mentally calculating exactly how many flowers she would need for each arrangement and how long it would take to cut and arrange them. Her dreams were filled with visions of flowers and candles.
Shears in hand, she departed the next morning before sunup. While most of the residents of Pullman slept, Olivia visited the public flower gardens, careful she didn’t cut too many from any one area. Occasionally she located a few late blooms of one variety or the early blossoms and buds of yet another, pleased when each addition provided another delicate hint of color.
She arrived at the hotel with four overflowing baskets. Delighted with her find, she filled containers with water and carried the vases into the dining room. In the rosy hue of sunrise, Olivia arranged the plethora of flowers—mostly peonies, dotted with a few early daisies, mock orange, and wild sweet William—in the squat vases Charlotte had chosen. After circling the base of each container with sprigs of greenery and inserting tapers into the candelabra, she silently declared she’d done her best. If nothing else, the aroma should delight the visitors.
Donning her chef ’s attire, she entered the kitchen before breakfast preparations had been completed. Chef René scowled and pointed at the door. ‘‘The banquet room, Miss Mott.’’
A tinge of pride colored her words as she announced completion of the assigned project. ‘‘I began decking the dining room at sunup and have completed the task. I wanted to be free to assist you in the kitchen.’’
The chef ’s white hat ascended an inch as he raised his bushy eyebrows. ‘‘I’m impressed, Miss Mott. Perhaps you’re going to work out after all.’’
Her spirit soared like a kite sailing on a stiff March breeze. Amazing what a few kind words could do for the soul. Chef René set her to work and offered encouragement as she buttered and seasoned croutons and prepared the ingredients for the potage of puréed peas that would be served with the delicate croutons. As she continued to work with confidence, he assigned her the preparation of the Allemande sauce that was to be served atop the fish course.
‘‘You know, Miss Mott, it is said the British have but three sauces and three hundred sixty religions, whereas the French have three religions and three hundred sixty sauces. However, I agree with our famous French chef, Antonin Carême—all can be placed into four families. From those four, all others descend.’’
She truly wanted to know the four sauces, but at the moment she merely wanted to remember the recipe for Allemande sauce. She had watched Chef René prepare it only twice previously, and the man’s recipes were locked away in his memory. She hoped she’d be able to recall the measurements and few ingredients. In any event, the sauce couldn’t be prepared this early in the morning. She thanked him profusely for his show of confidence and hurried to retrieve another tray of croutons from the oven.
‘‘We have a few moments before I must turn my attention to the leg of lamb. Take me to see what you’ve created for the tables.’’ René wiped his wet hands on the towel tucked at his waist.
One of the pastry assistants and a dishwasher grinned as he made the request. Olivia remained convinced neither of the young women liked her. Most likely they were hoping he’d find her decorations unsuitable. She, however, remained confident. Certainly Charlotte knew more about entertaining than those women could ever imagine. Olivia pushed open the doors to the dining room and, with a flourish of her arm, bid Chef René enter.
His thick lips curved upward as he surveyed the tables from afar. But when he approached one of the tables for a closer review, his smile deteriorated into a harsh scowl. He turned and pointed at the tables, his eyes wide as they reflected either anger or horror—she couldn’t determine which. ‘‘What were you thinking? Look at these tables!’’ His words
Shears in hand, she departed the next morning before sunup. While most of the residents of Pullman slept, Olivia visited the public flower gardens, careful she didn’t cut too many from any one area. Occasionally she located a few late blooms of one variety or the early blossoms and buds of yet another, pleased when each addition provided another delicate hint of color.
She arrived at the hotel with four overflowing baskets. Delighted with her find, she filled containers with water and carried the vases into the dining room. In the rosy hue of sunrise, Olivia arranged the plethora of flowers—mostly peonies, dotted with a few early daisies, mock orange, and wild sweet William—in the squat vases Charlotte had chosen. After circling the base of each container with sprigs of greenery and inserting tapers into the candelabra, she silently declared she’d done her best. If nothing else, the aroma should delight the visitors.
Donning her chef ’s attire, she entered the kitchen before breakfast preparations had been completed. Chef René scowled and pointed at the door. ‘‘The banquet room, Miss Mott.’’
A tinge of pride colored her words as she announced completion of the assigned project. ‘‘I began decking the dining room at sunup and have completed the task. I wanted to be free to assist you in the kitchen.’’
The chef ’s white hat ascended an inch as he raised his bushy eyebrows. ‘‘I’m impressed, Miss Mott. Perhaps you’re going to work out after all.’’
Her spirit soared like a kite sailing on a stiff March breeze. Amazing what a few kind words could do for the soul. Chef René set her to work and offered encouragement as she buttered and seasoned croutons and prepared the ingredients for the potage of puréed peas that would be served with the delicate croutons. As she continued to work with confidence, he assigned her the preparation of the Allemande sauce that was to be served atop the fish course.
‘‘You know, Miss Mott, it is said the British have but three sauces and three hundred sixty religions, whereas the French have three religions and three hundred sixty sauces. However, I agree with our famous French chef, Antonin Carême—all can be placed into four families. From those four, all others descend.’’
She truly wanted to know the four sauces, but at the moment she merely wanted to remember the recipe for Allemande sauce. She had watched Chef René prepare it only twice previously, and the man’s recipes were locked away in his memory. She hoped she’d be able to recall the measurements and few ingredients. In any event, the sauce couldn’t be prepared this early in the morning. She thanked him profusely for his show of confidence and hurried to retrieve another tray of croutons from the oven.
‘‘We have a few moments before I must turn my attention to the leg of lamb. Take me to see what you’ve created for the tables.’’ René wiped his wet hands on the towel tucked at his waist.
One of the pastry assistants and a dishwasher grinned as he made the request. Olivia remained convinced neither of the young women liked her. Most likely they were hoping he’d find her decorations unsuitable. She, however, remained confident. Certainly Charlotte knew more about entertaining than those women could ever imagine. Olivia pushed open the doors to the dining room and, with a flourish of her arm, bid Chef René enter.
His thick lips curved upward as he surveyed the tables from afar. But when he approached one of the tables for a closer review, his smile deteriorated into a harsh scowl. He turned and pointed at the tables, his eyes wide as they reflected either anger or horror—she couldn’t determine which. ‘‘What were you thinking? Look at these tables!’’ His words
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