by Holly Weiss
Crestmont
Holly Weiss
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, by photocopying or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage or retrieval systems, without permission in writing from both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book, except for the minimum words needed for review.
Edited by Star Publish LLC
Cover Design by Catherine D. Brown
Print edition published in 2008 by Star Publish LLC
Trade Paperback ISBN 13: ISBN: 978-1-935188-10-0
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-935188-26-1
Available at online and offline book sellers
All scripture quotations, unless otherwise indicated are taken from the King James Bible.
Psalm 68:4,6, marked TLB, taken from The Holy Bible, New Living Translation.
Tyndale House Publishers, copyright, 2002.
A Star Publish LLC Publication
www.starpublishllc.com
In memory of my parents,
N. John and Dorothy L. Weiss
Who nurtured my other voice — singing.
Author’s Note
I was inspired to write this novel when my husband, Ernie, and I stayed overnight at The Crestmont Inn in November, 2006. The restful atmosphere of the inn, the graciousness of innkeepers Fred and Elna Mulford, and the beauty of the surrounding area captivated me. More importantly for this work, the rich history of the inn struck me. We stayed in The Evergreen Lodge, which was converted into its current form from staff quarters built in 1926. Small staff rooms that housed two or three waitresses in the 1920s through the 1970s were cut through to create the large and luxurious suite where we stayed. Original transoms over the doors and antiques from the inn’s early years perked my interest about how these staffers lived and worked. I have attempted to remain faithful to the spirit of the Crestmont in my imaginings of their stories.
William and Mary Warner, William and Margaret Woods and Peg Woods Dickerson are actual people who, at various times, administered the original Crestmont Inn. Eleanor Woods was the younger of the two Woods daughters. Sid Fox served as faithful steward from 1901-1947. All of their names and dates are real. Their characterizations and that of opera singer Rosa Ponselle are wholly the author’s creation and in no way are intended to represent their real lives. Warren Sloan was my maternal grandfather. He invented the automatic pinsetter with his partner, Joe Clark, and later sold the patent to AMF Bowling. The other Crestmont staff, guests, and residents of Eagles Mere are entirely fictional.
In an attempt to steep myself in the historical knowledge necessary to lend the novel authenticity, I made numerous visits to Eagles Mere and The Crestmont Inn during the writing of this book. I interviewed not only the Mulfords, current owners, but also former employees of the inn. Shopkeepers and residents of the town shared stories with me. Thanks to all who fueled my enthusiasm to research a place about which they are impassioned.
Writing fiction affords the author the flexibility to modify events to suit the story. Although I endeavored to maintain the spirit of Eagles Mere, I found it necessary to make some revisions in its physical and historical detail. I expanded the size of the lake to give shore front to The Crestmont Inn’s property. The reader may note certain liberties taken in historical dates, such as the inception of the tennis tournaments. I hope others who love Eagles Mere will be forgiving of any modifications necessary to make the narrative plausible and enjoyable.
The Crestmont Inn, a unique historic country inn, is a hidden treasure in the northern foothills of the Appalachians. It is nestled in the mountaintop town that seems timeless, Eagles Mere, Pennsylvania, which is listed in the National Register of Historic Places. Beautifully appointed rooms, sumptuous dining, gracious innkeepers and attention to detail are some of the many reasons to visit the inn. Set on the highest point in the picturesque Victorian village, the inn is surrounded by state parks, breathtaking vistas, and one of nature’s wonders, pristine Eagles Mere Lake.
There have been many attempts to explain how the mountaintop lake came to be. I gave a new twist to an old Indian legend. I hope a spirit of healing is reflected in my retelling of the story.
Bush and Barbara James, former employees of The Crestmont Inn, reflect on Eagles Mere. “To really understand Eagles Mere is to know…that indeed the stars do shine a little brighter here, the lake is purer, the air fresher, the wild flowers more abundant, the people friendlier; and life moves inexorably slower so that what little time we are permitted can be more fully spent in escaping to our private island on the mountain.”
“It is not by idle chance that I have come here.”
—Latin proverb
“Sing praises to the Lord…oh, rejoice in his presence.
He gives families to the lonely…”
—Psalm 68:4, 6 TLB
Prologue
Eagles Mere, Pennsylvania
“I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore…
I hear it in the deep heart’s core.”
—William Butler Yeats
The Eagle rested on the hemlock, quiet but intent. His dark brown plumage blended with the branches, his yellow hooked bill the only hint of his presence. He watched for the coming of spring and for the enemy of the deer. His keen eyesight, coupled with his ability to swivel his head, enabled him to see the Haudenosaunee moving across the land from the north. Spreading his majestic wings, he soared high, willing the approaching Native Americans to feel his disapproval and change direction. He did not fear for his own safety, for he knew the Haudenosaunee revered him, but he sensed impending danger for his friends, the scarce white deer.
