Crestmont (3 page)

The comment pained her. She had suffered, watching the father she loved replaced by a person who didn’t even recognize her. All because of an untreatable dementia.

****

How many tears are there in a person?

Margaret found a rare moment of solitary reflection two weeks after the funeral. Tears came, flowing beyond control, especially when she walked into the library where her mother had moved her father’s desk. Wiping her eyes with her handkerchief, she took two slow breaths to compose herself. Praying silently for strength, she reverently ran her hand along the back of the chair he had so capably occupied for ten years. She sat down and pulled it in toward the desk. Untying the laces of her shoes to let her feet breathe, she realized that the big feet she had always hated were an unwelcome gift from her father. She visualized him on the telephone, rocking back in his chair, one big foot slung over the other knee, demanding more hot water from the steam room. Her fingertips lovingly explored the empty nooks and crannies where her father had systematically kept his orderly paperwork.

The desk from which William Warner’s heartbeat had breathed life into the
Crestmont
Inn was relegated to the library. Margaret resented that something so private was available for anyone to intrusively open drawers or sit and write a letter, but that was what her father would have wanted. He venerated any way he could share himself with his guests. To honor that, she had a plaque made and mounted on the top of his desk:

William Warner

1853-1911

Creator of the
Crestmont
Dream

“Foolish sentimentality,” her mother said when Margaret showed it to her. Mary Warner, who had resented how the
Crestmont
had taken them away from her family in
Germantown
during the summers, now seemed eager to assist in running it with William Woods.

Warner had systematically taught his daughter every aspect of managing the summer resort precisely because he could see that his wife was dispassionate about it. Margaret found it difficult to respect her mother, who had chastised her father so frequently in life and seemed so easily to have gotten over his death. The one solace Margaret could find in her own grief was that she had been loving and supportive to her father when he was alive.

“If only you were here, Daddy,” she whispered as she lay her head down on her hands on the desk. She was horrified at herself for resenting his last request. The enormity of what he had asked engulfed her. She understood that it was her responsibility as his daughter and protégé to ensure that the quality of the
Crestmont
continued, but she now felt none of the strength he claimed she had. Visions of putting her own needs aside in order to fill those of the guests revolted her.

****

The 1911 summer season would begin in three weeks. Although June 15th was the official opening, some guests arrived early and stayed in the rooms with fireplaces to keep off the late spring chill. Correspondence confirming arrival dates for the waitress and housekeeping staff was complete. While Margaret finalized menu preparation for the fine table for which the
Crestmont
was noted, William and her mother planned guest activities and ordered supplies.

Craving solitude, Margaret donned the crocheted white sweater that hung on the back of her office door. Instead of going past her husband’s office to exit via the main lobby, she turned left and inspected the lounge across from the dining room. Gold and white patterned wallpaper above the chair rail peeled from the corners at the ceiling. She would have to bring this to William’s attention. She knew she could not push too much at one time, because he could get persnickety if he felt he had not had an idea first. Leaving the big house through the back door, she noticed some rips in the yellow awnings her father had put up.

Descending the
Crestmont
hill for the Laurel Path that wound around
Eagles
Mere
Lake
, she entered a narrow clearing where huge pink blossoms, set against the small evergreen leaves of mountain laurel, towered over her. Clusters of flowers washed in pastel peach, pink, and creamy yellow sprang out from the larger leaves of the lower-lying rhododendron, whose tangled masses of branches curled up from the ground like snakes. Margaret loved walking the entire path around the lake, so close to the water you could hear it lapping, yet separated from it by dense undergrowth. Today, however, she continued straight out to one of the
Crestmont
docks to gaze at the lake and the little footbridge that separated it from the outlet pond on the south end.

Her father had constructed wooden benches here so that one could sit and enjoy the breezes making swirls of gold, green and blue in the pristine lake waters. Tears came when she realized her father had seen and attended to every aspect of the inn.

It would not be that way with William. She loved her husband for his magical way with people and his vision, but his organizational skills were weak. Margaret knew she would have to tend to the practicalities upon which a business was built, and find ways to motivate William to solve problems he didn’t initially see himself. The prospects of running a business and caring for her baby, Peg, were daunting.

A verse she loved from Isaiah 41 came to her: “For I the Lord thy God will hold thy right hand, saying unto thee, Fear not; I will help thee.” She considered the
Edgemere
Hotel across the lake. Knowing it had survived through several generations brought her hope. Perhaps it was not her father that was the strength of the
Crestmont
, but rather the example he had set. Margaret prayed she could find some healing by accepting the responsibility to follow in his footsteps.

Bethlehem
,
Pennsylvania

1925

Grace didn’t want to be, hadn’t asked to be, but was drawn to
him. George was not especially handsome, but there was magnetism in his quiet kindnesses. She knew he loved her sister, Lily.

Lily and Mother deliberated over the guest list, heads bent over papers dimly lit by the kerosene lamp on the dining room table. George left the room, wearied by the bustle of wedding plans. He found Grace in the pantry, opening a tin of cookies for the tea that would sustain them through the guest choosing. She and George had exchanged longing looks before, but this felt different. Shifting, she searched for escape. His eyes clouded and he seemed unusually shy and confused.

“Grace, I want you to know I love Lily,” he breathed quietly, “but this thing I feel for you, I can’t…” Then he gently cradled her face with his hands and kissed her lightly on the lips. Stunned, she forgot to push the desire for more away. Too late, anyway. When she opened her eyes, he had vanished.

