés deflated into their cups like turtles into their shells.

  She wouldn’t cry. She refused.

  A couple of the kitchen maids walked by. One frowned and tsked at her. “Those don’t look like the chef’s.”

  The other whispered. “It’s because it’s Friday the thirteenth, don’tcha know? Nothing can go right today. Just look at the mess down in the basement.”

  Mrs. Johnson chose that moment to reappear, and Cassidy wanted to hide under the table. Instead, she placed her hands on her hips and studied her creations. Like a good student would do. Learn from her mistakes.

  Without a word, the head cook grabbed a spoon. Dipping it into a cup, she filled her spoon with a bite. She blew on the hot morsel before popping it into her mouth. “Delicious, Cassidy.”

  She frowned. “But they collapsed.”

  “Yes, they did. But at least they taste like they are supposed to. Now we need to figure out what went wrong. And it had nothing to do with Friday the thirteenth. Such foolishness.” The older woman scowled at the young help, and handed Cassidy another spoon. “Try it yourself.”

  Not wasting a moment, Cassidy did just that. And while the pleasing flavor and texture made her feel a sense of accomplishment, that didn’t make up for the fact that they didn’t look like they were supposed to.

  “Before they collapsed, I noticed they were a little uneven.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “So I’m guessing you forgot to run your finger around the edge of each cup to ensure they were clean of batter?”

  “Um . . .” Had she? “I probably did forget.”

  “And did you use upward strokes with the butter when you prepared the dishes before sprinkling them with sugar?”

  “Hmm, maybe not upward strokes.”

  “Did you perchance open the oven while they were baking?”

  She winced. “Yes, I did.”

  “I had a feeling.” Mrs. Johnson almost smiled. “I did that my first time too. Opening the oven will make them collapse almost every time. And while all soufflés will still go down after a few minutes, you want them done, not soupy, and nice and high for the presentation. That’s why they are served immediately.”

  Cassidy nodded. She’d wanted to impress her boss, and now she’d made classic mistakes. All because she was in too big of a hurry—not wanting to be patient.

  “There’s a lot to learn, Cassidy. But you need to remind yourself that you are the assistant cook here! That’s a hefty position.” The woman waved for the staff to come over. “Now, while everyone tastes your delicious first efforts, you can work on the second.”

  A little bit of shock rolled through her limbs. “Truly, you want me to make them again?”

  “As my father always used to say, when you fall off the horse, you must get right back on.” The woman grabbed another spoonful. “And Cassidy?”

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “Yum.”

  8

  The temperature at nine in the evening still held the heat of the day as Allan walked along the train tracks. So many thoughts battled for attention—maybe the bright sunlight could help to burn them all away. The long daylight hours of summer in Alaska still baffled him. Hands in his pockets, he meandered along.

  Off in the distance, Cassidy sat on a log. He hadn’t meant to follow her outside, but he did. Would she want to talk to him?

  His footsteps on the gravel caught her attention.

  “Hi.”

  “Hello.” She gave him a small smile. “What brings you out here?”

  He shrugged. “Just needed a stroll, I guess.” Hesitation brought him up short. Might as well be honest. “Actually, I saw you come out here.”

  “Oh?” Was that reluctance behind her eyes?

  He pointed to the log. “May I?”

  “Certainly.”

  Allan sat and kicked some rocks with his shoe. “I need to apologize to you.”

  Her shoulders lifted and she straightened. Gone was the smile.

  “I was unfair to your father. And I’m sorry.”

  She looked back to the west. “While I appreciate your apology to me, I’m wondering if you’ve apologized to him as well—since he’s the one you were unfair to.” There was no malice in her tone. In fact, he heard—and almost felt—kindness and compassion in her voice.

  “I have. He’s been very patient and understanding.”

  She looked at him then and folded her hands in her lap. “I wasn’t very considerate of your feelings either. All I heard was the pain in your voice and the accusations. I only wanted to protect my father. I’m sorry for jumping in where I shouldn’t have.”

  He nodded. “It’s perfectly understandable on your part, Cassidy.” Turning toward her, he removed his hat. “Just as I am seeking to understand my father’s death and want to defend him and his actions, I know you are doing the same. And I respect that.”

  With a nod, she turned her face back to the west—the sunlight making her dark hair shine. “So you’re no longer angry?”

  Tough question. He sighed. “I’m trying to work on my anger over my dad’s death. I know it’s wrong. But no, I’m not angry at your father. He’s a good man.” He leaned closer to her, trying to catch her eye. “And I’d really like for us to be friends.”

  “Oh, Dad already thinks very highly of you. You’re friends.” She turned her head and gazed at him.

  He smiled. “I meant”—he waved his hand between them—“that I’d really like for you and me—Cassidy and Allan—to be friends.”

  She tilted her head to one side and studied him, then shook her head and gave him a brilliant smile. “I already thought we were, so of course we can be friends.”

