Page 5 of Ellen Found

She talks to her cat. She’s shy around men. Shingling done. Now a banquet. I ask myself if Ellen Found is making a difference, but how can that be? She’s just kitchen help. I think she is more.

THE WORKERS FILED into the kitchen in thirty minutes, dutifully lining up by the serving table. No one looked excited or happy. The new arrivals hung back, so Ellie drew on all her bravery and gestured them in with a smile. Everyone made a wide berth around Plato, who stood by her and hissed.

Several of the men sniffed the air and exchanged glances. I’ve got you , she thought as she brought out a massive bowl mounded with hot biscuits. Mrs. Quincy slapped down the butter and a bowl of strawberry jam.

“Miss, put them on the table instead,” someone said. “It’s easier.” He gave Mrs. Quincy a cautious glance.

“Good idea,” Ellie said. A minute later the biscuits were on the tables where the men sat. She put two more pans of biscuits in the Majestic and started around with the coffee while Mrs. Quincy watched.

Ellie looked for Mr. Penrose and Gwen, then remembered that they lived somewhere else and probably didn’t eat here. She lost sight of Plato. She eyed the Regulator on the wall and took out the next batch of biscuits when it was time. A red-haired man transferred them to the table, pan and all.

Mr. Child watched his crew with real satisfaction, then found a place. He tapped his mug, stood up, and indicated Ellie and Mrs. Quincy. “We’re in good hands, men,” he said simply.

They’re just ordinary biscuits , she wanted to tell them. I can make them in my sleep . She dipped a sudden curtsy, enjoying unexpected applause .

“No one goes hungry here,” Mr. Child informed the newcomers, and in saying that, he relieved Ellie’s heart as well. He snagged a biscuit as the bowl went by. “Tomorrow, we’ll finish the roof because we have enough shingles now.” He smiled at the good-natured groans. “We’ll be working inside, then. Fire up the Majestics early, Miss Found. We’ll warm those nails.”

Ellie leaned toward Mrs. Quincy . “Warm the nails? Why?”

“They’re working outside on the roof. Warm nails keep their hands from freezing.”

She stood by one Majestic and felt Plato rubbing around her ankles. “It’s your turn,” she said, adding more meat to his bowl, although he never minded carrots. She watched him hunker down and eat, knowing there was stew for her too, probably as much as she wanted. She opened the door to her room a crack, to make sure it wasn’t a mirage. Nope.

After the last worker filed out, Ellie filled one sink with hot water from the Majestic’s boiler. The dishes were already stacked on the serving table. Ellie saw the sag in the older woman’s shoulders. “I can do these,” Ellie told her. “You look tired.”

That earned her a sharp look, then a reluctant nod. “Drain them on the serving table. It’s oatmeal and applesauce tomorrow morning. I’m soaking the dried applies over there.” Mrs. Quincy hesitated, then spoke. “Could there be biscuits again?”

“Yes’m.”

“Be up by four-thirty to lay the fires. I won’t be much later.”

Mrs. Quincy went to her room. Ellie found rough sacking to spread on the serving table and put the washed crockery there to drain. She looked for Plato and found him by the slightly open door into the lobby, where he had already accumulated a pile of mouse carcasses. “Impressive,” she said. “You’re earning your keep.”

“Gwen’s right,” she heard from the dark. “You do talk to your cat.”

“Mr. Penrose! You startled me!”

Mr. Penrose held up his hands and a burlap sack in defense. “I come in peace with a bag of nails.” He set the nails by one of the Majestics and set a metal sheet on top. “Pour these on the sheet. I’ll bring more during the day. We’ll have the roof over the porte cochère done tomorrow.”

“I’ll remember, Mr. Penrose.”

“Call me Charles,” he said. She nodded, certain she would do no such thing.

“I came for another reason too, Miss Found.” She had no reason to back up, but she did. “Maybe you’d like to see why this inn is important.”

“Well, I . . .”

“Come outside,” he said. “It’s just about that time. No worries. This was Gwen’s idea, but she’s asleep.”

He held the massive iron-studded door open, and she shivered. Hopefully this wouldn’t take too long, whatever it was.

They stood under the sweep of the porte cochère that would, by summer, shelter stagecoaches dropping off park visitors. “Over there.”

She saw a plume of steam rising off a higher mound she had noticed when the stagecoach stopped. It was cold enough to see her breath, but this steam must be the breath of the gods of the underworld .

“Old Faithful erupts about every fifty-five minutes,” he said. “Feel that?”

Ellie felt a rumble beneath her thin-soled shoes. The steam rose higher, then fell, then rose up again and then higher. She held her breath at the solitary majesty of this amazing sight, something that had probably played out, unseen, for more time than she could imagine. Just when she thought it must be done, the steam sank and then rose higher.

“Some of the soldiers tell the visitors that it’s set to go off between nine in the morning and six at night,” he said.

