“What was his wife like?” Katie asked, the question seeming to pop out of her.
“Hannah Whitman?” The woman thought a moment. “She was a real beauty, that one, and always had a kind word for everyone.”
Katie felt her spirits drop. Of course his wife had been a beauty. Would a man like Branch Whitman marry a woman who wasn’t? She doubted it.
“Patches and logs,” Chef Gassy yelled out from the window behind her, his accent turning the simple phrase into an unappetizing ashes and loo.
Katie turned and lifted the plate of flapjacks and sausages from the pass-through. “Here you go,” she said, setting it in front of Mrs. Bracegirdle.
The woman reached for the syrup and continued the conversation without pause. “He hasn’t even looked at another woman since his wife died. If you ask me, it’s a crying shame. A handsome man like that going to waste.”
“He must have loved her very much,” Katie said.
“Yes, he did. We all did.”
Katie wanted to hear more. A lot more. But the train rumbled into the station early, rattling dishes and windows and causing a flurry of activity around her.
Branch had planned to go straight to his office following his visit to the cemetery. Instead he rode his horse to the Calico Community Church.
Never before had he felt it necessary to seek the Reverend Bushwell’s counsel. Normally, he worked things out for himself, seeking God’s help through prayer. That’s how he’d gotten through Hannah’s death. That’s how he’d gotten through a lot of problems. But today God seemed far away, leaving him to feel like a drowning man about to go under for the third time.
Reverend Bushwell greeted him with outstretched hand. “What brings you here today?” An older man with long white sideburns, he peered through pince-nez eyeglasses with an inquiring look. “Something serious, I see.”
Branch nodded as he shook the minister’s hand. “I’m afraid it is serious. Is this a good time?”
“It’s always a good time to see you. Come in, come in.” He motioned Branch inside with a wave of his hand.
Branch followed him into the cool interior of the church. They entered a small office and library located to the left of the narthex.
“Have a seat.”
Branch lowered his frame onto the indicated chair, and the leather cushion whooshed beneath his weight. Instead of taking his place behind the desk, Bushwell drew a chair next to Branch’s and sat.
“So what’s put that frown on your face? Andy okay?”
“Andy’s fine. At least for now.”
The reverend’s bushy eyebrows rose. “What does that mean?”
“Gable Clayborn is alive.”
Bushwell sat back in his chair. “What?”
Branch quickly told him about his early-morning encounter at the cemetery.
The reverend was momentarily speechless. Shaking his head, he finally spoke. “But his wife said he’d been in an accident and died. Sat in that very chair you’re sitting in and told me as much.”
“She told me the same thing. Far as I know it’s what she told everyone. She even donned widow’s weeds.” Branch felt a throbbing in his temple. Elbows on his lap, he rubbed his forehead with his fingers. “The truth was, he ran out on her.”
The preacher clucked his tongue. “So what did he say when you told him about his son?”
Branch pulled his hands away from his face. “That’s just it. I didn’t tell him. I can’t.”
The reverend’s eyebrows inched upward. “He’ll find out soon enough.”
“Only two people know the truth.” He pinched his forehead with two fingers. It was only two people, wasn’t it? So much confusion existed following the tornado, it still seemed like a blur. “Far as I know you and Mrs. Bracegirdle are the only two who know. I trust you to keep a confidence. Not so sure about her. She hasn’t been acting herself lately. Has all kinds of illusions. I don’t know if she even remembers what happened back then. You’ve talked to her. What do you think?”
Bushwell studied him. “I think the bigger question is whether you can live with the secret knowing what you now know.”
“It’s not about me. It’s about what’s best for Andy.”
A skeptical look crossed the older man’s face. “The boy will be living a lie, too. Whether or not he knows it.”
“The man doesn’t deserve a son.” He and Hannah had tried for three years to have a child, and no amount of praying had helped. Yet God saw fit to bless a scoundrel like Clayborn. It didn’t seem right. “He certainly doesn’t deserve a son like Andy.”
