Through the Deep Waters (14 page)

“Me, too.” The woman plunged her hands into the water and vigorously scrubbed another pot. “My man got hurt working at the quarry a little over a week ago, and Mr. Irwin was kind enough to hire me on until he’s well enough to work again.” Mrs. Deaton whisked a grateful smile at Dinah. “Thank you for seeing to Laura.”

“It was my pleasure.” Dinah smiled at Laura, who smiled back.

Mrs. Deaton went on. “She’s such a good little thing—helps so much with Francis so I can see to the dishes.” She bobbed her head toward a pallet of folded quilts where a small boy slept with his fingers in his mouth. “I don’t know what I’d do if I couldn’t bring my youngsters with me.”

Dinah’s stomach tightened into knots. She’d spent her childhood at her mother’s workplace. Dismal memories flooded her mind, and sympathy swelled in her chest for these children. Although the Clifton Hotel wasn’t anything like the Yellow Parrot, it still wasn’t a place for little ones to wile away their days. She hoped Mrs. Deaton’s husband recovered quickly so she could give up this job and let Laura and Francis run and play, the way children should.

Mrs. Deaton shifted her attention to her daughter. “Let loose of Miss Hubley now, Laura, and go fetch Mama those tin cups.”

Laura slipped her hand from Dinah’s and scampered off, the tails from the bow on the back of her dress bouncing against her skirt. Dinah watched her go while loneliness crept over her. She’d enjoyed her few minutes with Laura. She felt good tending to the little girl. Almost motherly. The loneliness changed to longing. Would she ever have the chance to care for a little girl of her own? Probably not. Men didn’t want to marry women who’d been used. At least, no decent men would. Any man who’d settle on her wouldn’t be any better than the ones who frequented Miss Flo’s place. And Dinah had no desire to tie herself to a man like that.

One of the busboys, who everyone called Poke because he moved as slow as a turtle, ambled over with a tray full of dirty dishes. He glanced at Dinah and a curious frown creased his face. “Howdy, Dinah. What’re you doing in here? You helpin’ in the kitchen now?” He looked over his shoulder at Dean Muller, who followed with a tray of towering stacked cups. “Lookee here, Dean—Dinah’s takin’ up kitchen work.”

“Oh, she is?” Dean smirked and waggled his eyebrows. “Well, I won’t complain. Lookin’ at her’s a big improvement over some of the others, huh?”

Poke laughed.

Dinah wanted to shrink away to nothing. She ducked her head.

Mrs. Deaton scowled at the pair. “You two stop teasing Miss Hubley.”

Dean lowered his tray to the counter and began shifting the cups into the dry sink. “Aw, Miz Deaton, don’t scold. We don’t mean any harm. A fella can’t help but tease such a pretty little thing like Dinah.”

“Flo told me you were a pretty little thing.”

The voice roared through Dinah’s head. She broke out in a cold sweat. “I’d better get to work.” She turned and darted off before anyone could say another word, choosing to rush through the now-empty dining room rather than going outside and around the hotel to the front doors. She dashed past the lunch counter, not even pausing when Ruthie called for her to stop and grab a sandwich. Around the corner, up the stairs, through the hallway to her room. She
fumbled for her key, unlocked the door, then stumbled inside. Her mad dash had taken the wind from her, and she grabbed the cool brass footboard of the bed and held tight until her pulse slowed to a normal rhythm.

When she felt able to move again, she retrieved a clean apron from the wardrobe and exchanged it with the one she’d dirtied while beating the rugs. The apron caught in her hair, pulling a few pins loose, so she crossed to the washstand and reached for her hairbrush. Her gaze lit on the round mirror, and her pale reflection stared back at her.

“A fella can’t help but tease such a pretty little thing like Dinah,”
Dean had said. She examined herself by increments, starting with the straggly, sweat-dampened clay-brown curls plastered to her forehead, then downward to her plain-colored eyes set wide in her face and eyelashes that refused to curl, her long straight nose, and unsmiling lips. Pretty? Dean was teasing, all right.

She hurriedly swept the loose strands of hair into place and pinned them tightly, her hands shaking with her eagerness to step away from the mirror rather than gaze upon her homely appearance one minute longer than necessary. The task complete, she turned for the door.

