Crestmont (12 page)

“Okay, now drain those potatoes and put them gently back into the pot.”

“But you said they went into the serving bowl.” Exasperated, Gracie pushed some wet curls off her face.

“Later. If we put them back in the pot now, we’ll keep them hot and evaporate any excess water. Nothing should come between those pretty potatoes and this butter. Nope,” he said, spreading her fingers so she dropped the stick of butter on a plate next to the potato pot. “Don’t dump it in one piece. You have to cut it into pieces so it melts evenly. Now sprinkle the parsley all over. No, not in one place. All over. Good. Now take your spoon and stir the potatoes to coat them with the butter and parsley. When you’re ready, turn them gently out into the serving bowl and behold! You have a feast for the eye as well has the palate.”

“Uh, huh.” Gracie wiped her forehead with her apron and lifted the pot.

“You have to sing your love into each dish, Gracie. Makes it taste better.” Isaiah’s voice boomed out “If You Were the Only Girl in the World” as he stirred an immense pot. “Know the words to this one? Come on, sing along.”

Trying to comply, Gracie sang “and I were the only boy…” She held out the last note and gingerly turned the parsley potatoes out into the serving bowl. She stopped promptly when Olivia pushed through the swinging doors.

“Pudding.” announced Olivia. She stepped up to the stove, reaching on tiptoe to kiss Isaiah.

“What?” Gracie asked.

“He always sings that song when he makes pudding. I keep telling him to switch it to a girl’s name, but he says that would be violating the lyricist’s wishes. When he makes soup it’s “I’m Just Wild About Harry.”

“And ‘Annie Laurie’ when he makes his fancy French
cassoulet
,” Peg finished. “Have fun, grownups. I’m off for a swim.” She disappeared through the staff dining room door.

“Gracie here has a new job cooking for some woman in Eagles Mere, so she’s taking lessons,” Isaiah told Olivia proudly.

“He’s been real patient with me, Olivia,” Gracie noted. “How did you learn to cook so well, anyway, Isaiah?”

“Ahem,” he cleared his throat, “the question should be ‘how did you become a master chef?’ please.”

“Okay, tell me how you became a master chef and such a good singer,” said Gracie, propping herself up on a stool.

“The singing part came from my granddaddy who was a slave in
Virginia
. After he got freed, he taught my daddy how to be a sharecropper, singing the whole time he was working that soil. While I was playing in the field, I’d learn every song and sing along with him. After he died, I farmed some with my daddy, but it just wasn’t for me. He said fine with him if I didn’t want to enjoy the calling God gave us, so he put my stuff on the front lawn and locked the door. Well, I left without being able to say goodbye to my mama and wound up in
Philadelphia
. I was walking the back alleys and heard someone singing inside a restaurant kitchen, so I knocked on the back door and asked for a job. The owner said well maybe I could wash dishes, which I did, but I didn’t sing because the chef wanted to hear his own singing. The line cook—you know, the guy who prepares the food so the chef can cook it—got sick; so they promoted me. Well, I guess that chef got mad because I learned too fast for him and he went and told the owner to get rid of me. So the owner, Joe Swanson was his name, liked me a lot, but he didn’t want to make his chef mad. So he called a friend of his who had a really swanky restaurant called ‘The Franklin Stove’ in the historic district. That chef was French, Louis
Dressout
was his name and not a bit intimidated by a Negro who knew food, so he made me his apprentice. I had no money, so the owner got me a job cooking lunches in the city schools until he assumed I knew enough to make a decent salary. I spent my mornings singing my love into the children’s lunches and then spent the rest of the day learning under a master chef.”

“Excuse me, husband. You omitted the part about me fitting into this busy life of yours,” chided Olivia, enjoying the story he had so often told.

“Well, this beautiful lady,” he said twirling her around in a dance step, “waltzed into the cafeteria one day for lunch because she was sewing costumes for the kids’ school play and my heart got stolen. That whole summer we went to all these concerts they had in the park where I learned a kit and caboodle of new songs and found the courage to propose marriage.”

“And I said yes to this big lovable man,” Olivia chimed in. “Now get back to your cooking, you two. That bread smells heavenly, Isaiah.”