The reverend rubbed his hands together. “What about the boy? Do you ever intend to tell him about his real parents?”
“I planned on telling him when he was older. Now I’m not so sure that’s a good idea.”
“The truth always comes out in the end, and not always the way we want or expect.”
“That’s the chance I’ll have to take.” Branch blew out his breath. “There’s more.” He explained about the trust. “He wants me to sign a document that states the infant died with his mother. If I sign it, he’ll get his hands on the money that rightfully belongs to Andy.”
“And if you don’t sign it?”
“He’ll probably ask for your signature. I’m afraid that will put you in an awkward position.”
“I see.”
“The only way out is for me to do what he wants and sign the blasted thing.”
“Can you live with that?” the reverend asked.
“I don’t see that I have a choice. With a little luck, Clayborn will leave and we’ll never see him again.”
“I can’t tell you what to do,” Bushwell said. “But I can tell you what the Bible says about living in darkness. And that darkness almost always begins with a lie.”
“I didn’t know Clayborn was alive.” Would he have done things any differently had he known? Probably not.
“You know now,” Bushwell said. “Signing that document would be signing your name to a falsehood. No one can have a relationship with God while living a lie.”
“What you’re asking me to do is choose between God and my son.”
The reverend adjusted his glasses. “Your situation reminds me of Abraham. Remember him? As proof of his faith, God asked him to sacrifice his son, Isaac.”
“If God is testing me, then I’m afraid I’m no Abraham.”
“We don’t always know how deep our faith is until we’re put to the test.”
“So you’re saying I need to tell Clayborn the truth.”
“What I’m saying, Branch, is the only way out of this mess is to put your trust in the Lord.”
Branch left the church feeling more unsettled than ever. He wasn’t sure he could trust anyone with the fate of his son. God included.
Chapter 25
The breakfast rush over, Katie yawned as she finished cleaning her station. Culpepper sat at the end of the counter, tallying up the receipts from breakfast. Though the wind had stopped, his eyes were still watery and his nose cherry red. He couldn’t have looked worse had he rolled in an onion patch, and she couldn’t help but feel sorry for him.
Her body still aching from the night spent in the alley, she drained the last of the coffee from the urn into a coffeepot. Fred Harvey insisted the coffee be made fresh before each meal.
Catching a glimpse of herself in the silver urn, she held her breath. She was paler than usual from lack of sleep. Her pallor made her hair look more red, but her eyes were bright as two shiny gems.
How incredulous to think that Branch had stayed with her through the night. No one had ever done such a thing, not even when she was a child.
At age seven she became deathly ill with pneumonia. Her fever spiked, and if it hadn’t been for her sisters forcing liquids down her throat, she might not have survived. She was stunned to learn later that though she was in danger of not making it through the night, her pa had gone as usual to his favorite saloon.
No wonder Branch’s kind
gesture had touched her like no other. But that’s all it was: just a kind deed, and thinking it anything more was a waste of time.
Her thoughts scattered at the sound of Culpepper’s voice.
“Fifty-eight meals in thirty minutes,” he announced with a thick, frog-like voice. He sounded a bit disappointed, but that was normal for him. The record was seventy-six meals, and he lived for the day that record was broken.
Knowing the hard work involved, Katie hoped that day wouldn’t come to pass until after she was long gone.
“More coffee?” she asked. “There’s just a little bit left.” She needed to empty the pot and make fresh.
For answer he held up his cup.
As she poured the coffee she couldn’t help but notice his fingernails. Harvey rules demanded waitresses keep fingernails clean and trimmed. Apparently, the same rules didn’t apply to male employees for his nails were black with… what? Ink, grease, dirt? Since he lived at the boardinghouse that seemed odd.
“Are you a gardener?” she asked.
He set his cup down and reached for the sugar. “What?”
“I just asked if you like to garden.”
“Not with my hay fever.”
She considered other possibilities and finally decided it was probably shoe polish from dyeing his hair.
