“Merry Christmas, dearest Emma,” he said.
“What is this?” I turned it over in my hand, but there were no markings.
“You have to open it, you ninny.”
I tore at the seal and pulled out a pile of papers with small print.
It was a deed.
HOT WELLS SANITARIUM
My hands shook and rattled the paper. What had Otto done now?
“What do you think?” he asked with the anticipation of a spoiled child. “Our own hot springs resort. Can you imagine it?”
He looked up and waved his arm into the air, seeing some kind of picture that I had no vision for.
“Swimming pools with steam rising from the ground. Greenhouses growing exotic flowers and plants. Movie stars shading themselves under umbrellas. Concerts. Lectures. And—and!”
He actually leapt up when he said that.
“And it has an octagonal-shaped room where we can restore the baths to their former glory.”
I tried to smile. I curled my lips up despite their bitter protest, but it did not reach my eyes. I watched Otto’s expression journey from exuberance to confusion to anger.
“You don’t like this. Why don’t you ever support my ideas?”
Sarcasm gathered in my throat and spread to my tongue, a retort waiting for me to open my mouth. Why did I never support his ideas? How could he ask this? I left my beloved family and my beloved state to follow him to Texas, only for him to leave the very company that had been so good to him and form one that was their biggest competitor. And yet I kept silent. Arranged for the loan from my brother. Researched the market for Pearl and got the word out. Indeed, I was in agreement with Adolphus that my husband had gotten in over his head with all the businesses he was starting, but for the most part, I’d kept my own council and given Otto no objections.
I was weary, though. Building a house—a palazzo—had been tiring enough, and I’d begun to take on responsibilities at the brewery. To start a venture as wild as the one he was proposing was simply beyond belief and the last of my tolerance had been spent just getting out of bed this very morning.
But still, I said nothing. There was no point. The paperwork said, “deed” and Otto’s signature was at the bottom of each page, the ink almost glistening in its newness. It was done and an argument would do nothing but put us at odds when our current harmony had been so hard won.
I leaned into the chair nearest the fireplace. “I’m sorry you don’t think I support you, Otto. I’m certain I’ve demonstrated the opposite on every occasion possible.”
I folded the contract and deed and put them back in the envelope, handing it back to him. “So, tell me more about this.”
I could not feign enthusiasm.
Over the next year, barely a word was spoken between my husband and myself that didn’t involve business, beer-making, furnishing the house, or restoring the Hot Wells resort. Otto had built separate bedrooms into our cavernous house against my wishes and he insisted on using the one he’d designated for himself. He said that it was to keep from waking me when he arose so early, but he knew I woke before dawn. Then, he told me that all of the fashionable people did it—look at the king of England. Did I really think that he shared a room with his wife?
That was a tangent that was patently absurd, but I didn’t argue it. For I’d discovered that I quite liked my own space. I went ahead and selected a lace canopy over a four-poster bed, and angled it in the room to face the sun. I chose a pale pink coverlet and a white sable blanket to lay across its foot. I commissioned a desk made especially for the turret that faced the smokestacks of Pearl. And a cushioned vanity seat to fit into a table dedicated to my cosmetics. My bedroom became my sanctuary. My own little refuge when Otto’s talk of new ideas grew scattered and his interests jumped from project to project.
Of all of them, it was only Pearl I cared about. I’d taken the time to meet each employee and knew most of them by name, and the names of their wives. Sometimes, the children. I knew the horse carriages’ handlers: Jim Bacon’s daughter had caught the whooping cough and Jim Tanke’s wife was expecting a fourth child. I knew that the payroll clerk was named Janice Heff and that she’d taken over the job when her husband, Pete, died leaving the position vacant. It was a remarkable thing to see a woman working among all the men and I vowed that if I ever had a true say in it, there would be more of them.
Like I’d done with all the people I’d met in my years taking daily walks around San Antonio, I’d created a family out of the employees at Pearl. I would look after them with everything I had, even as my husband gave it less and less consideration.
