Page 8 of Ellen Found
“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—caredenough—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 differencebetween 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 concretedrive. “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.