The Haudenosaunee, also called the People of the Long House, ignored his entreaty and continued their approach. When they reached his mountain, he called to warn the deer. They clambered for safety up a small hemlock-covered hill that rose above the valley, sacred in its peacefulness, home of the swallows and bluebirds.
Ever mindful of his family’s hunger, the eagle sought the mice and squirrels that breakfasted upon the succulent Juneberry bush. He swooped down, grabbed his prey with his talons, and soared over the valley to his nest. The basin he crossed was cut into a mountain, with springs of water rising from its floor. Rhododendron, mountain laurel, hemlock and white pine gave eagles nesting places for their families and shelter from the wind.
Stormy Torrent, chief of the Haudenosaunee, gazed respectfully at the soaring eagle and felt its presence a good omen for his people’s hunting. Annually, after the Maple Festival in the spring, he led his people south from the lakes shaped like fingers to find new planting grounds for the corn, beans and squash that sustained them. Some of his people still wore the cornhusk foot coverings from last harvest. He needed to find deer for venison and leather for tunics, leggings and moccasins. A mountain rose before him. Thrusting his spear upward, he began to climb. Obediently, his people followed. He anticipated the aroma of venison smoking and the dancing and singing of the women and children for the joy of sustenance. His newly captured Susquehannock slave, Laurel Eyes, would keep him warm at night.
Laurel Eyes, frightened and angry, labored behind him with her packs. Her tribe, the Susquehannock or the People of the Muddy River, had refused to join the Five Nation League and were thus hated by the Haudenosaunee. Capturing her was a conquest bestowing great honor on Stormy Torrent. The Haudenosaunee women equally shared respect, leadership and the carrying burden with the men in the tribe. Laurel Eyes, however, struggled not only with her own pack but also his, her strength fueled by hatred. He had wrenched her away from her life. Now she longed for her life to be over.
Stormy Torrent surveyed the vall
ey, a chasm cut into the earth with curious wellsprings dotting its bedrock. He knew the rumor that the Susquehannock had chosen this as the sacred departure place for their dead and he could feel the eerie presence of the enemy spirits. Momentarily afraid, he knew he must demonstrate courage by descending into the chasm to desecrate his enemy’s burial grounds. Laurel Eyes would accompany him and he would break her. She was his now, all ties to her Susquehannock tribe severed.
With a high-pitched cry to summon the attention of his people, he grabbed Laurel Eyes and pushed her toward rock steps that led below. Not wanting to dishonor her people’s remains, she stubbornly planted her feet in refusal. He dragged her, wailing, into the depths. His people watched. Only the echoes of her screams cut the silence that followed.
The Haudenosaunee waited, fearful of the Great Spirit’s punishment for their arrogant leader’s desecration of the sacred spot. The wind soughed through the hemlocks, counting the minutes that passed. A squirrel, ignorant of the tension, scolded his mate. A final anguished scream echoed from below. Then silence. Stormy Torrent, his face contorted, returned alone.
“The one known as Laurel Eyes is no more. Her spirit has joined her people, our enemy. I confess to you, my children, that I have committed a wrongdoing. Had I not forced her into disgrace, she would not have died of sorrow in the chasm. We camp here tonight. The deer have punished us with their absence, so there is no meat. Tomorrow we move south.”
The night passed long for the people. Eventually, they slept. The Great Spirit looked down upon them, weeping for the foolishness of Stormy Torrent. His eyes welled with tears of sad forgiveness, flowing into the basin. The eagle awoke, and his hot tears joined with those of the Great Spirit. All tears mingled together, producing a soft, cleansing rain. The rain grew stronger, filling the lake. All night the tears washed away the evil that had been done.
At dawn, the Haudenosaunee awoke. Amazed, they watched while the sun cleared the mist from a crystal, tranquil lake where the chasm had been. Afraid to allow them to drink, Stormy Torrent bade them pack quickly. He led them south, never to forget what had happened in this magical place.
The deer, reassured of their safety by the eagle, carefully descended the little hill. Before them lapped peaceful, sweet water, which in meeting their tongues dissolved their fear along with their thirst.
“Name the water ‘Spirit Tears,’” called the eagle. But the Great Spirit wanted instead to honor the inhabitants of the woods that surrounded it.
“Let the cherished white deer whose lives were spared name the lake,” declared the Great Spirit.
Humbled by the honor, the deer cried in unison, “The eagle saved us with his warning and joined your tears for Stormy Torrent. Let the lake be called ‘Eagles Tears, Eagles Lake, Eagles Mere.’”
And the Great Spirit smiled because the lake was named for the forgiveness that filled it.
Eagles Mere, Pennsylvania
1899
“A man of your station not staying at the Lakeside?” 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 rea
ch 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.