While Love Stirs (4 page)

“Aha. I saw that.” She pointed a finger in his direction.

“What?”

“The way your eye twitches whenever something fascinates you.” She tapped her finger against her jaw. “Is it the subject of nutrition or is it Miss Gregory herself?”

“Neither, and I have rounds.” He slipped his stethoscope into his pocket and joined her at the door. “Things are fine as they are.”

“You mean everything is in order. That doesn’t mean they’re good, Brother.” She kissed his cheek. “And I think Miss Gregory may be the spice this place—and perhaps even you—could use.”

Palms damp, Charlotte wiped her hands on her apron and took in the room of hopeful contestants gathered to await the results of the first round. She smiled at Tessa and Aunt Sam, seated with other spectators. Baked goods scented the air with vanilla and cinnamon, and Charlotte licked her lips. She glanced at the layer cakes displayed on a long oak table. With three slices taken from each confection, a myriad of frostings and fillings begged to be sampled.

Her own cake leaned a bit to the right. It hadn’t baked as evenly as she would have liked. If she’d used that oven before, she would have known the right side baked hotter than the left and would
have rotated her pans halfway through their cooking times. Her only hope now was the judges wouldn’t notice or would decide it was so delicious they didn’t care.

One little boy apparently could no longer resist the temptation of the decadent desserts. As soon as he thrust a finger toward the chocolate cake nearest him, his mother swatted his hand away.

Tessa slipped her hand into the crook of Charlotte’s arm. “What happens to all these cakes? Do we get to at least take yours home?”

“Only if you buy it.” Aunt Sam joined the two of them. “They’re selling them and giving the funds to the orphanage.”

“Oh.” Disappointment rang in Tessa’s voice. “But Charlotte, you can make one back at Aunt Sam’s for us, right?”

“I’m a little tired today, but I promise I will soon.”

“Look. There’s Mr. Johnson.” Tessa pointed to the rotund man as he made his way to the podium.

He twisted his mustache as he approached the podium and took his place. He paused for the room to quiet. “Ladies and gentlemen, what an exciting first round this has been. The judges were most impressed with the diversity of the cakes baked here today, and all of our contestants should be congratulated for their efforts.”

The crowd applauded, and then Mr. Johnson continued. “I want to remind you that only the top fifteen contestants will continue on to tomorrow’s pie round. In no particular order, I will now read those fifteen names.” He glanced at the list. “Miss Kathleen O’Grady . . .”

Charlotte glanced at her partner from the morning, and Kathleen gave her an I-told-you-so smirk.

Charlotte rolled her eyes, but hope rose inside her like yeasty dough in a hot oven. If these judges advanced Kathleen’s seemingly dry-as-sawdust cake into the next round, then perhaps Charlotte did indeed have a chance.

Tessa elbowed her. “You did it!”

“What?”

“Didn’t you hear your name? You’re moving on.”

Joy surged through her. At least she had a chance. Now if only she could place.

When the next round of applause had settled, Mr. Johnson held an envelope in the air. “And now, what you’ve all been waiting for. Earning third place today is Miss Kathleen O’Grady with her sunshine cake. Second place goes to Miss Amelia Desmond with her chocolate almond cake.”

Charlotte winced beneath Tessa’s grip, but Aunt Sam gave her an encouraging smile. Charlotte prayed she would not disappoint either of them.

“And finally, first place today is awarded to . . .”

5

Joel’s heart warmed as he approached Hannah Cole’s bed. Her color was high and the baby in her arms had already put on weight—despite what Charlotte Gregory thought of the poor quality of the hospital’s food. He’d be releasing Mrs. Cole tomorrow after only a week’s stay.

Beside his patient’s bed, his own sister sat on a stool. Young but wise beyond her years, Mattie seemed to bring a special kind of healing to every patient. He might heal a patient’s body, but it was Mattie who healed their spirit. So it came as no surprise to find Mrs. Cole and Mattie laughing as if they were old friends. He’d expressed his concerns about Mrs. Cole’s occasional crying spells but was pleased to find his sister had chased them away.

“Good morning, Mrs. Cole.” He stopped at the foot of her bed. “It’s good to see you in high spirits.”

“I feel much better today.” She smiled at Mattie. “Your sister has been a godsend.”

“Nurse Brooks has her moments.” He glanced at his sister and grinned. “And what, pray tell, were you discussing today?”

“Funny you should ask.” Mattie offered him a newspaper. “Mrs. Cole’s sister, Miss Charlotte Gregory, seems to have been quite successful in the gas company’s cooking competition. She’s won three out of the five rounds so far—layer cakes, breads, and pies. Today is the final round of main dishes.”