  “Well, I did wonder, because I had made you pretty mad—and rightfully so.”

  “I have moments of anger, Allan. Even with friends. And we are friends.”

  “Wonderful.” If only his anger was just moments . . . one of these days, he’d have to tackle it. But he couldn’t bear the thought of not having Cassidy as his friend. Best to change the subject. “Now, I was wondering if you could help me with some of the wild flowers around here.”

  She stood and he followed. Easy conversation flowed between them as they walked up and down the train tracks. Allan hadn’t felt comfort like this in a long time. If only he could rewrite the past, he might have a chance for a happy future.

  Thomas carried the last load of heavy equipment into the lobby.
His arms ached from all the hauling.

  “Put it over there by the fireplace,” Mr. Bradley directed and pointed while writing on a paper with his other hand.

  In all his seventeen years, Thomas had never seen anything quite so grand as all the preparations for the President of the United States. Of course, he’d never seen electric lights or running water until coming to work at the Curry Hotel a few weeks ago. The orphanage he grew up in didn’t have either. In fact, most people in remote parts of Alaska didn’t.

  It was a thrill to get to use an indoor water closet rather than racing out in the cold to use a drafty privy. But he guessed the President wouldn’t know about such things.

  The maids set up a table with a fancy tablecloth as Thomas began unloading the crates.

  The manager walked up behind him and laid a hand on his shoulder. “You’re doing a good job, son.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Thomas reminded himself of John’s wise words every day, to take a bit more time so he wouldn’t drop anything or trip. “But do ya mind me asking what all this is for?”

  “Why, it’s a radio!” Mr. Bradley tucked his thumbs into his vest.

  Thomas stood next to him and looked back at the jumble of pieces. “What’s a radio?”

  He chuckled. “Son, I think you’ll have to experience it to understand. Radios make it possible for us to hear music, concerts, speeches, news, and all kinds of things from many miles away. In fact, they are installing an up-to-date long-wave receiver in Seward as we speak. We’ve been told that with the increase in power, they’ve been able to hear broadcasting from Long Island, New York, all the way in New Zealand. And that’s nine thousand miles away.”

  “Well, ain’t that ducky.” He had no idea what it meant, but it obviously was a big deal to the manager. Especially to rush to get it installed, since they were expecting the presidential train at any moment.

  Mr. Bradley laughed. “Yes, Thomas, it is. It will make it easier for us to stay connected up here. And we wanted the President’s group to see that here at the Curry, we are up to the very best standards on everything.”

  Two men joined them and went to work on all the pieces. Wood and wires and round mesh-covered things. It was an odd puzzle to put together.

  Thomas stood transfixed. Even though he had no idea what a radio did, the idea of it fascinated him.

  The next moment, hissing emanated from the boxes.

  “The static will get worse at certain times of day because of the long hours of sun in the summer.” One of the men spoke to the manager. “We’ll find a station to test today, but you’ll have to look for others once the receiver is fully functional.”

  With a turn of the knob, everything changed. All of a sudden, the lobby was filled with voices. Speaking at quite a clip, the voices weren’t anything Thomas could understand.

  “Sir, what is that?” He stepped forward, mesmerized by the machine in front of him.

  The one turning the knob stuck his ear up to the side of it. “I believe that’s Russian.”

  Unable to find anything else but the hissing, the man turned it off. “Well, at least we know it works.”

  “Yes,” Mr. Bradley nodded. “But it’s probably not best to be playing Russian radio for the President when he arrives.”

  The man packed up his bag of tools as red crept up his neck and ears. “I apologize. I can’t control the reception. But in a few days, you should be able to hear more variety.” He placed his hat on his head and rushed out the front door of the hotel, followed by the other man.

  Mr. Bradley paced in front of the fire. “Well, I guess we will just have to keep trying it.”

  A long whistle sounded in the distance, followed by two short ones, and then another long.

  A smile broke across Mr. Bradley’s face. “Thomas, it’s time to meet the President.”

  Staff members flooded the lobby from belowstairs, abovestairs, the dining room, and kitchen. Everywhere Thomas looked, someone was straightening a tie, brushing off an apron, or fixing their hair.

  The maids and kitchen staff lined up in the lobby at brisk attention while the agent and his men, Mr. Bradley, Mrs. McGovern, Mr. Ivanoff, and Mr. Brennan all went outside.

  “Thomas!” Mr. Bradley waved at him. “Come with me, just in case we need your help.”

  “Me, sir?” His voice squeaked.

  “Hurry up.”

  Cassidy caught his elbow as he headed for the door. “Straighten your hair, Thomas, and put your cap on.” She wiggled his tie tighter around his neck. “Stay still.” She gave him a quick smile. “Now go.”

  He wiped down his apron just to be safe. Straightening his shoulders, he headed out the door and onto the platform.

  The train had puffed to a stop, and several men checked around the platform and train.