“Hopefully no one believes them!”

“Only the gullible.”

She watched as Old Faithful rose once more, sank until only puffs of steam remained, then stopped. For a moment she forgot she was cold, worried about Mrs. Quincy, hoping this job would last, and embarrassed to think that her work dress was a disgrace, but she had nothing else. Stop , she told herself. Enjoy this .

Mr. Penrose said nothing to break the spell. He walked her back inside the cavern of the lobby, stopping at Plato’s stash of dead mice. “Impressive. ”

“Plato never fails,” she said, wondering at anyone’s attention, aware that for the first time in her life, someone wanted to chat, not to order her about, but share an experience.

After he left, she regarded all the bowls drying on sacking and the cutlery jumbled together, an unwelcome, early-morning task. This was work on a larger scale than anything at the Mercury Street Café.

Here’s the thing , she thought, after a glance at Mrs. Quincy’s door. I can’t shingle a roof, but I can make a difference.

She dried the bowls, then placed them around the two long tables, along with knives and spoons beside each bowl, a place for each man, so they didn’t have to line up like, well, orphans. She filled the sugar bowls and placed those at appropriate intervals. The coffee mugs went down next as the Regulator’s hands inched toward ten thirty.

The table was as nice as she could make it, even without napkins. She nodded in satisfaction, content to wake up in the morning to the pleasant fiction that during the night, someone had been kind enough—cared enough—to do all this for her as a welcome surprise.

It was a durable gift she had given herself since those earliest days in the Copper King Mansion when, as a child of ten, she already knew she would be the only person looking out for her. It was her daily gift to herself, and it felt fine in Yellowstone Park.

By seven o’clock, oatmeal, coffee and biscuits warmed themselves on one Majestic, with applesauce and canned milk and sugar on the table. Nails basked in welcome heat on sheet-metal trays on both ranges.

She had opened her door at five o’clock, and saw the tables set and ready. “Thank you, whoever you are,” she said softly and began the day cheerfully, laying the fires and grinding coffee beans. She also prepared herself for more work than she was used to, because no one deliberately came to the Mercury Street Café for breakfast. It was the day’s slowest meal.

The workers eating stew last night assured her she would be busy, but for the first time in her life, she understood the difference between work and drudgery. She was now part of this enterprise of building a hotel.

Mrs. Quincy noticed the tables. She walked around, seeing the order. “Ellie, you needn’t go to all this trouble.”

“I know,” Ellie replied, hoping Mrs. Quincy would understand. “Mr. Child said last night how busy these men are. Let’s make things easy for them in the mornings.” She picked up the nearest bowl. “They can go to the range for their oatmeal, but everything else is on the table in easy reach. It will save time. I couldn’t find any napkins.”

“That’s almost too much gentility for these ruffians,” Mrs. Quincy said, but her voice was milder. “I doubt we have napkins. What are their sleeves for?”

“We can do better. Maybe there is a spare sheet somewhere? This is a hotel, after all,” she added, which brought genuine laughter from her boss and gave her heart. “Some of the biscuits are warming, and two more pans are almost ready. If you can locate more canned milk ...”

Everything was ready by the time Ellie heard the first boots stamping in the concrete drive. “Come in, come in,” Mrs. Quincy commanded. “Take a bowl from the table and dip out your oatmeal. Plenty of biscuits too.” She put her hands on her hips. “Don’t stare!” She glanced at Ellie. “We decided to make things better for you.”

The men went about breakfast quietly, chatting with their neighbors, holding out their mugs for more coffee when Ellie came around, never failing to thank her. When they finished, the carpenters stacked their bowls, mugs, and utensils by the sink.

“Never seen ’em do that,” Mrs. Quincy whispered.

Ellie watched them each pick up a metal cup she had noticed earlier. Gloves on, they put hot nails into the cups, ran a cord through the lip of the cup, and tied them around their waists over their outercoats. Other men poured more nails onto the heated sheet as someone added a log to the Majestic.

Mr. Penrose came in after breakfast with his nail cup. “We can’t wear thick gloves or we’d never be able to use a hammer well. Nobody gets frostbite with thinner gloves and heated nails. ”

“That’s clever,” she said. “Who thought that up?”

“I did.”

Ellie wanted to thank him again for last night’s glimpse of Old Faithful, but there was Mrs. Quincy. Better just wash dishes.

“Ellie, one more thing.”

She wiped her hands on her apron. “Yes, sir?”

“My crew said they came in here to see everything already on the table. It means a lot to all of us. Thank you.”

She could have mumbled her thanks and gone back to washing mugs. She couldn’t, not after the wonder of Old Faithful by moonlight last night, and the kindness of the man beside her.

“You’ve been kind to me, Mr. Penrose,” she said, “you and Gwen both. And Mr. Child too. I’ll do my best work here.”

“I don’t doubt it,” he said and joined his crew.