“Is that so?” He snapped open the paper and scanned the article his sister pointed out, which highlighted Miss Gregory’s accomplishments. He then folded the newspaper neatly and handed it to Mrs. Cole.

“No, keep it.” She waved the paper away and readjusted the sleeping baby in her arms. “She truly is a wonderful cook, but I apologize for her behavior the other day. Since our parents’ death, she’s become rather passionate about the convalescent receiving proper nutrition. Somehow she’s gotten it in her mind that if our parents had been fed better, they would have survived.”

Joel brushed his hand across Mrs. Cole’s forehead. No fever. Good. “And from what ailment did your parents die?”

“Influenza. They seemed to be getting better, but then . . .”

Her eyes filled with tears and Joel kicked himself. Just when the blues seemed to be passing, he’d let her dwell on a painful subject. The scowl on Mattie’s face said his sister agreed.

“Let’s not speak of that now.” Joel slipped the baby girl from Mrs. Cole and passed her to Mattie. “You need your rest if you’re to go home tomorrow.”

Mrs. Cole’s face lit up. “Home? Truly?”

“Yes, I think you and Miss Elizabeth here will do splendidly. Will Mr. Cole be in later, or would you like me to telephone him with the good news?”

“Oh, he’ll be here. I can hardly keep him away.”

“Good. Then I’m sure you’ll be in good hands.” He patted Mrs. Cole’s shoulder and turned to leave.

“Dr. Brooks.”

He turned back toward his patient. “Is something wrong?”

“No, I simply wanted to thank you. You’ve been kind, caring, and competent. If my parents had had a doctor like you, maybe—” She swallowed. “Anyway, I wanted to thank you and to ask you to consider my sister’s ideas. I know she came across too strong—it’s a family trait, I suppose—but I do believe her thoughts may hold some merit.”

He caught the hesitance in her voice and chuckled. “You didn’t like our food, Mrs. Cole?”

“It could stand a little improvement.”

He nodded. “I can’t make any promises, but I try to be open to change—even if the idea seems radical to me.”

“I’ve found that the first step is often to change the way you look at something.”

“You must be quite formidable in a courtroom.” He grinned. “I’ll have to give what you said a bit of thought.”

He glanced at the newspaper in his hand. Final round, huh? Perhaps he should check out Miss Charlotte Gregory in action.

How Kathleen O’Grady had made it to the final round baffled Charlotte, but she refused to let the thought put a damper on the excitement simmering inside her. The gas company’s display room crackled with energy as contestants and spectators waited for today’s contest to begin. Charlotte only wished Aunt Sam could have come too. Of course, the suffrage rally had been planned weeks before.

Besides Kathleen and herself, only three other contestants remained. Charlotte gripped the handle on her own basket of utensils and spices and surveyed her competition while they awaited Mr. Johnson and his final directions.

Mrs. Inga Gustason was the oldest of the lot. Her recipes so far had been quite traditional but equally delicious. She’d taken second in the pie round and fourth in cakes, but she constantly expressed a desire for a good, old-fashioned wood oven.

Talkative Miss Dorothea McColley jabbered her way through every bread and dessert, and shy Miss Amelia Desmond second-guessed her every move but had placed second in the bread round and third in the pie round. Kathleen, it seemed, had the most creative flare, and her victory in the doughnut round told Charlotte the young woman had been a quick study on the use of a gas stove.

Charlotte breathed a quick prayer to do her best. She added a blessing for her competitors as well. It seemed like the right thing to do.

“Hello, ladies.” Mr. Johnson splayed his thick hands on the oak podium. “Today is the final round, and you’ll be making a main dish that will delight our judges. You will be judged, as you have been, on the dish’s quality, the presentation, and the creativity used.” His gaze swept over the contestants. “And remember, one of you lucky ladies will receive a brand-new Jewel gas range.”

Oohs and aahs filled the room, and Charlotte sucked in her breath. This contest meant so much more to her than having a new stove. It was her chance to prove herself to the entire city and every chef therein.

“Ladies, you each have a chicken at your station, and there is a collection of pantry items available on the shelf for your use. You may also use any of the spices you brought with you.” Mr. Johnson took out a pocket watch. “So, put on your aprons, pick up your spoons, and prepare the best meal you’ve ever made. And because we want everyone to know how quickly a meal can be prepared on a gas range, you have only an hour and a half to complete your dish.”

Charlotte’s stomach clamped like the lid on a Ball canning jar. An hour and a half? While the contestants had been told they’d be provided with a chicken for the main dish, no one had specified a time limit. All the other rounds had been three hours long, and Charlotte had thought this one would follow suit. Could she finish her chicken soufflé in time?

