Page 10 of Ellen Found
The builders congregated in the dining room, sneaking peeks at the mounds of mashed potatoes, gravy with no lumps, boring canned peas, stewed tomatoes with chunks of bread, and rolls glistening with butter. To her surprise, Mr. Penrose and Gwen were among the guests.
Brought by soldiers from Fort Yellowstone, the elk roast took up considerable real estate on the next table. Excellent. Mr. Child wanted elk, and here it was. Somehow even the heavy China plates and bowls looked elegant.
The door opened and Mr. Child and Mr. Blackstock, his railroad guest, entered, swiping at the snow on their overcoats. Mr. Child was joined by Rob Reamer, the architect, who looked at the tables and nodded as if this sort of thing happened every day.
Mr. Child took the arm of a commanding-looking woman wearing a hat too frivolous for a snowy day. Mrs. Quincy whispered, “Mrs. Adelaide Child herself, the law-dee-daw lady who threw me over for a French chef.”
“Her loss,” Ellie whispered back. “Let’s serve dinner.”
Mrs. Quincy had argued for a separate table for the dignitaries, but Ellie had quietly and kindly overruled her. To her relief, she was right, watching with satisfaction to see the railroad executive in animated conversation with the one-eyed roofer. The architect appeared in deep conversation with a Germanin charge of steam boilers, soon to provide electricity.
She wasn’t prepared for Mr. Child to gestureherover. Mrs. Quincy gave her a prod in the back, and she found herself under the scrutiny oftheMrs. Child.
“This is the resourceful miss who is adventurous,” Mr. Child told his wife. “She is also responsible for tablecloths for my workers’ breakfast.” He smiled. “I hear they were suitably impressed!”
“Do you do that every morning?” Mrs. Child asked. To Ellie’s relief, she sounded genuinely interested.
“Yes, ma’am,” Ellie replied. “To me, it’s a... a rehearsal of what this hotel will look like in June.”
Silence. Worried, Ellie glanced at Mr. Child and saw his approval. “Keep doing this,” he said. “We need to understand what a great enterprise looks like.” He turned his attention to the serving table. “Do I seecake?”
“You do, sir,” Ellie said. She understood cake, but she had never attempted piping on little rosettes before, done with a pastry bagmade of rolled, stiff paper. Maybe no one would look too closely at the writing.
Mrs. Child came closer. Ellie held her breath, hoping it would survive the scrutiny of someone like Mrs. Child, who had a French chef.
“‘Old Faithful Inn,’” Mrs. Child read. “You should have piped on our geyser.”
“All I had was red food coloring,” Ellie said and couldn’t help a smile. “It would have looked like a burst artery.”
Everyone laughed, a good-hearted, we’re-in-this-together sound. The cake slices went around, and all was well.
“Better look out, Ellen,” Mr. Penrose said when he picked up two plates. “Mrs. Child might nab you for her mansion in Helena.”
“I won’t go,” she said, her face warm. “I like it here where I have ...” She looked at him, admiring his blue eyes and frank face. “Friends.”
“Count me among them,” he said.
To Ellie’s surprise, when the meal was over, everyone except the guests cleared the table. She and Mrs. Quincy headed for the kitchen, but Mr. Child stopped them. “Thatwill keep. Please join us. Mr. Penrose, there’s an empty chair next to you.”
She sat, too shy to look at the boss carpenter, but happy to smile at Gwen. Mr. Penrose leaned closer. “Bravo, Miss Found.Youare an event planner, obviously.”
“No . . . I . . .”
“Papa is right,” Gwen said. “I wouldn’t argue.”
“I won’t,” she whispered, stifling her laughter.
“Mr. Reamer, the floor is yours,” Mr. Child said.
The architect pushed his glasses higher on his nose. He turned to an easel and put up an artist’s rendition of the inn at Old Faithful. He took his listeners through dismal years of poor lodging—one was actually called the “Shack Hotel”—and bad food at one of the world’s most amazing places.
“Mr. Blackstock, earlier impresarios didn’t dream big enough,” he said, addressing the railroad executive. “What we have in Yellowstone are forests and geysers and hot pots and utter magnificence.”
“Otter magnificence,” one of the workers called out. “I saw some in August!”
It was the perfect, spontaneous touch. Everyone laughed and suddenly seemed to own the project. Ellie felt it inside her. Mr. Reamer relaxed; he must have felt it, too. “What I am doing with this ...”—he gestured toward the dark cavern beyond the dining room—“otter magnificence”—more laughter—“is bringing the outdoors indoors.”
More renderings appeared, one showing fanciful woodwork made of twisted lodgepole pines that in other projects might have been discarded. “Let the forest speak, I say,” Mr. Reamer told his audience. He raised his pointer toward the ceiling in the next room. “Whimsical dormer windows here and there will mimic the play of sunlight in our wonderland.”
