Crestmont (2 page)
1899
“A man of your
?” the client
mocked after William Warner concluded their disastrous meeting. Warner could not in good conscience offer the loan requested, no matter how intriguing the venture. He turned the petition down flat, citing the collateral offered as insufficient. Warner was a whiz at handling money, but twenty years in the banking business had soured him. He took pride in the reputation of his Germantown bank, but the drudgery of the same clients, the same negotiations, the same city, bored him. Tired of merely being competent, he longed for a challenge.
He took a spin around the tiny mountaintop town to wind down after the meeting. Accessible by a cog rail line and enfolding a pristine lake, Eagles Mere seemed the perfect place for summer patrons. The Monroe Boarding House he had chosen for his visit lay about a block and a half away from the prestigious Lakeside Hotel, which towered over the main road amidst numerous sizable cottages. Wishing he had treated himself to a more luxurious accommodation, he sighed at his propensity for frugality and mounted the boarding house steps for a nap.
Mrs. Poole, the owner, was sweeping the hallway when he entered. Sidestepping a pile of dust, dog hair, and other unrecognizable waste, he said, “Your ceiling needs repair, madam.”
“That’s what they all say,” she said through a toothless grin. “Home for a nap, I see.”
Later he awoke, wrinkling his nose at the smell of musty sheets and stale tobacco smoke. William Warner rolled off the bed, dodging a piece of peeling paint that drifted down from the ceiling. He cracked the window, letting a blast of March air
freshen the dingy room. Combing the tangles out of his long, black beard, he stared out the window, noticing a small hill on the opposite side of the lake, littered with stripped hemlocks and rotting branches. His charcoal eyes stared at the devastation, then dropped to take in the late afternoon sun shimmering on the lake. He consulted his pocket watch: 4:40 p.m.
He recalled Mrs. Poole mentioning a cyclone that had come through in 1892.
A man of vision could do something with that hill
.
Calculations tossed around in his head. “Foolish money frittering,” his wife, Mary, would whine. Foolish?
Pish
-posh.
Not merely a monetary investment, his plan would provide respite away from the city for those like himself who were pummeled by the stress of everyday life. He bolstered himself against the competition with the other hotels in town, but assured himself that what he envisioned was unique.
Warner’s adventurous cousin, Henry, had money and connections. Surely he would know a reputable architect and would even want to invest in the venture himself. Warner excitedly grabbed his journal and sat on the edge of the bed. Tearing a sheet from the journal, he made some quick computations. He added the sizable amount he had saved through the years without Mary’s knowledge to what he calculated a mortgage on his
Germantown
home would produce.
“I’m planning a grand Victorian inn,” he wrote his cousin, “where families can enjoy countless amenities along with swimming, boating, horseback riding and other summer activities.” Warner’s handwriting grew large and jagged as he described the transformation of the cyclone-devastated hill into a summer resort. “Are you interested in investing?” Forcing himself to breathe, Warner signed and folded the letter.
Jumping up, he rushed to the window and studied the hill. Mother Nature had cleared it for him, saving labor and money. The residue of the fallen trees would have to be eliminated and then carpenters could begin work. He clambered down the stairs and hit the floor hard, waving the letter in Mrs. Poole’s face.
“Do you provide stationery? I need an envelope.”
“Envelopes are sold at the general store.”
“Please tell me when the mail is posted here.”
“10 a.m. Come sit down. Sup’s on.” She spooned out some slimy looking stew into a chipped bowl and slammed a plate of biscuits on the table in front of him.
Disappointed in the meager fare, he asked, “How does one obtain a bath in this establishment?”
Playfully tucking a greasy strand of wiry hair back into her bun, she sat down opposite him, laced her wrinkled fingers together, and watched him eat. “Well, for a quarter I can fill the tub off the kitchen with hot water. Of course, a dip in our nice pure lake is free.” Smirking, she raised a clouded blue eye in a dare. “It’s fed by underground springs, don’t you know, and there is a legend that it once was an Indian burial ground. Course, in March it’s a little chilly, even for a real man.”