Her mind traveled miles, trying to decide what to do. The wedding was to be in May. Grace decided she would stand up as maid of honor for her younger sister, and then leave. Diminishing Lily’s happiness by explaining served no purpose except self-expiation, so she would simply remove the temptation of herself from George’s life.

He had been the only one to whom Grace could talk about her dreams. He would listen patiently and encourage her, commenting on how beautifully she sounded when she sang in church.

She wanted to sing, to be famous, to make something of herself on the stage. Her parents, ashamed of what they called her “flightiness,” usually lectured her when she mentioned these aspirations. She was weary of the
grillings
about why she wasn’t yet married, why she hadn’t gone on to college and what was she going to do with her life. She was twenty-two, and no interesting beaus had presented themselves. Her mother often chided, “Why must you be so independent, Grace? Just let a young man know you need and admire him, then maybe you wouldn’t be alone.”

She set the cookies on the dining room table. Lily pushed her blonde hair back off her face and studied Grace curiously. “Have some tea. Join Mummy and me,” she invited.

“You and Mother seem to have it under control. I’m quite behind in folding Mrs. Wright’s laundry. I’d better go.” Before Lily could protest, she swiftly escaped to her room.

Sitting at her desk, Grace studied the February frost hanging on the window. She had already saved money by doing laundry for some of the elderly members of the
Moravian
Church
they attended. She always gave ten percent to the church and half of the remainder to her father. The rest she hoarded. She estimated that in three months she could buy a train ticket out of
Bethlehem
after Lily’s wedding, and have a little money to tide her over. Then she would get a real job and earn enough to get to a big city. Feeling better now that she had a plan, she moved the kerosene lamp from her desk to the nightstand. Plumping her pillows, she settled back and picked up
Song of the Lark
.

She remembered Mrs.
Herbst
, the reverend’s wife, speak softly in her ear on Christmas Eve, “Here’s a book I know you’ll enjoy.”

Grace loved the story of how a small time girl had worked her way to
New York City
and eventually became a famous opera singer. Knowing she didn’t have the talent for opera, Grace reasoned that maybe there was a place for her in vaudeville. It never occurred to her that the only place she had ever sung was in church. A dream, after all, needn’t be fueled by particulars, only by desire. She had read that
Buffalo
,
New York
, one of the frontrunners in producing electricity because of the energy available from
Niagara Falls
, had two huge theatres open year round. Reassuring herself that
Buffalo
would be less daunting than
New York City
, she determined to go there and do “big time” on the stage. Closing off visions of her father’s dark, disapproving face; she set the book aside and drifted off. She slept fitfully.

She awoke to an oak branch tapping on her window, complaining of the cold. Grace loved Sundays. Encouraged by the plan that was brewing in her head, she dressed carefully for church. Usually Rev.
Herbst
gave a very good sermon, but it was the hymns that drew her to the little Moravian church. Even when she didn’t have a solo, she loved the singing.

A family dinner followed church. George sat next to Lily, smiling broadly. Father was his usual taciturn self at the head of the table. The aroma of her mother’s specialty, chicken bathed in velvety lemon sauce, touched Grace’s nostrils, but she ate without pleasure. She sat aloof, withered by her mother’s griping that she had not yet learned how to cook.

“Mrs. Antes, that was the finest meal I have had since last Sunday at your table,” George announced, with a forced cheerfulness. “Lily and I will do the dishes.”

Hoping Mother and Father would take their Sunday afternoon nap, Grace excused herself to her favorite brown chair in the parlor. She buried her head in the classified section of the
Philadelphia Inquirer
to hide from any intrusion into her privacy. She didn’t care much for the news, but it was interesting to read what jobs were available. An ad caught her eye.

Crestmont
Inn of Eagles Mere,
Pennsylvania

Seeks summer employees.

Work in a beautiful lakeside mountaintop inn with

Fair wages and working conditions.

Female - Waitresses, Housemaids

Male - Lawn boys

Chefs (Trained Negroes only need apply).

Underneath was an address with instructions for requesting an interview.

“A beautiful lakeside mountaintop inn” sounded like a dream, but she had no idea where Eagles Mere was. Could she work there for the summer and earn enough money to go on the road? Grace copied the address and stole upstairs to write the application letter. After correcting and recopying it three times she signed it and stuffed it in her handbag, intending to post it on Monday. She must offer to pick up the mail for a while, she reminded herself, so that no one else from the family could intercept the reply.

Grace could hardly believe her eyes when, ten days later, she opened a response on official
Crestmont
Inn letterhead.

Dear Miss Antes,

We regret to inform you that we cannot put you on our waitress staff because of your lack of experience. We would, however, be happy to interview you for the cleaning staff of the inn. Please present yourself to our office no later than Tuesday, June 15th for an interview. If you require transportation, our car (labeled clearly The
Crestmont
Inn) provides a shuttle service from the
Wilkes-Barre
train station every Tuesday and Thursday beginning June 1st. You may meet the car at the east entrance of the station between 11 a.m. and noon. Please reply to inform us of the day of your arrival.

Yours truly,

Mr. William Woods, President

She formulated a plan and quickly wrote back, confirming her interview on June 7th, a week before the deadline. She would stay for Lily and George’s wedding in May, and then make preparations to leave. The three months before the wedding would drag by and she dreaded the wait. Avoiding George was one thing, but pretending nothing was awry around Lily would be next to impossible.