“… a pretty little thing like Dinah.”

The comment taunted her, enticing her to turn back for one more hopeful look. But the same reflection greeted her. She must look like her father instead of her mother. Tori had been pretty. Everyone said so. Her prettiness kept the men coming back time and time again. Three or four of them had even proposed over the years, but Tori had turned down each one.

Dinah sighed. If she were at least pretty, maybe a man would overlook what she’d done with the businessman and love her anyway. But ugly on the outside
and
the inside? Nobody would ever want her. Not even a kind man like Mr. Ackerman.

She set to work, pushing past her aching muscles to complete the job she’d been hired to do. But she couldn’t push past her sadness. It sat on her shoulders and weighed her down as much as those rugs had drooped the wire clothesline. If only someone had a beater that could remove the dirtiness from her life and let her start fresh and new.

Ruthie

The alarm clock on the bedside table blared its morning wake-up call at five, like always. Ruthie rolled over and, her eyes too blurry from sleep to focus, pawed for the little switch below the clock’s round face that would silence the thing. Before she found it, a pair of hands reached in and lifted the clock. Moments later blessed peace fell in the room.

Ruthie flopped back on her pillow, then rubbed her eyes and groaned. “How can something so pretty be such a nuisance?” She’d admired the gold-plated clock with the face of an owl carved onto its front when she moved into this room, declaring Seth Thomas made the prettiest clocks in the whole United States. But the sound it made was far from pretty. Especially when she was still so tired from yesterday’s rug beating. The persistent ache in her shoulders had kept her awake last night, and her normally cheerful outlook had departed with the lack of slumber.

“I don’t know.” Dinah sounded grim. “But you’d better get up. It’s Tuesday.”

Ruthie groaned again.

“No sense complaining. The ladies will come out in droves, like they always do, to take their turn in the bathing room.”

Ruthie forced her eyelids to open, and she scowled at Dinah, who was already dressed and stood at the mirror, coiling her thick braid into its heavy knot. Ruthie thought it a shame to twist such pretty, flowing hair into a plain style. But when she’d said as much to Dinah, intending to pay a compliment, the girl had gotten all stiff lipped and quiet. So Ruthie kept her thoughts to herself about Dinah’s lovely, wavy, honey-brown hair.

She crawled out of bed and yanked open the door to the wardrobe. “Sometimes I wish Mr. Harvey hadn’t made that shower available to ladies twice a week. I never knew so many people in this town had twenty-five cents to squander for a bath.” She tossed her nightgown onto the floor of the wardrobe and reached for a clean uniform, continuing to grumble as she dressed. “I wouldn’t mind if the ladies were more like the men. The fellows just wait their turn and climb in. But the ladies expect a thorough scrubbing between uses. Why don’t they save their money and bathe in a washtub at home, the way my mama does?”

“Because at home they have to heat water on the stove, fill a tub, and sit in it. Here, the water is already hot from the tank in the attic, and it trickles over your head in a shower. It’s a luxury.” Dinah pushed another pin through her hair. “Be glad you don’t have to keep the coal heater going. Poke said that isn’t a fun job, either, and he has to do it every day.”

Ruthie huffed, refusing to see the dark cloud’s bright lining. “Well, my arms are still so sore from yesterday it even hurts to button my uniform! I don’t know how I’ll survive cleaning the tub a dozen times on top of our room cleaning.” She rubbed her aching forearms and glared at Dinah’s stoic image in the mirror.

Dinah turned her head left and right, seeming to examine her hair. Strange how she never appeared to look into her own eyes … “You clean the first-floor rooms today, and I’ll clean the second-floor ones. Neither of us will have to climb stairs, and I can run to the bathing room and give the shower tub a quick cleaning when it’s needed.” She stepped away from the mirror.

Ruthie shook her head, wincing when the stiff muscles in her neck and shoulders complained. “That wouldn’t be fair. Your arms must be just as sore as mine.”