An hour had passed and a nurse came in to check on Mrs. Koehler again.
“How are you feeling? Are you ready for some lunch?”
“Not if it’s the slop you gave me for breakfast. Do you have any more of those rolls from dinner last night? With some butter?”
The nurse’s eyes widened, but she had the sense not to counter her. “I’ll see what I can find for you, Mrs. Koehler.”
Mabel had distinctly heard the doctor tell Emma that she was not to have butter under any circumstances. Nor salt. Nor cream. He’d even written it in the notes, which Mabel had seen the nurse read.
Well, she wouldn’t be the one to keep Mrs. Koehler from having whatever pleased her. Why not give her some small joy? If she had to, Mabel would smuggle in anything she wanted.
When the nurse had closed the door behind her, Mrs. Koehler took Mabel’s hand in hers. She held it perpendicular to her own, with the curves at the base of their thumbs resting in each other. It was such a small thing, but Mabel had to fight back tears at the gesture. This was how she used to hold Mama’s hand.
“You poor thing. I promised to tell you about Hot Wells and I let my mind wander. I didn’t mean to go on about my marital woes. You will find a young man for yourself someday and see soon enough that there is no marriage that is perfect. Each person arrives with his or her flaws, and Otto and I were no different. Do you intend to marry someday?”
Mabel set her pencil down with her free hand. “I supposed that’s what every girl is supposed to want.”
“Look at me, Miss Hartley.”
It took some effort to do so. Mabel was quite comfortable taking dictation from Emma, but had not intended to share anything of herself in return. Yet here they were, reminding her of the precious time at her mother’s bedside. She had to fight tears every time she walked into the hospital. The very smell of it took her back to those days.
“Yes?”
“I didn’t get to be my age without learning a thing or two. And one thing I’ve learned is how to read intentions. Lots of people have wanted lots of things from me. But you’re the opposite. You seem happy to sit in a horribly uncomfortable chair day in and day out and to do my bidding. But you’re afraid of something. I don’t have to know you well to see it. Whatever is holding you back from happiness has to be let go of. Life is going to throw some tomatoes at you. Your path will be determined by whether you let them mold over or whether you add them to soil and let something grow from them.”
It was an unusual analogy, but it was not unlike the more traditional one that Mama always used to say: “When life hands you lemons, make lemonade.”
Mrs. Koehler had suffered more than many and had earned the right to make such statements. Without her parents and brothers around to share their wisdom, Mabel knew she would be wise to take these words to heart.
The nurse returned and Mabel slipped her hand out of Mrs. Koehler’s. But the feeling of it remained.
“The doctor prescribed chicken broth and cooked carrots for you, Mrs. Koehler. But—I did bring up a few rolls.”
She pulled up the corner of a cloth napkin and revealed the forbidden pieces.
Mrs. Koehler’s lips almost curved into a smile, but stopped short. She did manage a thank you and the nurse left.
“What about you?” she asked Mabel. “Are you going to eat something?”<
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“Erik—Bernard—is coming for me in an hour and he said we’ll get something to eat on the way back to the house.”
She stiffened at letting his more casual name slip. It implied a familiarity that she was still uncertain of, and one she was not yet ready to reveal to his aunt.
But Mrs. Koehler didn’t miss it, and this time the smile reached her eyes. Did she read more into the lunch invitation than either Erik or Mabel might intend?
“He never did like his given name. He’s been trying for years to get me to call him Erik as all his friends do. I’ll give him the satisfaction at least once before I pass on.”
Mabel was getting more comfortable with Mrs. Koehler’s fateful pronouncements. It was practical, she had to admit. She’d watched her review funeral plans with Helga and confirm the readiness of her plot at Mission Burial Park, and there was a certain calm that overtook what people often looked upon as grim.
“Shall we continue with the Hot Wells discussion?” asked Mabel. The minutes were ticking by too slowly in her anticipation to see Erik again and she was desperate to distract herself from looking at her watch.
