“So why not insist the guests do the same? Cheaper, by far, probably.”
Gretchen threw her a look to stop teasing, but it was too late. The manager rose from her chair, the interview over.
“May I ask who you write for?” asked the manager.
Laura and Gretchen exchanged glances. “We’re students at the Columbia Journalism School,” Laura said.
“So you’re not real reporters?”
“Not yet.” Laura wished Gretchen would jump in and help out, but the girl remained mute.
“Why are you wasting my time, then?” The woman shooed them out and was still castigating them as they hurried down the hall.
“Well, that was a bust.” Gretchen looked about. “I’m going to wait for a couple of guests to leave and interview them. I’ll see you back at the school.”
Laura walked east, annoyed at the whole ordeal. Ahead of her, she spied a red-haired woman heading to a smaller entrance off to the side of the hotel. “Excuse me,” she called out.
The woman stopped, one hand on the door. “Yes?”
“Do you work here? I was hoping I might have a word with the cook.” It was worth a shot.
“Sure. Follow me.”
She was led down an alley and into a back entrance. The kitchen bustled with waiters pouring in and out from what must be the dining room. They moved with the synchronicity of ice-skaters, twisting their torsos to narrowly avoid colliding, and barking out orders above the din. At the center of the swirling stood a sixtyish woman with frizzy hair and enormous hands, cursing in an Irish brogue.
“I’m here about the butter!” yelled Laura when she got near. “May I ask you some questions?”
“The butter. Gah.” The woman wiped her hands on her apron and stepped off to one side. “What do you want to know about the butter?”
“I’m a student journalist at Columbia.” Better to be up front about the whole business this time. “I’ve been asked to write an article on the butter ban.”
“You don’t have better things to write on?”
“It’s really not my decision. At any rate, how are you managing?”
“It’s repressive and stupid. Write that down.”
Laura already was, as fast as she could.
“The new management has silly ideas that will sink this ship fast.”
“Have you had any complaints from the guests?”
“Not yet.” The cook pointed in the direction of the stove, where a massive slab of butter sat nearby on a plate. “I have my principles.”
“So you’re just ignoring the new rule?” This was fantastic. The subject matter itself was deathly boring, but Laura knew she’d stumbled on a conflict worth writing about. The quarrel between kitchen and management would make for a juicy read.
“You bet I’m ignoring the rule,” said the cook. “And you can write that down, too. If they don’t like it, they can fire me. I won’t go in for any nonsense when it comes to the quality of my food. My reputation is at stake.”
Back uptown in the city room at the journalism school, Laura banged out an article with five minutes to spare, reading it over once quickly before putting it into the vault. The pressure made her heart beat fast, and the energy in the room—the students all tapping away on their typewriters, knowing that this assignment was crucial in making a good first impression—fueled her nerves even more. But in a good way. This was a challenge, even if the subject matter was a bore. Figuring out which quotes to include and which to summarize, how best to portray the hotel and that manager without seeming judgmental. If this was journalism, she couldn’t wait for more.
The next day, they sat through a law class in one of the lecture halls. Unlike her time at Vassar, where Laura was overwhelmed by the social circles within the school, here, as an older, married student she didn’t feel the need to hobnob the way the younger set did. She spent two hours scribbling notes as fast as she could, realizing that she’d need to look up some of the cases cited by the professor at home in the library to fill in the missing gaps in her knowledge.
Later in the city room, Professor Wakeman called the students up one by one to go over their articles from the day before. Laura was edgy with anticipation as she took the chair next to his desk and looked over at the paper in his hands, which was filled with red marks. Not a good sign.
“Mrs. Lyons, the assignment was five hundred words. This is five hundred eighty.”
“Sorry, Professor, I figured an extra few sentences wouldn’t make a difference.”
He gave her a sharp look. “You seem to think that you’re an artiste, and I’m here to disabuse you of that notion. If your editor says five hundred words, you give them that. You are one small part of a giant newspaper, one where every inch counts. So don’t tell me that the manager’s neck was ‘long like a dancer’s,’ and I don’t care what they are wearing. It’s about butter.”
“Of course.” This wasn’t like writing a column for Dr. Anderson’s newsletter, where her flowery prose was encouraged. She really should’ve known better, but she’d been trying to show off. “I understand.”
“Today, I want you to edit it and fix it. Get to the point.”
“I certainly will.”
She rose to go.
“But nice work getting the cook to talk. No one else had that. That’s a well-reported story. Not well written, mind you. It was painful to read. But the reporting was good. Quite good.”
She practically floated back to her seat. Writing more succinctly, more like a journalist, was something she could learn. But her instincts were on target. Professor Wakeman had given her a compliment. For her first assignment.
She couldn’t wait to tell Jack.
CHAPTER FOUR
New York City, 1913
There’s been a theft.”
Laura looked up from her mending at her husband. One of Pearl’s pinafores had lost a button, and Laura’s eyes, already tired from reading textbooks, were strained even further by her trying to sew by lamplight. In the week since journalism school had begun, Laura had made an effort to keep up with the housework, although she could tell already it was a losing battle. Dust had settled lightly on the fireplace mantel, and Harry had ripped a pair of trousers this week that she still needed to get around to fixing. Unfortunately, the thrill of attending school only served to make the housework feel more of a bother, requiring precious time that could be spent elsewhere.
“What kind of theft?”