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Sara's Surprise

By Susan G Mathis

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Alexandria Bay, New York
July 1873

The St. Lawrence River sparkled in the early morning sunshine as Sara O’Neill walked toward her new life at the elegant Crossmon House Hotel. An abundant variety of colorful flowers and blooming bushes decorated the entrance. She took in a magical whiff of nature’s loveliest fragrances as she climbed the grand staircase leading to the lobby. On her first day of employment, she wanted to walk through the front doors and experience the grandeur of the famous hotel like an upper-class guest. Just this once.
“Please, miss. Allow me.” A wee girl popped into her path. Where did she come from? Sara glanced at the nearby bush and grinned. The child pulled open the heavy, leaded-glass door with all her might, grunting and nearly losing her balance. Sara tossed her a smile and a nod as she passed over the threshold. The little girl grinned back, a full four—or was it more?—teeth missing.
That explained her adorable lisp.
Sara let out an amused giggle. “Thank you, sweet girl.” They stepped into the grand lobby dotted with tall pillars, small tables, velvet sofas, and a large front desk. To the left of the desk, a wide staircase led to the upper floors, and to the right was a hallway leading to the elegant dining room where, even from where she stood, Sara could see diners would enjoy a beautiful river view. She scanned the huge room but saw no one nearby. “Where’s your mama?”
The child shook her honey-brown curls, a huge bow wobbling precariously on top of her head. “Haven’t got one.”
“Your nanny?” A chill ran down Sara’s spine. Such a beautiful little girl should not be alone in public.
“Haven’t one of those neither.” The girl blinked and shrugged. She crossed her arms as her gaze slid to the marble floor.
Sara patted her small shoulders, her white eyelet dress soft to the touch. “Well, now, what are you doing here?” She peeked around a large pillar to scan the lobby again, but at the moment, only one man stood behind the front desk, his back to them.
“I work here. Leastwise, when school’s out. What’s your name, miss?” The child grinned, her blue eyes twinkling.
Her precociousness surprised Sara, warmed her cheeks, and drew a smile to her lips. What a delightful wee one! “I’m Sara O’Neill, and I work here too. In the kitchen.”
Curls bouncing with another shake of her head, the girl pursed her lips, rolling her eyes. “Chef has a temper as hot as his stove, but Mister LaFleur is oh, so handsome. I’m going to marry him when I get big.” With this confession, she clasped her hands to her heart as if she might swoon.
Sara held back a grin, but she couldn’t hide her amusement. “I see. So what’s your name, little beauty?” A bit of honey might go a long way with this imp.
“Madison Graham, and I’m seven.” She thrust her hands on her hips and tilted her head as if to challenge Sara.
She wouldn’t disappoint. “Well, you’re a very grownup seven, to be sure.” Sara put out her hand to shake Madison’s tiny one, but instead, the child dove into her arms and gave her a tight and most overwhelming hug.
“I’m happy to have a new friend working here, Miss O’Neill.” Madison held tight as she looked up at Sara, her small face angelic.
Sara gave her a gentle squeeze before touching her cheek and releasing her. She stepped back and nodded. “Me, too, but I mustn’t be late for work.” She bent down and straightened the child’s crooked hair bow. “So nice to meet you.”
Madison grabbed her hand and pulled her from behind the pillar toward the kitchen. “No, you mustn’t be late. Chef’d have your head on a platter.”
“Where have you been, darlin’? I’ve been looking all over for you.” The man who’d been behind the desk was now in front of them. His handsome face sported a well-trimmed mustache and beard the color of brandy. He turned to her and bowed, gazing at her with eyes the same color as his hair but with a hundred flecks of gold. “Sean Graham, Crossmon House front desk manager. And this little lady’s papa. And who are you?”
~ ~ ~
Sean tweaked Madison’s chin as his gaze darted to and fro looking for a husband belonging to the woman before him. Her simple gray garb and dark-blonde hair pulled into a low, twisted chignon spoke of the working class, far outside the status of Crossmon guests. Her thin, pink lips turned up into a gentle smile. Who was this petite beauty paying such tender heed to his daughter?
She daintily curtsied. “Sara O’Neill, sir. I’m pleased to meet you and to work as day staff in the Crossmon kitchen. Your Miss Madison gave me a warm welcome on my first day.” Sara’s soft-gray eyes twinkled as she winked at his daughter, who rewarded her with the cute toothless grin he loved so much.
