Intrigue a la Mode

  Books by Regina Jennings

  LADIES OF CALDWELL COUNTY

  Sixty Acres and a Bride

  Love in the Balance

  Caught in the Middle

  OZARK MOUNTAIN ROMANCE SERIES

  A Most Inconvenient Marriage

  At Love’s Bidding

  For the Record

  THE FORT RENO SERIES

  Holding the Fort

  The Lieutenant’s Bargain

  The Major’s Daughter

  An Unforeseen Match

  featured in the novella collection A Match Made in Texas

  Her Dearly Unintended

  featured in the novella collection With This Ring?

  Bound and Determined

  featured in the novella collection Hearts Entwined

  Intrigue a la Mode

  featured in the novella collection Serving Up Love

  © 2019 by Regina Jennings

  Published by Bethany House Publishers

  11400 Hampshire Avenue South

  Bloomington, Minnesota 55438

  www.bethanyhouse.com

  Bethany House Publishers is a division of

  Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan

  www.bakerpublishinggroup.com

  Ebook edition created 2020

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data for Serving Up Love is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.

  ISBN 978-1-4934-1713-1

  Scripture quotations are from the King James Version of the Bible.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design by Koechel Peterson & Associates, Inc., Minneapolis, Minnesota/Jon Godfredson

  Contents

  Cover

  Books by Regina Jennings

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  Epilogue

  Coming December 2020

  About the Author

  Back Ads

  Chapter One

  EMPORIA, KANSAS

  1898

  The breakfast rush had ended, and Willow Kentworth had already reset her station. There was nothing to do now except patrol her table and guard against horseflies dying on the starched tablecloth or lilies wilting in the crystal vase. Raised in a household of shabby gentility, Willow wasn’t used to such finery. She knew that linens and silver weren’t needed for a good meal. The tattered cushions on the chairs at her mother’s kitchen table in Joplin were more comfortable than the polished mahogany in the Harvey House dining room. The honeysuckle from their garden wall smelled sweeter than the lilies.

  Willow felt her crooked smile emerging as she repositioned a glass. Sour grapes, that was what she was tasting. As if she’d ever have mahogany chairs and china plates. It was just as well to decide now that she didn’t need them, she reckoned. No use in cultivating envy, Granny Laura would say to her and her innumerable cousins. Still, her job was important. Controlling every aspect of her table ensured that she kept her job and that her family would get another wire of funds from her. The bread box would be filled, and Mother would get the medicine she needed.

  Reaching behind her, Willow felt for the double buttons at the back of her apron, making sure they were still securely fastened. Her puffy sleeves accentuated her slender waist, so she fluffed them once more. Dressed in her Harvey House uniform, she didn’t have to apologize for the state of her wardrobe. When she put on the uniform, she was only judged by her performance, and no one could fault her there.

  “Stop preening, Willow.” Etta Mae scurried by while adjusting the hairnet that held her thick braids. “You look perfect.”

  No one could fault her besides Etta Mae.

  Before Willow could answer, the booming sound of a wooden mallet on bronze set the room abuzz. Outside, a busboy was beating the daylights out of the poor gong. Four miles away. That was how much time they had before the train arrived. Time Willow didn’t need, but one could never be too careful when trying to uphold the Harvey Standard.

  A telegraph had arrived with news of the next train—thirty-eight passengers for the dining room and eighteen for the lunch counter. On cue, plates of fresh fruit appeared on the serving counter, already counted for the expected guests.

  Willow weaved between tables to reach them. Taking two plates at a time, she glided effortlessly in the manner she had learned at the Kansas City employment office. Placing the fruit plates on the table, she frowned at a water spot on a salad fork, but when she rubbed it, she realized it was only the reflection of the crystal glass that had caught her eye.

  “Excuse me, ladies.” Mrs. Sykes’s dulcet voice floated across the dining room, stopping every girl in her tracks. “Remember, we only have twenty minutes to serve our guests. In that time, their experience must be perfect. Whatever cares and concerns you have are of no importance now. The only thing that matters is your customer. Make this moment the best moment of their journey.”

  Willow fought the urge to smooth back her blond hair. Mrs. Sykes, proudly wearing the black gown of the head waitress, gave some variation of the same speech every meal, and every meal Willow did her best to conform to the Harvey Standard. Whatever new regulations Mrs. Sykes could invent, Willow could match. It was a source of pride for her.

  The roar of the train came through the heavy drapes as she carried her last fruit plates to the table. Taking her place against the wall, Willow clasped her hands in front of her and smiled serenely. From the chandeliers to the crystal goblets, the room sparkled. The smell of roasted, milk-fed chicken meant that the main course would soon be on the plates. Everything was ready.

  And then the people came.

  As usual, the girls in the back of the room offered the first greetings to draw the crowds farther in, keeping the front seats for the latecomers. Willow stayed against the wall until the appropriate number of travelers had passed, and then stepped forward to offer them seats at her table. She took account of her guests, trying to predict what special requests they might have. A young mother pulled out a chair for her little son before collapsing into her own with a baby on her lap. Extra napkins. Willow would bring some on her next pass.