“How did you come to the
Crestmont
, Isaiah?” asked Gracie, waiting for another good tale.

“I started in 1923. Answered an ad in the paper. Olivia’s mother had died and I wanted her to have a change of scenery. Besides, we had spent the summer before that on
Coney Island
. They had just built this swanky recreation center right on the boardwalk and there was a restaurant hiring summer help. Olivia really liked being near the water. Well, I figured if the ocean made her happy, maybe a lake would too. So we came here. Now I cook for
Temple
University
during the school year and we come here for the summer. I am happy to say people like my cooking so much they keep coming back and bring their friends. This year we have so many guests the Woods had to hire an assistant cook.”

“I remember seeing that advertisement in the paper. So that’s how Sam came to be a staffer,” Gracie observed.

“Yup, Sam’s good. But it’s my kitchen and don’t let anyone tell you any different.”

****

After hurrying to finish her rooms for incoming guests, Gracie lay exhausted on her bed. It was stifling with the window closed, and with it open the exhaust from the incessant line of cars parking out back made her sick. Saturday afternoons the guests were busy checking in, so it was a good time to take a swim. If she could afford a bathing suit, she might have dipped into the lake to cool off and get some fresh air. But then again, she didn’t know how to swim.

All the things she needed to digest clunked about in her brain. Thursday would be her first day with Mrs. Cunningham. She suspected she had the roast and the potatoes down, but cutting the parsley really worried her. Mrs. Woods had assumed cooking would be easy for Gracie to master, but instead it nearly sapped her resolve to take the extra job.

Then there was her future. In three weeks she would have to leave the
Crestmont
unless she opted to stay for another two to help close up for the season. She had permitted too much time to elapse without firming up plans to get to a big city and start auditioning.

She needed to assess her money situation. The extra money for making it through the season plus a bonus for staying to close up would help, but it wouldn’t be enough to relocate. Bus fare, clothes, meals, deposit on a room when she got to her destination, a cushion till she got a job… were all needed. Everything weighed so heavily on her that she couldn’t focus on any one problem to solve.

Taking out her tablet in an attempt to center herself, she examined her “Friends” list. She gladly added Isaiah’s name, but not Otto, because technically he was in a different category. She wanted to add Eleanor and Peg, but came to the conclusion that children shouldn’t count. The more she studied her list, the more she wanted the summer to last forever.

Longing to lose herself in more poems by Johnny, the
Paperbag
Poet, she decided she should finish
Sister Carrie
instead. Carrie had found success, but was depressed and alone at the end of the book, just like Mrs. Woods had said. Angry with the book that failed to bring her the inspiration she sought, Gracie kicked it across the floor. The summer had eased her into a sense of belonging, and the big city seemed unreal and scary. Not knowing what to make of her own dream, Gracie mulled over singing for PT. She would do it. Maybe he would tell her if she was any good even though he disapproved of her going on the road. She had snuck up to the staff lounge early on a Sunday morning to learn the new song she had bought on her shopping trip to
Wilkes-Barre
. She was sure that singing a newly-published song was just the thing for an impressive audition.

****

“Come on. You’re such a good friend, we wanted to show you our secret hideout,” Peg said, tugging on Gracie’s arm.

Nine-year-old Eleanor nearly toppled her sister, hankering to get Gracie’s attention. “It’s the best place to play. We can do what we want and not have to worry a bit about bothering the guests.”

“Hold it. See this?” Gracie pushed a tray of dirty water glasses and half-used soaps in their faces. “You’ll have to show me after my shift is over.”

“Okay. Then you can come up and teach us those new songs you’re learning,” Eleanor said.

Finally, they dragged her up the back stairs to the third sleeping floor, normally used as overflow only when the inn was completely full. “Look!” Eleanor pointed to a trap door in the ceiling in the middle of the hall. Peg brought a ladder from the utility closet and set it in place with her strong, suntanned arms.

“Oh no, girls, this isn’t safe,” Gracie cautioned, but Peg was already halfway up the ladder.

“Look, when I get to the top, all I have to do is push.” And without another word, Peg disappeared through the hole into the room above. Gracie followed reluctantly.