“Yes,” replied Mrs. Koehler. She set aside the broth she’d never wanted and nibbled away at a dinner roll. She shifted her pillows to support her back and continued.
To no one’s surprise, Otto’s vision for Hot Wells had exceeded anything he’d first spoken of. While he originally wanted to bring its bathing pools back to life, he soon calculated that if he also added lodging, it could become a destination with far-reaching acclaim. And, in Otto Koehler fashion, it succeeded.
Despite my inward doubts and protestations, it was remarkable by anyone’s definition. One would be met at the entrance on South Presa by a grand horse carriage and taken on a jungle-like journey through fanshaped palm trees and greeted with wildlife not normally found in Texas. Though they were safely behind discreet wire fences, visitors could see peacocks and ostriches roaming the grounds. A taste of the delights to be discovered later.
Upon arrival at the lodge, they would become enamored with the Victorian look of the building: white walls that reflected the sunlight, thanks to Otto’s exacting demands that it be painted regularly. A red-shingled roof set at all kinds of angles. And in the back, an expansive green covering for the baths that could be found on multiple levels. There were two public pools: one for the men and one for the ladies, their separation noted by large letters painted in black gloss on the brick walls.
Below sat forty-five private baths. Private being a relative term in that there was still a sense of openness, but they were not shared pools. They sat under a canopy and pillars that resembled an ancient cistern.
In the meantime, our large, half-furnished house allowed us to come and go without the other’s knowledge, and although we rarely argued, we continued to grow apart.
Only where Pearl was concerned did I insist on interfering. To everything else, I left Otto to his empire.
Despite this, I did not shirk my social duties as a wife and I gave great credence to the important role we were beginning to play on the landscape of San Antonio. I made my appearance at the grand opening, cut the ribbon alongside my husband, and even chose a dress, white lace with red trim, to complement the design of the hotel. My hat was resplendent, if I do say so myself. I commissioned a milliner to make it especially for the occasion: white felt rising a full nine inches above my head, bedecked with three peacock feathers that rose another twenty.
My father would have been amused at such a concoction, but also would have applauded the success it took to purchase such a thing. I hoped, if there was such a place, that he was perched somewhere in a heaven that would allow him to look down on me and smile. I felt, at least, that the sunshine on that day—after a particularly long bout of thunderstorms—was his blessing.
Over the next decade, I made monthly appearances at the resort, greeted the employees, gave comments as to how things were running. I came more frequently when the movie stars started getting wind of this oasis in the middle of Texas. Many arrived in their own private rail cars and Otto petitioned the city for a track spur that could reach Hot Wells directly. He won, of course, and before we knew it, Hollywood could be in Texas in only two days.
For the locals, he arranged for a streetcar line to be built there as well. “If the hoi polloi want to come, their money is as good as anyone’s,” he would say. Though he did not mean it with the condescension one might take from his words. To Otto, a dollar was a dollar was a dollar, no matter who had it to spend.
Still, there was an extra energy about him when someone from the pictures came to visit. It would be difficult for even the most prosaic person to not be dazzled by the glamour that they brought. I played dominos with Cecil B. DeMille, tennis with Sarah Bernhardt, and sat at concerts next to Douglas Fairbanks.
But for both Otto and myself—in this, we continued to share a similar passion—it was all about business. The thrill of this elbow-rubbing meant nothing in comparison to what it meant to growing our presence in the business world. Otto secured the resort as the home of the Cincinnati Reds’ training camp and he penned a contract for a movie about the Alamo to be filmed on its grounds. It was silent, of course. All pictures were back then.
It was fascinating to watch the actors moving about, wearing garish cosmetics, enhancing the melodrama for the cameras. And to later watch it in the theater—familiar and yet unfamiliar. So different from what we are accustomed to now. The pictures flickered, their mouths moved without sound, their speech was printed across the screen. Disembodied words that moved too quickly to convey anything more than the most simple of stories. Of course, we didn’t know that then. It was all astounding to us—quite, quite new. The fact that photographs, when laced together, could give a sense of movement was an absolute wonder.