  An elderly couple took two seats, but they seemed to be strangers to the mother. Two professional men and a young couple finished out her table.

  “Tea, iced tea, coffee, or milk?” Willow asked.

  “Iced tea for me, please,” the mother said. “A cup of milk for him and, if you don’t mind, could I get some milk in the baby bottle? He just emptied it, but we’ll need more for the trip.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Willow took the glass bottle after the mother had removed the nipple, then continued around the table, moving the goblets into the correct positions. The location of the glass told Billie, the other waitress at her table, what drink to fill it with—another of Mr. Harvey’s wondrous time-saving techniques. Once she’d finished positioning the glasses, Willow waited with the empty bottle until Billie had finished filling the glasses on the table.

  “Can you get this before you put the milk back?” she whispered.

  Billie snatched the
bottle with a nod. “Don’t want a fussy baby. It’ll disrupt the whole table.”

  “Stop it.” The mother reached under the table to squeeze the leg of her son while the baby dangled half off her lap. “You’re rattling the table.” She rolled her eyes at Willow. “I probably should’ve let him run around the depot platform and skipped dinner. I don’t know how he’s going to sit still all the way to—”

  The horrifying sound of crystal against china set Willow’s teeth on edge. The boy had lurched across the table to reach for the lilies and knocked over his glass of milk. Quickly, Willow snatched napkins from an unused table to toss over the spreading tide.

  “Mind your dresses,” she warned her guests. “I’ll go for a towel.”

  But before she could depart, the mother jumped up and thrust the baby into Willow’s arms. Jerking the boy up by the wrist, the mother hissed, “That’s the last straw, young man. You’re due a whipping.”

  “But, ma’am . . .” Willow arranged the baby on her hip. “Ma’am, I have to serve. . . .”

  But the mother wasn’t listening. Yanking her son along, she busted through the front doors and disappeared.

  Willow scanned the dining room for help. Mrs. Sykes’s face was ashen. This was not the Harvey Standard. The baby hiccupped in her arms.

  “Eww,” one of the men at the table said.

  A warm, wet slime cruised down Willow’s hand.

  “Oh no. Please, no,” she said. The baby had erupted all over the front of her apron and down her hand, even running beneath her sleeve. Willow looked toward the door, but the mother had vanished. Billie was mopping up the spilt milk, having returned with the bottle, but Willow couldn’t help with a baby in her arms, much less serve in a soiled apron. “Cover for me,” she whispered to Billie.

  “For the whole table? And what should we do about the tablecloth? There isn’t time—”

  “I’ll be back.” With head held high and baby held at arm’s length, Willow glided out of the dining room. She could feel Mrs. Sykes’s eyes on her, but she didn’t falter. If she could find the mother in a hurry, she could run upstairs and get a fresh apron.

  Right outside the doors and in the heat of the steaming engine, the mother knelt before the shamefaced little boy. The lecture must have been going well, but Willow didn’t have time for it to reach a natural conclusion. “I’m sorry, but . . .”

  The mother took the baby with a frown. “I’d completely forgotten about Rayland. Good grief. I told my husband I couldn’t make this trip without him. Do you have his bottle?”

  His bottle? Willow was more concerned about getting upstairs and into a clean uniform before Billie missed her. “It’s on the table inside,” she said. “If you’ll excuse me.”

  Willow had started toward the door when a well-dressed woman stepped in her way and blocked her path. Willow might have thought the woman was careless, but then she took a good look and realized the woman wasn’t clumsy. She was family.

  “Calista York!” Willow grabbed her cousin by the arms. Of all people, Calista was not who she expected to see so far from home. “What are you doing here? Everyone has been wondering where you are.” The gown Calista wore was too mature for a young lady her age.

  “I heard you went to work for Mr. Harvey,” Calista said, “so I came to find you.”

  “What’s wrong?” Willow’s stomach turned. “Is it Mother? Granny?”

  “They’re fine. It’s you I’m worried about. You need to find work closer to home. Emporia isn’t the place for you.”

  Her younger cousin had always possessed too much self-confidence, but to drop into Willow’s life without an explanation and tell her what to do was preposterous, even for her. “Where have you been?” Willow asked. “Ever since you disappeared from finishing school, your parents have been tied in knots making excuses for you. Have you eloped?”

  “You’ll be married before me, I’d wager.” Calista took Willow by the arm, spun her around, and began to unbutton her dirty apron. “What I’m telling you is that there’s danger here. You should leave before you witness something that puts you at risk.”

  Tidy Emporia with its university more perilous than the corrupt mining town of Joplin? Absurd. Just because there were liquor bottles in the trash bin and on the tracks every morning didn’t mean Willow was in danger. Besides, she couldn’t resign. She needed the money. And what business was it of her younger cousin’s?

  “There’s been some strange happenings at this station. Go home, Willow. That would be best.”

  “Me, go home? Really, Calista, you have some nerve. As soon as I’m finished serving dinner and the train leaves, we’re going to have a talk,” Willow said as Calista finished unfastening the soiled apron. “But it’s not going to be about my job. It’s going to be about you and whatever trouble you’ve found.”