“Eleanor, you keep watch,” Peg called down. “If you hear anyone, hide the ladder and then come back and tell us when it’s safe.”

“I always get the bad jobs just because I’m the youngest,” muttered Eleanor.

Gracie knew Mr. and Mrs. Woods would not like this, but concluded it was better that she, as an adult, was there to supervise. She climbed up into the secret room with Peg. Nothing much was there except an old mattress, a couple of chairs and a pile of stuff covered with a sheet. A small window looked out toward the laundry and the mountains beyond.

“Eleanor thinks there is treasure hidden up here,” Peg giggled, “like maybe Grandfather’s plans for when he built the
Crestmont
. Mama said he always kept secrets about it.”

“I should tell your mother about this,” Gracie said.

“No,” Peg wailed, “It’s our secret hide out. We have oodles of fun here. My parents would never let us come up here if they knew about it.”

“And if they find out and realize I didn’t tell them, they’ll be very upset with me. I’m concerned for your safety, Peg. One of you could fall and get hurt.”

Peg and Eleanor pleaded, “
Ple
-e-ease, Gracie.”

“Well, if you promise me you won’t come up here without an adult, then I will keep your secret.”

“We promise.” they agreed in unison.

****

They had agreed to miss Wednesday’s ice cream slurp so they could meet privately. Gracie was slumped over the newspaper in the staff lounge perusing audition notices when she heard
PT’s
heavy feet on the stairs. She had finally worked up her courage to ask him to play for her.

“So what do you want to sing?” he asked, sliding onto the piano bench.

“‘Tea for Two.’ Oh, how silly, I didn’t bring the music.”

“Don’t need it,” he said, plunking it out easily by ear.

She conjured up her courage and asked, “Can you play it, just like it is in the sheet music, without those extra things you do?”

“Yup,” he chuckled. “Will I? Okay, but only for you, Gracie.”

Working up her courage, she sang. At the end of the song she was thrilled when he gave her an encouraging grin. Quickly handing him the sheet music for “That Certain Feeling
”
with a bright blue cover and an image of a couple dancing, she said, “Let’s try this one.”

Gracie blew a blonde curl off her forehead, locked her knees and managed to get through it without a hitch. When she was done, she cut her eyes over to see his reaction.

“Nice. So, why do you like to sing?” he asked bluntly.

“Oh honestly, PT, I just do. I guess because my mind’s on the song and not myself.”

“
Hm
,” he replied, as he dove into a wild version of “Tea for Two,” pouring increasing pep into his rhythm.

“What do you call the way you play that?”

“Improvisation.”

“Why do you play it that way instead of the way it’s supposed to be played?” Gracie asked, worried she had unwittingly insulted him.

“Ha! It’s called ‘jazz,’ Gracie. When I play in the clubs in the city, I get paid to bend the rules and be creative.”

“What clubs?”

“Speakeasies. Tons of
improv
going on there for sure.”

Her eyes widened in unbelief. “Speakeasies? I thought those places served alcohol. Why do you play there?”

“Man, you can really topple a guy with questions.” Eager to change the subject, he pinched his pointy chin and added, “I think maybe you should sing for the staff talent show.”

“Me, really?”

“Sure, I’m in charge. I’ll put you in it. Even play for you if you want, but just what’s on the page. You’re not ready for jazzing it up yet.” He returned to his piano, doodling at a new melody.

“Thanks.” She turned to go, dreaming of how confident she would feel singing in her green braid slink and
St. Louis
heels.

 
“Oh, Gracie,” PT stopped her. “Do me a favor, would you, and don’t mention the speakeasy thing to anyone.”

“Sure, PT.” She left, delighted he had shared a confidence with her, worrying about not being ready to jazz it up, and certain she had insulted him about changing the music when he played by ear.

****

Gracie trudged up the hill to the
Crestmont
, clutching her perspiration-soaked handkerchief and shielding her eyes from the sun. Relieved to see that no one was on the laundry porch, she sank into one of the rockers. She had survived her first day with Mrs. Cunningham, a very nice person who even complimented her parsley potatoes. Gracie rocked and let the breeze cool her damp temples. The lawn was so brown. It hadn’t rained for a month, very unusual for the mountains. It made it feel so much hotter.