I open my eyes and see he’s looking at his own bowl now. He prods the oatmeal with his spoon, and it wobbles in gelatin-like vibration in reply. He’s told me about his late wife in conversation, passed ten years now, but I sense what is causing him to frown so deeply right now is most certainly food related more than memories of old.
From the looks of it, they didn’t even add anything to the steel oats.
Just plain old oatmeal. Like his lunch yesterday that turned out to be a pitiful amount of cottage cheese and canned tuna.
I purse my lips.
“Clarence.” I set my napkin on my lap. “Hold on a moment before eating that. I’m going to see if I can whip something up.”
His eyebrows shoot to his receding hairline. “No, no, Willow. It’s not that easy—”
I wave him off. “This is your train, isn’t it? I’m just going to swing byyourkitchen, do a little tinkering without getting in anyone’s way, and come back with something you’ll actually eat—that yes, is also good for you. Trust me. This is, quite literally, what I do. And frankly, I can’t eat one more meal with you sitting across from me with those sad puppy eyes. It’s killing my holiday spirit.”
He hesitates, looking very seriously at his mash as if wondering if he could manage to choke it down after all. “Okay,” he says at last. “But if Mrs.Byrd seems to have a fit, you get out of there. I mean it. Don’t get yourself in trouble on my account.”
I laugh. He practically sounds like a schoolboy. “Deal.” I dig through my overhead suitcase for a few stowaway ingredients I’d wager my ticket they don’t have on hand, slip them into a purse over my shoulder, and dash away, moving quickly through the cars before Clarence changes his mind. I have no doubt he’d rather have just about anything than that sludge, but at the same time, he’s got that same giving spirit I saw in Oliver the night before, willing to put himself out for the sake of not inconveniencing others.
Thankfully, however, I’m not them. Not when it comes to others I care about at least. I once entirely stopped traffic just to save Miss Clark’s gift-from-her-long-distance-daughterflyaway umbrella. I can certainly fix up a little breakfast for the train’s owner.
The car dedicated to food isn’t hard to find; I just follow the string of elves coming and going with breakfast platters. The kitchen is surprisingly as far as possible from the passenger area, and the closer I get, the more I understand why.
The closer I get, the clearer it becomes why Clarence was so hesitant as well.
He may own the train, but it’s obvious Mrs.Byrd owns the kitchen.
“I don’tcareif you sprained your ankle tripping on your own feet. Quillet, get this coffee out to 3Gnow.Margaret,I’m still waiting on that bacon!”
The looks on the elves’ faces as they push open the curtain and exit, laden with pushcarts and heavy trays, make it clear they are scrambling under her direction. I edge out of the aisle as much as I can to let them pass, and after a moment’s hesitation, step inside.
The train kitchen is chaotic. Stainless-steel pans swing gently from their hanging posts on the ceiling, and an inordinate number of people are pushing against one another, reaching over and under one another’s bodies in their quests for refill sugar packets and bundles of silverware for their particular guests. In the center of it all is an industrial-size oven where one of the tiniest women I’ve ever seen stands beside it. With both hands elbow-deep in oven mitts, she bellows at one of the elves while she yanks a pan full of steaming bacon out of the oven and tosses in a fresh one.
“Willow?” I turn as Oliver steps beside me, clipboard in hand. He’s clearly surprised.
“Oliver, hi.” I feel a little relief to see his face in the chaos. “I came for Clarence. Is there any space around here, by chance, for me to fix up something for him really quickly?”
Oliver’s forehead crinkles. “Did something happen to his meal?” He raises a hand, getting the attention of an elf. “We can send off another one.”
“No, no. It’s just that... eggs are such a great way to slow down the glucose absorption, too, and given that he’s partial to them over oatmeal—”
Despite how I’ve lowered my voice, the room halts.
At least a dozen heads turn.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Mrs.Byrd snap the oven shut. She puts both oven-mitted fists on her hips, her pastry puff chef’s hat tilting to one side. “What’s this about my cooking?”
“Oh, nothing,” I say quickly. “Nothing at all. Your cooking is phenomenal. It’s the best thing here—”
Oliver raises a brow and I add quickly, “Except those excursions. And, wow.” I scan the elves. “The service is justgreat.” Time to move on. “But I was just telling Oliver”—I tread carefully—“since Clarence is on a dietary plan—”
“I’m aware of Mr.Lodge’s dietary plan,” Mrs.Byrd cuts in.
“Oh. Yes. Of course you are. Well, it’s just . . . it seems like . . . as you are so busy here with everyone else, perhaps I could make something that is an alternative meal plan for him but still has the essence of what you are making for theothers. So it’s similar to the wonderful meals you provide, just . . .”
“Different?” Her pupils are the size of pinpricks. I notice at least one elf moves out of the line of fire between us.
Oh, dear. This isn’t what I intended at all. I had imagined I’d sneak in, ask if I could whip Clarence up something, watch the employees stumble over themselves telling me to take absolutely anything fortheMr.Lodge Senior. Just as everyone has acted around Clarence so far. But as it turns out, Mrs.Byrdisn’teveryone. No. She’s quite the opposite.
“I have a kitchen in my cabin that’ll be perfect for the job,” Oliver says, breaking the silence. “What supplies did you have in mind, Willow?”