Dinah shrugged and placed her hand on the doorknob. “Not so sore I can’t work.” An odd expression crossed her face—almost an anguish. She must be hurting more than she wanted to admit. Ruthie started to tell her she’d take turns cleaning the tub, just as they’d done on previous days, but Dinah opened the door and moved toward the hallway. She said over her shoulder, “I’ll see you in the breakfast room.” And she closed the door behind her.

Ruthie stood for a moment, worrying her lower lip between her teeth. As much as she wanted to let Dinah take responsibility for the bathing room today, she shouldn’t do it. They were supposed to divide the cleaning chores. If the hotel manager found out Dinah had done it all by herself, he’d surely reprimand Ruthie, and she’d die of mortification.

She set herself in motion and headed down to the breakfast room. She retrieved a plate of steaming scrambled eggs, crisp bacon, flaky biscuits swimming with butter, and a bowl of creamy grits from the serving window, then scanned the small room in search of Dinah. All the dining room servers and busboys sat around one table, their happy chatter filling the space. And Dinah was at a second table—the one in the farthest corner—by herself.

“Good morning, Ruthie!” Matilda gestured to the open chair beside her. “Join us!”

Ruthie shook her head. “I need to talk to Dinah,” she said as she passed the table.

Matilda wrinkled her nose. “Suit yourself.” She leaned in and whispered something that set the other servers into wild laughter.

Ruthie tried to ignore them, but it wasn’t easy. She’d rather be part of their group, the way she’d been when Phoebe was still here. But Dinah and her standoffish ways had brought changes Ruthie didn’t like. She frowned as she slid into the chair next to Dinah. “Why don’t you sit with the others? There’s room for all of us.”

Dinah’s plate was nearly empty already. Food went down faster when no conversation accompanied the meal. She nibbled on a strip of bacon and seemed to ignore Ruthie’s question.

Ruthie sighed. She said a quick, silent prayer and then looked at Dinah again. “I appreciate your offering to clean the bathing room today, but I’ll take turns with you.” She waited for Dinah to smile, to say thank you, to acknowledge her in any way. But she just went on munching her bacon, her gaze aimed somewhere on the other side of the room. Ruthie resisted releasing another sigh. She stabbed the tines of her fork into the fluffy mound of eggs and muttered, “You are the most confusing girl …”

Finally Dinah shifted to look at Ruthie. Her brow pinched into a series of furrows that made her look old and tired. “Why?”

Ruthie paused with her fork midway between her plate and her mouth. Should she tell Dinah what she was thinking? It might hurt her feelings. Yet it might do the girl some good to know how others perceived her. Maybe it would help her change her ways.

Ruthie put down her fork and gave Dinah her full attention. “You confuse me because you stay away from everyone else.” She spoke quietly so those at the other table wouldn’t overhear. “You confuse me because you’re a hard worker, even willing to do more work than what’s expected, which surprises me since your family was wealthy enough to have its own cook in the house.”

Slowly Dinah turned her face away, but she stayed in her chair and seemed to listen, so Ruthie continued.

“You confuse me because you never smile. Well, almost never. You smiled yesterday when I told you Mr. Phillips and Mr. Ackerman ignored me. That seemed to make you happy, which also confused me.” Ruthie frowned, wishing Dinah would look at her instead of staring off into nothing. How difficult she found it to converse with this girl. “I don’t like thinking this about you, Dinah, because I really would like to be friends, but … you act as though you’re better than everyone else. As if talking to us or being with us is beneath you.”

Ruthie searched Dinah’s profile, waiting for a reaction. Nothing. Irritation stiffened Ruthie’s spine and sharpened her tone. “Well? What do you have to say for yourself?”

Dinah finally looked at Ruthie. Her emotionless expression sent a chill through Ruthie’s frame. “I have to say …” She spoke in a low, even tone completely devoid of feeling, although a shimmer of unshed tears brightened her eyes. “I’m here to work and to prove to Mr. Irwin that I am dependable so I can become one of Mr. Harvey’s servers after I turn eighteen. So you can think whatever you like. It really doesn’t matter to me.” She picked up her plate and strode to the serving window, staying close to the wall rather than walking through the center of the room and passing the table of servers and busboys.
She handed her dirty plate to the kitchen worker and then headed for the hallway without a backward glance.