Otto brought home some abandoned filmstrips for me to see.
Well, at least, that’s what he said. I found out that they weren’t for me at all.
He must have thought I’d gone to sleep one particular evening. The one that changed everything. I became thirsty and the little bell on my nightstand could not be heard over a terrible thunderstorm that was brewing outside. I left my bedroom, moved downstairs out of necessity, and heard muffled laughter coming from the parlor.
In the glow of the fireplace, I could see my husband sitting on the couch, the one I’d had specially made with fabric ordered from St. Louis. He was holding a filmstrip up to the light.
And next to him was my nurse. Emma Dumpke.
You see, and we’ll discuss this part another time, I’d just been in a terrible automobile accident while traveling abroad. Otto hired the woman to tend to me, as I’d been confined to a wheelchair.
The “other Emma,” I heard people call her. She was everything I wasn’t: petite and stunning, and possessing the kind of innocent confidence that is the unique characteristic of those who have not yet known hardship.
And my husband was in love with her.
.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
MABEL’S PEN RESTED on the notepad, its black ink pooling on the paper as she contemplated these words.
And my husband was in love with her.
Mrs. Koehler said it with the same flat tone that someone might have if they were reciting a market list, yet Mabel felt indignant on her behalf. Her father had loved her mother fiercely. It was his grief over her death that led him to smother the pain with alcohol. The idea that a man could love a woman besides his own wife would have been outrageous to him.
Mabel pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and dabbed her eyes. Oh, to go back to the days when her family was whole. Pops working as a fabric cutter for a garment factory. Bringing home scraps to Mama, who could make even the tiniest bits into something beautiful. Most she’d sell for extra money, but some she’d fashion into a treat for Mabel: a hair ribbon or colorful trim for her socks. And on Christmas, Mabel could always look forward to a new dress.
It was the little, daily moments that stung the most. Robert and Buck wrestling in the living room, careful not to knock over lamps, though not always succeeding. Mama calling everyone into the kitchen for supper. Listening to the Ed Sullivan Show on the radio.
All the baseball games, tickets bought on the day for half the price.
Mrs. Koehler might have been a pioneer in the business world, but she’d been robbed of having the kind of family that Mabel had been blessed with, even for too short a time. Robbed, too, of the devotion of a husband who was so very undeserving of her.
One might have all the money in the world, but without love, what was it worth?
Lost in these thoughts, she didn’t hear Erik walk in and it seemed as if he just appeared in front of his aunt. He leaned over to kiss Emma on the forehead. Something about the gesture was so tender that it stripped away the last sense of safeguarding that Mabel kept around herself.
Erik was no Artie. Or better said, Artie was no Erik. If there was ever going to be room in her life to love again, she had to learn to trust. And she was pleased that she’d been working hard to do so. Erik made it almost easy.
He sat at Emma’s bedside, stroking her hand until she’d drifted off to sleep again. He turned to Mabel.
“Hungry?”
“Famished.”
“Good. I know exactly the place. Are you up for a short walk?”
She looked out the window at the stark white sky. It had been chilly on her way over when Helga dropped her off. But she thought again of Buck. Any small sacrifice made on behalf of the boys overseas might be one step closer to bringing them home. She could put up with a little cold if it means saving precious gasoline.
Erik helped her into her coat, a kindness she continued to appreciate. She slipped gloves out of her pocket and pulled a knit cap over her ears.
They continued straight down North San Saba, venturing further than Mabel had yet explored. Unlike the manicured neighborhood of Laurel Heights, this had a distinct feel and grit of a city. Erik stepped to Mabel’s right side, keeping himself next to the street. No sooner had he moved, a car came hurrying past them, spraying a fan of dirty slush onto the sidewalk, barely missing the cuff of his pants.
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