Disgusted by the insinuation, he flipped her a quarter and dismissed her by finishing his meal with his nose buried in his stew.
The bath unclenched his muscles. Smiling as he lay in bed later, he anticipated his daughter’s reaction when he returned home and shared his ideas. Margaret would be excited, he felt certain, and would want to participate in the planning.
Warner was again the only guest the next morning at the breakfast table. Mrs. Poole hurriedly set out cornbread, molasses and milk, and then wiped her hands on her oily apron. She plunked down a bowl slightly out of his reach and put a tin mug of steaming coffee to his left. Rearranging the breakfast fare in a proper manner, he broke the cornbread into the bowl, spooned molasses over it and added milk. Eating quickly, he returned to his room, impatient to be about his business. Warner checked himself in the mirror, straightened his tie, and frowned as he picked a piece of cornbread out of his beard. He set his ledger neatly inside his suitcase and checked out. What a lesson Mrs. Poole had taught him. He intended to anticipate the needs of his guests and treat them with deference, not as toys with which to be dallied.
Smiling confidently, he left the post office shortly after ten and strode east on
Eagles Mere Avenue
toward the knoll. Masses of yellow crocuses opened their mouths to drink in the morning sun. The paste of stale cornbread still on his teeth, he recalled the yeasty aromas from the bakery where he usually stopped for a pastry on his way to work. Breakfast at his inn would offer several choices of fresh summer fruit, eggs, cereal, biscuits, toast, preserves, waffles, pancakes, bacon, ham and homemade pastries.
A little outlet pond greeted him at the base of the hill and he excitedly began his climb. Mountain laurel and bird song encouraged him along the way. At the summit, ideas flooded his brain more numerous than the felled branches around him. Impressive view of twelve counties over a pristine lake. Writing desks with embossed hotel stationery. Distinctive cupola. Courteous waitresses in starched uniforms serving gourmet food on fine china. Bathrooms with hot and cold running water and bathtubs en suite, as they say in
Europe
. Flower gardens. Elegant common rooms with glittering electric chandeliers. Stately pillars marking the entrance to a grand winding drive. Call bells for bellhop service. Grandfather clock gracing the main lounge. Quality concerts by gifted musicians. Canoeing, swimming and water games on a spring fed lake. Gracious hosting to needy guests
.
He needed an impressive name for the inn and a massive roll top desk from which to properly administer it.
A stunning view of the lake took his breath away as he reached the top of the mount. Standing motionless at the center of his new universe, he mentally transformed Cyclone Hill into The
Crestmont
Inn. Amidst the devastation surrounding him, William Warner planted his feet 2200 feet above sea level and knew he stood on opportunity.
The
Crestmont
Inn
1910 – 1911
“You have to correct this,” thu
stomping his foot. “You’ve got a dance listed on this bulletin board for tonight. We always have a hymn sing in the West Lounge on Sunday night.”
“It’s Tuesday, Dad,” William Woods patiently reminded his father-in-law. “You and Margaret always gather flowers on Tuesday. You helped her arrange fresh floral bouquets just this afternoon.”
“No, I am quite certain that was yesterday. I distinctly remember adding some of my famous roses to the vase in the main lounge to impress the guests checking in on Saturday.”
Woods bit his tongue. “Let’s find Margaret and ask her.” He bustled in to his wife’s office. “Margaret,” he said through gritted teeth, “You are the only one who can control him. I am trying to get the bulletin board set up for the weekend activities and he insists it’s Sunday again. Do something with him so I can get some work done, please.”
Margaret Woods battled more frequent bouts of disquietude over the disturbing fluctuations in her father’s behavior. When William Warner, builder and owner of the
Crestmont
Inn, began his decline, she was the first to notice and the last to admit that he could not continue in his leadership role. It only made sense that her talented, capable husband, William Woods, should take over.