  Thomas watched all the other staff. Ramrod straight. Shoulders back. Everyone waited in anticipation.

  A door finally opened and people began to disembark. Several more men looked around the platform and went into the hotel. When they came back out, one of the men went straight to a car in the back, one that looked just a bit spiffier than the others. He opened the door and a few elegant people emerged.

  Flash lamps from several photographers popped and sizzled as Thomas realized they were capturing this moment in history. And he was a part of it.

  And then . . . there he was. An older gentleman with piercing eyes, silver hair, and bushy black eyebrows. The President of the United States of America. Standing in front of him.

  Mr. Bradley extended a hand. “Mr. President, it’s an honor to have you here in Curry, Alaska. I’m Alexander Bradley, the manager of the hotel.”

  “Why, yes, Mr. Bradley. How good to meet you. And who is this tall young man?”

  The President was smiling at him. Mr. Bradley nudged him with an elbow. Thomas wasn’t sure what to do, so he stuck out his hand. “I’m Thomas Smith, sir.”

  A flash lamp went off near his face and he had to close his eyes against the brilliance. When he opened his eyes, the party had moved down the platform.

  He couldn’t help but smile. What a gift Mr. Bradley had given him. He’d have this story to tell for the rest of his life. He, Thomas Smith, orphan—had just met the President and shaken his hand.

  The dining room was decked out in its finest. A smile split Cassidy’s lips. How exciting to be part of something so important as feeding the President and First Lady. She did a final check over all the serving dishes to ensure nothing had spilt on any of the edges. They were ready.

  George, the head waiter, approached her, his white embroidered towel hanging over his left arm, the crispness of his black jacket in stark contrast. “I would like to go over the details of the menu with you.”

  “Of course.” Cassidy pointed to a dish. “We will start with the grapefruit cocktail, olives, salted peanuts, and fresh salmonberries with cream. Then we will move to the cream of tomato. It will come out in the white-and-gold soup tureen.” She watched for his nod of approval. “The next course will be boiled king salmon à la Seward, crab in shell, and the tasting spoon of smoked salmon. Following that, roast turkey with sage dressing, sweet potatoes, garden peas, and then a light salad.” She went round to the other side to gather serving dishes and spoons. “Dessert will be baked Alaska and will be followed by Roquefort cheese and crackers and demitasse.”

  “Wonderful. Thank you, Miss Ivanoff.” George turned and walked toward the other black-and-white-suited waiters.

  She checked her watch. Their guests would arrive at any moment. Scurrying back into the kitchen, she checked on the sponge cakes for the base of their dessert. Everything was as it should be. As she glanced around, she realized the noise level was much lower than normal. Everyone moved quickly and without a word. Spoons scraped on bowls, an occasional pot clanged, but the importance of their guests seemed to have glued everyone’s lips shut. The thought made her want to giggle, but she thought better of it. Best not to provoke Mrs. Johnson yet aga
in.

  Mrs. Johnson marched through the kitchen, arms behind her back. She glanced at Cassidy. “I take it we are ready?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  No sooner were the words out of her mouth than the booming voice of Mr. Bradley welcomed their guests into the dining room.

  Time moved at a doubled pace after that. Each serving platter had to be perfect, the food the exact temperature, and each course precisely timed. When the roast turkey went out of the kitchen, Cassidy was already hard at work on the meringue for the baked Alaska.

  Exhausted after beating the shiny peaks, she wiped her brow before assembling the individual desserts.

  Mrs. Johnson headed her way. “Seems I have my hands free for a few moments. Let me help with that.”

  “That would be lovely. Thank you.” Cassidy scurried to the icebox for the pre-molded rounds of ice cream. They worked together as if one were the right hand and the other the left. Cassidy had observed Mrs. Johnson for so long now, she could almost guess what she would do next. The baked Alaska took shape as they stacked ice cream on the cakes, and then smothered them in meringue. With this done, the trays went into the hot oven to bake the meringue around the luscious dessert.

  While Mrs. Johnson crossed the room to instruct one of the maids, Cassidy carefully watched the clock. The meringue would brown in less than four minutes at the high temperature and she wanted to make certain it didn’t burn. The time flew by.

  “Beautiful!” Mrs. Johnson said as Cassidy pulled the tray from the oven. “A dessert fitting of the President, don’t you agree?”

  “Most assuredly, yes!” Cassidy grinned and began plating the desserts onto their serving platters.

  “Wow.” Thomas walked over to the table where the mountains of baked Alaska sat. “What is it?” A stream of waiters entered and snatched up the trays.

  Cassidy wasn’t certain why Thomas was in the kitchen and could only hope that Mrs. Johnson wouldn’t become riled. But to her surprise the head cook handed him a small bowl. “Baked Alaska. Try it.” So the woman had a soft spot for the young man after all, didn’t she? “It’s cake and ice cream baked with a meringue around it.”