His heart thumped faster as he tried to mask his alarm. Staff always entered through the back, not through the grand entrance. He kept his tone casual. “Ah … welcome to Crossmon, miss. Or is it missus?”
The woman blinked as her face took on a pretty, pink hue the same color as Madison’s dress. “Miss.”
“Aye. Good to meet you, Miss O’Neill. I hope you’ll enjoy your time with us. The Crossmons are a fine couple to work for, and this large, new addition to the hotel offers the most modern conveniences. We cater to families and expect that many of our nearly three hundred patrons will return year after year.”
Sara nodded. “That’s wonderful.”
Sean glanced to the desk to make sure no one needed his attention just then. “I suppose that, since Cook is a man of few words, he wasn’t keen to give you a tour? And he obviously forgot tell you that staff only use the back entrance.”
Sara’s eyes grew wide as she shook her head, her face flushing a bright red. “No. I’m sorry. I’ve only seen the kitchen when I interviewed last week. And here.” She glanced around the lobby. “I’ll be sure to use only the kitchen entrance from now on.” She fidgeted, shifting from foot to foot.
He waved off his scolding. “’Tis fine. This time.” He winked, hoping to calm her. Instead, a visible shiver ran through her from head to toe. Sean tried again. “I’ll be happy to show you around if no one else does. You’ll be on the day shift like me, aye?”
“Yes. Here at six sharp. I mustn’t be late.” Her eyes darted toward the kitchen.
Sean checked the massive grandfather clock just feet from where they stood, his eyes growing wide. He waved an arm toward the kitchen and took hold of his daughter’s hand with the other lest she attempt to follow Miss O’Neill. “We mustn’t keep you, then. Chef requires perfect punctuality.”
Sara gave another quick curtsy and said, “Yes, well, nice to meet you both” before scurrying toward the kitchen.
Madison pulled his hand and looked up at him. “Papa, why was she so nervous? And why is your face so red?”
~ ~ ~
Sara closed the kitchen door behind her as smells of fresh baked bread, bacon, sausage, coffee, and fried eggs filled her senses. Then her breath caught when she laid eyes on the tray of the prettiest baked goods she’d ever seen. Oh to be able to create such works of art one day. She scanned the room full of impeccable, modern kitchen equipment. And just a year ago, she’d thought the Pullmans’ kitchen was well-equipped.
“Miss O’Neill, I assume?” She snapped her head toward a swarthy man with a deep voice. Not Chef’s. The chef who’d interviewed her was short and stocky and not at all handsome.
“Yes, sir?” Sara curtsied.
“I am Jacque LaFleur, pastry chef for this fine establishment. I have requested that you be my assistant pastry chef, as I’m told you’ve had a measure of experience and such a position will fulfill a lifelong dream of yours. Besides, the previous assistant left just yesterday to care for her aging parents.”
Sara sucked in a deep breath and held it. Could this be happening? So soon?
When she’d interviewed with the master chef, she’d told him that one day she would like to learn the trade. But never in her wildest dreams did she think she’d be given the position of assistant pastry chef here and now. On her first day?
Sara let out her breath and curtsied again, trying to recover from the shock. “Yes, sir. I mean, I’ve dreamed of learning the art ever since I worked on Pullman Island last summer.”
She scanned the handsome face before her. The man’s jet-black hair and mustache contrasted with his clean-shaven skin and pale blue eyes. His piercing stare caused her heart to beat wildly, and she swallowed hard.
LaFleur took hold of her hands and placed a slow kiss on the palms of both of them. Then he repeated the kisses again. Rather than her heart calming, it sped up like a bird taking flight. She carefully slipped her hands from his grasp and pulled them behind her back, interlacing them tight for an extra measure of protection.
LaFleur waved as if conducting an orchestra. “I shall teach you the ways of a patissier. A pastry chef!” With that announcement, he bowed low, one hand behind his back and one over his stomach. His gregariousness set Sara’s teeth on edge. “I was trained at the finest culinary arts school in Montreal, Academie Culinaire, and, I might add, was awarded the highest honors of this most beloved of all station chefs. I have experience in creating the finest of Quebec’s eclectic mélange of French pastries, and I now bring the wonders of preparing breads and pastries, croissant and petit fours, fondue and chocolate éclairs to you.”
Sara blinked. “Thank you, sir.”