A movement outside drew her attention to the window. A distinguished-looking man stood outside talking to the train master.
Her mouth dropped open. Oh no! Setting the coffeepot down, she whirled about and ran all the way to the kitchen yelling, “The British are coming!”
No sooner was the code for Mr. Harvey out of her mouth than the kitchen staff sprang into action.
Chef Gassy pulled a pitcher of orange juice out of the icebox and shoved it into her hands. “Hide it!”
Katie turned quickly, and the beverage spilled all over her apron. Mr. Harvey insisted that orange juice be freshly squeezed as needed. Any found in the icebox was a clear violation of the rules, and heads would surely roll.
Before she had time to hide the evidence, Mr. Harvey strolled into the kitchen dressed to the nines in a dark suit and top hat. He walked with the elegance of the British, but his sharp gaze was as bold and alert as any detective on the scene of a crime.
Katie froze in place. Dumping the juice into the sink was no longer an option. Fortunately, she stood behind a counter, allowing her to hold the pitcher out of sight, at least temporarily.
Harvey doffed his hat. “Good morning,” he said in his clipped English accent and immediately set to work.
He wrapped a clean white handkerchief around his fingers and ran them along the cupboard doors and counters. He checked the icebox, oven, and smoker. As he worked, Katie moved clockwise around the kitchen counter, keeping herself hidden from the waist down.
Katie had heard horror stories about past inspections. Tully said he once pulled a tablecloth off a table, sending dishes flying, simply because the silverware wasn’t correctly aligned.
Mr. Harvey stepped past Cissy and walked into the pantry. In addition to her duties of making salad and sandwiches for the porter, engineer, and other train crew, Cissy was required to keep the pantry in order. Now as she stood twisting the corner of her apron she looked about to burst into tears. Hoping to ease the girl’s mind, Katie smiled at her, but the girl failed to respond.
Meanwhile, Katie was still stuck with the pitcher. The pantry offered a full view of the sink, so dumping the juice down the drain was out of the question.
Her gaze lit on the large kettle of pea soup simmering on the stove. With no time to spare, she lifted the lid and poured the juice into the kettle. Ignoring the look of horror on Gassy’s face, she quickly hid the empty pitcher in the oven, which Harvey had already inspected, and joined the other girls.
Mr. Harvey stepped out of the pantry. “Well done,” he said. Cissy, who looked like she’d been holding her breath, immediately burst into tears.
With a startled look, he handed her a clean linen handkerchief and moved away, his attention now on the line of employees.
Katie’s stomach knotted. She didn’t have a chance to don a clean apron like the others, and the wet orange spot now seemed the size of Texas.
Harvey spoke in a friendly tone as he stopped to talk to Tully. Mary-Lou would be next to undergo inspection and then Katie.
Just as Harvey moved away from Mary-Lou, Chef Gassy stepped directly in front of Katie, hiding her spotted apron from view. “Vould you care for some refreshment, Monsieur Harvey?” he asked.
Harvey sniffed the air. “How about some of that English pea soup? It smells especially good today.”
Katie held her breath. Dear God, not the soup. Anything but the soup…
In his usual animated way, Chef Gassy tried his best to steer Harvey toward another choice, but Harvey’s mind was made up. No one could talk him out of his favorite soup.
Gassy muttered something under his breath in his native tongue, but out loud he said, “Very vell. Tully, escort Monsieur Harvey to the dining room.”
“No need to bother,” Mr. Harvey said. “I’ll eat right there.” He moved to the table normally reserved for staff and pulled out a chair.
The chef’s ploy worked inasmuch as Harvey seemed to have forgotten the inspection. But that offered small comfort to Katie. The owner was particular about the food, and she dreaded what he would do upon discovering his prize pea soup had been tampered with.
Meanwhile, Katie pulled off her apron and donned a clean one while the other girls scampered to make him comfortable. Tully supplied him with silverware while Mary-Lou laid a neatly folded napkin by his side.
Looking almost as green as the soup he spooned into a bowl, Chef Gassy glared at Katie.