Mr. Child came in for coffee after the dishes were done. “Charles Penrose told me what you did this morning.”

“I like things to be orderly,” she said, hoping she didn’t sound silly, and remembered her request, hoping it didn’t sound silly either. “Mr. Child, do you have a spare bedsheet? I want to cut it up and make napkins.”

“I have a better idea,” he told her. “Come with me.”

Ellie followed Mr. Child into the massive cavern that would become the lobby someday. He looked through one crate and another, then pulled out tablecloths and napkins already folded and separated into stacks by the dozen.

“Use these, starting tonight. Mr. Blackstock, a vice president from the Northern Pacific, is coming to dinner.” His gesture took in the vast unfinished room. “The railroad is funding this venture. I didn’t think we could do anything fancy, but ...”

Ellie heard what he was trying to say. She saw the audacity all around her of a project unlike any other, in a place suited for the unusual. “You would like a banquet tonight,” she said simply. “Maybe a glimpse of what we ...” The enterprise grabbed her and caught hold. She held out her arms for the tablecloths and napkins. “What we can show the public this summer. ”

“You have it,” he said. “The soldiers are bringing elk roasts for tonight. What can you do to make it special?”

“A cake,” she said with no hesitation. “Mashed potatoes. Gravy. Canned vegetables, but that can’t be helped. Rolls.”

“You’re on, Miss Found.” He started for the big doors. She could hear men stamping around on the roof over the entrance. “Six o’clock?”

She wondered how Mrs. Quincy would appreciate taking orders from her. “Yes, sir.”

Six it was. The hardest part was informing Mrs. Quincy what she and their boss had agreed to. To her surprise, Mrs. Quincy merely nodded. “I’ll do the meat and gravy,” she said.

“I’ll do rolls and a cake,” Ellie added.

“Wonderful.”

What had happened? It was as though a light switch—none of which were here in the hotel yet—had turned on, and her advice mattered. Ellie looked at Mrs. Quincy for explanation. What she saw was an older woman, a tired one, maybe someone who had served her own apprenticeship in a Mercury Street Café somewhere, only it had turned her suspicious and maybe bitter. And sad about being replaced by a French cook in an elegant house. I think I understand you, Mrs. Quincy , Ellie thought.

So the day went. Lunch for the crew was a hurried affair eaten on the porch, potted meat and pilot bread sandwiches and plenty of hot coffee. Gwen came by in the middle of the afternoon to check up on her father, which meant Ellie took a break and joined her beyond the porch to step outside and watch the carpenters, some of whom were shingling outer walls, too.

Gwen pointed to the pinnacle, with its flat surface and railing. “Papa is up there, where he watches.” She blew a kiss. Far above, Mr. Penrose touched his cheek where the “kiss” landed. “You could blow him a kiss,” Gwen said. “He wouldn’t mind.”

Oh no. Ellie invited Gwen inside to help roll yeasty doughballs and stuff them three at a time into muffin tins. “Cloverleaf rolls,” Ellie explained. No need to let anyone know that she had never made anything this elegant for the Mercury Street Café, where Mr. Linson would have berated her for wasting time on bums.

The shingling was done by four o’clock, just as the cake—Ellie’s first, but no one needed to know that—came out of the oven and the first batch of rolls went in. She looked around, pleased to hear Mr. Penrose compliment his daughter on the symmetry of her doughballs.

Gwen sidled closer to Ellie. “Can we butter him one or two?”

“If he behaves,” she teased. “Perhaps he can tell me something about this... monster, if he has a moment to spare.”

“You’ll hear more tonight from the architect himself,” he said as Gwen handed him a cloverleaf roll. “Other ruffians, as Mrs. Quincy likes to call us, have been framing the other levels, the hotel rooms.” She saw the pride as his gaze took in the men lounging on the porch, some smoking, others downing more coffee, all of them done for the day, which was quickly turning to dusk. “Soon you’ll see amazing scaffolding going up inside. We’ll get it done.”

He indicated the small man with gold-rimmed glasses who stood at the entrance to the lobby, a clipboard under his arm. “Mr. Reamer is in charge. See? He has a clipboard. ”

She thought about clipboard efficiency, as she iced the sheet cake after Mr. Penrose left. “No, Plato, I have never made a cake before, and I don’t have a clipboard,” she told her cat, who lounged between the warmth of both Majestic ranges. “But I can read a cookbook, and you can’t.”

Plato didn’t seem to give the matter much thought. He rolled onto his back as if to announce, I am full of mice . “Don’t concern yourself,” she added, then laughed when Mrs. Quincy regarded her. “Yes, ma’am, I talk to my cat. He’s my friend.”

“I’d say that Mr. Penrose and his daughter are your friends.”

She could blush and deny and keep her head down, but why? Something was changing in her. Maybe she could blame it on geysers. “I hope they are my friends.” And why not? “You too, Mrs. Quincy.”