He clicked his heels together and stood like a wooden soldier, not breaking his seriousness for a moment. “Call me Chef LaFleur. Let us begin!”
Sara nodded, dipping her chin. What a high-minded, handsome Frenchman she’d be working for. “Oui, Chef LaFleur.” Maybe a bit of French would settle him down. Last summer, her co-worker, Claudia, had taught her a dozen words. Sara had enjoyed learning them, locking them tight in her memory.
LaFleur’s dark brows raised, and his thin lips almost turned upward—but not quite. He waved her over to an impeccable marble-topped table, and Sara gingerly stepped forward, waiting for his command. This man would be not only her employer but also instructor, and she trembled to think she’d be found wanting from the start. What did she know about French baking?
During Sara’s spare moments in the Pullman Island kitchen, Claudia had shown her a thing or two, but she was never formally trained. And she certainly hadn’t the skills of Chef LaFleur. Besides, this French-Canadian was the most handsome man she’d ever laid her eyes on. How would she manage?
Chef LaFleur puffed out his chest, giving it a thump. “Mr. Crossmon chose me from a lengthy list of candidates, and I shall bring fame and fortune to the proprietor and his property. We will create culinary masterpieces of epic gastronomy, but it will take an assistant who will listen and learn, will do as I command, and will not stray from my instruction. Will you be that person, Miss O’Neill?”
Sara squared her shoulders and nodded. “Oui, Chef LaFleur. Under the lessons of Mr. Pullman’s cook, I came to know the ways of the kitchen, though not such a grand one as this. But I shall try to meet your standards, sir.”
Chef LaFleur patted her shoulder and then slid his hand down her back and gave it a quick stroke, sending shivers through her. Though she had heard the French were affectionate, the man’s touch nearly sent her to her knees. Besides, he was her superior.
He pulled her from her thoughts. “In the afternoon, you shall also help with the high tea, bringing food and drink to the servers.”
Sara nodded. “I’d be honored, sir.”
For most of the morning, Sara met the rest of the kitchen staff and followed Chef LaFleur around the pastry station, growing accustomed to the kitchen and plans for making marvelous French pastries and bread. A dozen or more times throughout the lesson, he casually, almost absentmindedly, touched her arm, her hair, her back.
Each time, Sara grew more reticent. When he came too close, she discreetly stepped back, but more often than not, he moved closer as if she were a magnet attracting a piece of iron. By lunchtime, her breath whooshed out with a deep exhale when he set her to knead a large bowl of bread dough while, at the other end of the table, he decorated tiny petit fours for the afternoon tea.
As she kneaded her nervousness into the dough, Chef LaFleur waxed eloquent about making the perfect rosebud petit fours. “I choose to use a simple butter cake, splitting the layer and adding this wonderful raspberry filling.” He scooped a finger full of the mixture, came near and leaned across the table, and then thrust it toward her mouth. “Taste!” It wasn’t a suggestion.
Sara reluctantly opened her mouth. Chef LaFleur slipped his finger between her teeth, commanding she fully taste it. She closed her lips and withdrew, swallowing the truly delightful fruity mixture past the lump in her throat. “It’s lovely.”
“Non. It is spectacular!” He waved his hand and went to the sink to wash it.
What was she to do with such a man? He’d invaded her space all morning and now invaded her! She held back tears as the morning’s fears and frustrations built within and threatened to overpower her. “If you’ll excuse me, Chef LaFleur. I must visit the ladies’ room.”
He nodded, drying his hands on a towel and returning to their workstation. “It is time for lunch, mademoiselle. Cover the dough, and take your break. Then return to ready for the tea.”
Sara kneaded the last bit of dough, laid it in the bowl, and covered it. After washing her hands, she glanced at Chef LaFleur, relieved he worked on the far end of the table, adding the tiny rosebud decorations to the tops of the petit fours that were already covered with perfect, pale yellow, green, and pink frosting. Indeed, they were a marvel!
Sara filled her tin cup with water and stopped by the restroom before stepping outside to find the sun high in the sky and humidity hovering thick in the air. She found a quiet grassy spot under a large oak tree and sat down with her lunch pail.
As she munched on carrots and a simple jam sandwich, she mulled the morning’s events over in her head. Surely, Chef LaFleur meant no harm. It was just his Frenchness. But how would she endure such invasion of her privacy?

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