  “I can’t stay.” Calista’s mouth crinkled into her pert smile. “And finding trouble is what I’m good at.” She gave Willow a quick kiss on the cheek. “If you won’t leave, then keep your eyes open and protect yourself until I see you again.”

  The only protection Willow needed at that moment was from Mrs. Sykes. If she didn’t get back on track, she’d be going home in disgrace, whether she wanted to or not.

  Chapter Two

  “Whoever heard of a Buchanan working as a waiter?” Marlowe Buchanan lowered his dart while simultaneously raising an eyebrow at his younger brother’s appearance.

  If one didn’t know better, they’d assume that the lowly busboy had erred by wandering into the extravagant private car. His white shirt and white pants fit loosely compared to the dandy’s tailored suit, but both men had the same clean-shaven cleft chin and golden-flecked hair, traits they’d inherited from their railroad-baron grandfather. Graham had also inherited his grandfather’s taciturn manner, which had allowed the patriarch to surprise the world when he came out of obscurity as a wealthy man.

  “The Harvey House doesn’t hire waiters, only waitresses,” Graham said. “I can’t fake being a chef, so busboy is the only avenue left to me. And you’re destroying the wallpaper,” he added as Marlowe’s dart sank into the hand-painted bouquet of orange blossoms adorning the wall of the car.

  “And you’ll likely destroy more than that, going incognito.”

  “How else do you propose we uncover the malfeasance? The state officials insist that liquor is being smuggled into Emporia on our trains. They could confiscate our cars if they find it before we do.” Graham pulled the dart out of the wall. He walked over to his brother, then, with his back to the dartboard, threw the dart over his shoulder. Turning, he saw the nick in the woodwork and the bent dart lying on the ground. He shrugged. “It was worth a shot.”

  Marlowe pushed aside the curtain and peered out the window. “You should wait until we hear from Father’s detective. What if you’re in over your head? This isn’t like wooing investors or negotiating rights-of-way.”

  Faustus Buchanan made good use of both of his attractive, intelligent sons, but Graham wanted a different challenge. Rather than sit in his office looking over manifests and searching for discrepancies on paper, he’d search in person. Over the last year, they’d seen railman after railman along this stretch of track quit. Sometimes it was baggage clerks, sometimes it was freight men, and sometimes it was the employees of the Harvey House at Emporia.

  Those who’d walked away from the job were tight-lipped, never disclosing their reasons. When his father had received word that an investigation concerning smuggling on their railroad was pending, the pieces fell together.

  “I have a letter of recommendation from the Harvey hiring office,” Graham said, “and no one in Emporia knows me. I’m just another employee.”

  “I’m sure no one will think it odd that a twenty-three-year-old man with aristocratic manners and a patrician accent is working as a busboy. Not the least bit suspicious.”

  Graham pulled on his white cap. “You underestimate me.”

  “Actually, if I tho
ught less of you, I’d think you could be mistaken for a common laborer. As it is, you don’t stand a chance. Just do me this favor, little brother. When you are discovered, give up the game and wire for help. I imagine there’ll be some people who don’t appreciate you trying to infiltrate their circle. This isn’t the time to go it alone. You have to communicate with us. The telegraph office is at your disposal. Use it.”

  Graham picked up a ragtag carrying case that he’d bought from a passenger earlier that week. Funny to think that all he needed was inside one valise. He didn’t know how long he’d be gone, but he was determined to succeed at the task he’d chosen. He’d persevered through challenging academics, bitter negotiations, and exhausting marathons of paperwork, but how did that compare to the monotony of physical work and routine drudgery? Was he up to the task? There was only one way to find out.

  “Thanks for your concern, Marlowe. Don’t spare me another thought. I’ll wire when I’ve got it figured out.”

  His brother followed Graham to the doorway. “In other words, you’ll only send for help when you no longer need it.” Marlowe rolled his eyes. “One of these days, Graham. One of these days.”

  She was too late. Everywhere around the dining room, men were helping ladies with their chairs, ladies were gathering their bags, and the Harvey Girls were saying their cheerful good-byes. From the empty plates and satisfied stretches, it looked as if the dinner had been a success . . . all except for the table in the corner.

  Mrs. Sykes hadn’t said a word. Not yet. Had she seen Willow talking with Calista when she should have been working? The sickness in the pit of Willow’s stomach wouldn’t go away until she knew. She ducked her head as she returned to her table and found it still lacking dessert.

  “But I want to eat my custard.” The boy who’d toppled the glass of milk had not been tamed. “You promised we’d get dessert. We can’t leave now.”

  Billie hurried toward them with two plates of dessert. The elderly couple had already given up and were walking away, as was the younger couple. The gentlemen were standing, but from the way they were eying the custard, Willow figured they were willing to fight the boy for one of the plates. Quick as a wink, she grabbed two more plates and rushed to her table just as the train whistle sounded. Ignoring the soiled apron tucked beneath her arm and her drenched sleeve, she slid the custards across the table.