The chef’s demeanor caught Mary-Lou’s attention, and she shot a questioning look at Katie.
Katie held up her dirty apron and motioned to the soup pot.
Mary-Lou’s mouth dropped open, and a look of horror crossed her face.
Chef Gassy set the bowl in front of Mr. Harvey and stepped back as if expecting the soup to explode.
“Ah, my favorite,” Harvey said.
The Englishman picked up his spoon, and Katie’s stomach clenched. Everyone watched as Mr. Harvey dipped the spoon into the soup, blew on it gently, and lifted it to his mouth.
He closed his eyes and smacked his lips. An eternity passed, or so it seemed, before his eyes opened and a puzzled expression fleeted across his face. He slanted his head, scooped up another spoonful, and again brought it to his mouth.
Finally, he set his spoon down and drew the napkin to his lips. “This is the best soup I ever tasted.”
Air rushed from Katie’s lungs, and Chef Gassy broke into a grin that practically reached his ears. Winking at Katie, he wrung his hands together like a mad scientist conducting an experiment.
“It’s a special recipe all the vay from France.”
“Is that so?” Mr. Harvey looked impressed. “I never thought to say this, but the French certainly know how to make English pea soup.”
Chapter 26
Branch didn’t see hide nor hair of Gable for three days. Where he was staying Branch had no idea. He certainly wasn’t at the hotel or boardinghouse. Maybe he’d left town. Now wouldn’t that be an answer to his prayers?
Still, it was with grave concern that he walked to the Harvey House dining room late that Friday afternoon with his young son by his side.
They were early, and he planned it that way. The train wasn’t due in for another hour or more. He hoped that would work in his favor and the staff would allow him to celebrate his son’s birthday without having to don a straitjacket.
A quick glance around relieved his mind. No sign of Gable. The restaurant was empty except for employees still putting the finishing touches on tables already set with spotless white cloths and vases of fresh flowers.
His gaze immediately lit on Katie, talking to the others in back of the room.
Oddly enoug
h, the mere sight of her made him forget his worries about Gable, and he relaxed for the first time in days. She looked every bit as soft and desirable today as she had the night he held her in his arms. He had a hard time taking his gaze off her.
Spotting him, she broke away from the small group and hurried over to where he and Andy stood. She greeted him warmly, but her pretty smile was so intriguing he could only nod in response.
“And this must be Andy,” she continued. Taking Andy’s hand in hers, she gave it a gentle shake. “How do you do? My name is Miss Katie.” She released his son’s hand and straightened. “So what’s the occasion?”
Normally shy in front of strangers, Andy looked almost as intrigued by the redheaded woman as Branch was. Like father, like son.
“It’s my birthday,” Andy said, grinning.
“Your birthday!” Katie made it sound like the day should be declared a national holiday. “Well, you’ve come to the right place to celebrate. How old are you, Andy?”
“I’m eight.”
“Oh my.” She pressed her hands together. “Such a big boy for eight.”
Actually, Andy was small for his age, mainly because he was such a picky eater. He practically drove Miss Chloe up the wall with his poor eating habits.
Katie tapped her finger on her chin as she studied him. “An important occasion like this requires a certain dress. But not to worry. I have the perfect coat for you.”
Branch opened his mouth to protest when he realized she was addressing his son.
She led the boy over to the coatrack and pulled out the shortest coat there. “It might be a tad big, but I think it will do.”
The coat practically buried Andy. It reached his knees, and the sleeves were way too long, but he didn’t seem to notice as he gazed into the mirror. Instead, a slow grin inched across his face.
The smile did Branch’s heart good. Not only did the boy tend to be shy around strangers, he was serious minded with a lot of unfounded fears. Yet, here he was all smiles for a woman he’d only just met.
“Here, let me fix your sleeves.” She rolled the cuffs to his elbows and straightened his collar. Branch was so busy watching his son’s delighted face he failed to notice that her attention was now on him.
Calico Spy Page 14