She met her father in the hall, affectionately curled her arm through his and led him into her private office. “Daddy, you know how overwhelming July can be with us sending out last minute August confirmations. Would you help me? I know you’ve memorized all the names of the guests and the weeks they stay with us.” She loved spending time with him and didn’t mind balancing keeping him occupied with completing her own work.
Sitting him down in a chair opposite her desk, Margaret wound the
Crestmont
stationery boasting “View of Twelve Counties” around the paper spindle of her Remington typewriter and typed “July 10, 1910.” Pressing the carriage return several times she said, “All right, Daddy, tell me to whom I should be sending confirmations.”
Her father, comfortable with this routine, combed his fingernails through his black beard and recited, “The
Hedgemore’s
. They are always late in requesting a reservation and complain when they are offered rooms on the third sleeping floor. Then there would be Mrs. Emit Darling and Mr. and Mrs. Harold Rodgers. Very gracious people, the Rodgers. They have been coming to the
Crestmont
for years, and write me a thank you note after each visit.”
Margaret’s fingers flew over the keys while she mentally kept a clear distinction between the names tumbling out of her father’s mouth and the people to whom she actually needed to send confirmations. In many cases, despite her father’s mental deterioration, he was correct. Guests often returned the same time year after year. It was the newer people whose names William Warner could not remember.
****
Months passed and all Margaret wanted to do was to sit at his bedside. Her father’s decline over the winter had been slow, but steady. The doctor’s diagnosis of a weak heart that would stop beating in a few weeks was difficult to accept, but the real heartbreak was watching his brilliant mind slowly ebb into oblivion.
William Woods, Margaret’s husband, had been acting administrator of the inn for several months due to her father’s illness. At the moment he was downstairs in his new office, working at the substantial desk her mother felt he needed, planning a June convention hosted by the
Crestmont
.
Margaret, however, craved her father’s presence. Even in his senseless state, somehow she would let him know he was not alone. All of a sudden, his eyes fluttered open as he dug his yellow fingernails into the sheets.
“I’m here, Daddy.” She brushed the hair off his forehead with her fingers, yearning to hear his calm voice again.
He appeared to be completely lucid. “Moppet,” he said, using his pet name for her, “I have so many things to tell you and so little time.” Raising himself a bit in the bed, he regarded her with an unexpected intensity that bore both an opening of hope in her soul and a wound in her heart. “You’ve always shared my
Crestmont
dream. Please continue it after I am gone. Always offer quality. The key is to give the guests what they need, even when they aren’t aware what that is. You have always been so strong. I know you can do this.”
He laced his fingers across his chest and prayed, “Thank you, God, for my inn. It has blessed and sustained me.”
Resentment seethed in Margaret. It was inconceivable for her to anticipate running the inn while her father lay before her dying. When she lifted her head, his eyes were closed, the moment of clarity gone. Why had she looked away? Suddenly, she heard an odd hissing sound.
“What is it, Daddy?” She rose and put her ear close to his mouth, and he haltingly managed to say something that sounded like “forty.” She searched his face. His eyes momentarily locked on hers, then lost focus and retreated into the tangled mass that used to be his sharp mind. Margaret knew he was gone. She rose, put her ear to his chest and heard nothing.
Paralyzed, she sat with him a long time. Her mind moved from benumbing pain to tearful memories of his proud, animated face and dramatic gestures when he had first ushered them into the grand lobby. In one year’s time he had planned the inn and had brought in two hundred carpenters to build it. He passionately nurtured it for the next eleven.
Margaret, a woman in her twenties, wanted to climb back up into her father’s lap and feel his long arms cradle her. She wanted to relive the days when, as an adolescent, he had shared with her his idea of building the
Crestmont
. Finally, without knowing how much time had passed, she willed herself to go downstairs to tell her mother and William.
“At least he died a good death,” the doctor said, after examining her father’s body.
“A good death?” Margaret cried incredulously.
The doctor moved his glasses back up onto his nose as he closed his bag. “When the patient doesn’t have to suffer, we sometimes refer to it as a good death.”