“Go!” Tessa pushed her toward her work space. “Bake. Broil. Braise. Whatever it is you do, be brilliant.”

As soon as she reached her table, Charlotte took a calming breath. First order of business: gather her supplies and organize her work area. She may not need things as tidy as Dr. Joel Brooks, but a disorganized kitchen could lead to all kinds of catastrophes. The other contestants were already clamoring at the pantry shelf. Should she be as well? But what would she need? Milk, butter, flour,
bread crumbs, eggs. There should be plenty of each of those. Mushrooms for her sauce? Surely no one would take those, would they?

First, she needed to cook the chicken. She’d never have time to cook the entire bird, so she cut off the breast and chopped it in small pieces before lighting the burner beneath the skillet. She added a bit of bacon grease and her chicken. When the pieces began to take on a golden color, she gave them a final stir, lowered the flame, and put the lid on. She smiled. Perfect so far. In ten minutes, her chicken would be ready for the soufflé.

After lighting the oven so it could be heating, she made her way to the pantry shelf. Only timid Amelia remained.

“Oh dear.” Amelia dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. “What am I going to do?”

Charlotte touched her arm. “What’s wrong?”

“I need a can of mushroom caps for my recipe and I can’t find one anywhere.”

Mushrooms? Charlotte’s eyes immediately lit on the can behind some green beans on an upper shelf, but she needed those mushrooms as well. She scanned the shelf, but there were no other cans. What would her chicken soufflé taste like without the rich mushroom sauce to complete it?

Surely she could think of something else. Poor Amelia was already a bundle of nerves.

Before she lost her gumption, she grabbed the can and thrust it into Amelia’s hands. “Here. Go get started.”

Charlotte turned back to the shelf. She could do this. Miss Farmer always encouraged them to use the ingredients they had on hand in a creative way. A quick inventory of the remaining ingredients revealed they mostly consisted of raw vegetables—a couple of peppers, a few stalks of celery, asparagus spears, onions, and an eggplant. Of course the expected amounts of flour, milk, and butter were present too, but nothing that would replace mushrooms in sauce.

She asked God to help her see what she might be missing. Her
gaze fell on a wheel of cheddar cheese on the top shelf. A thrill shot through her. She could certainly use the cheese. Paired with the asparagus, it would work well in the soufflé she planned. She added the asparagus and cheese, along with a loaf of bread, a quart of milk, and some butter, to her basket. She started to return to her station but then remembered the much-needed eggs. What if there weren’t enough?

Four extra large eggs remained in the basket, and she needed only three. Hurrying back to her station, she lifted the lid on her chicken and her breath caught. Why was it still raw? Had the flame gone out?

No! It hadn’t gone out—someone had turned it off. She looked up from the range only to see Kathleen quickly turn away. Her anger threatened to boil over. Any mention of this to Mr. Johnson would simply make her look like she was making an excuse for her own forgetfulness. Taking time to confront Kathleen would steal from her own precious remaining minutes.

Forcing her panic and anger to ebb, she struck a match. The chicken could cook while she mixed the other ingredients. She lit the flame again and then made quick work of chopping the asparagus, grating the cheese, and cubing the bread. On a different burner, she made a béchamel sauce of milk, butter, and flour. When it had thickened, she added the cheese, egg yolks, and bread cubes. Once she’d stirred in the chicken and asparagus, she started to clean up her work area so she could fill the pudding dish with the soufflé. She set her salt and pepper shakers back in her basket and spotted the nutmeg she’d thrown in on a whim.

Should she add it? It wasn’t one of the expected ingredients, but somehow she thought it would work. She added a dash before beginning the arduous task of beating the egg whites until they formed soft peaks.

The motion of her egg beater and the familiar sound of the metal against the heavy pottery mixing bowl made her relax. This was going well. It might just work.

She folded in the chicken mixture, drew a circle in her soufflé to give it an attractive cap, placed the buttered pudding dish in the oven, and glanced at the wall clock. Forty-five minutes left. This would take at least thirty-five minutes to bake. What if it didn’t cook fast enough? Was her oven hot enough? She hadn’t had time to check it properly. Worst of all, what if the soufflé fell?

She scanned the room to see how her competitors were faring. Mrs. Gustason’s fried chicken filled the air with a delicious aroma. Dorothea must have stuffed her chicken with something and had it in the oven already. Now the girl had found a spectator to hound with her incessant chatter. Amelia, on the other end of the room, struggled to get her chicken cut up. If only Charlotte could go help her.