by Holly Weiss
Her father’s ledgers were in a neat pile on the floor of the closet. She blew the dust off the top one, curled her fingers under one-half of the pile and carried it, school-girl style, to her office. The sound of Celeste Woodford reprimanding Jimmy for leaving some of her luggage upstairs distracted her. If only they could afford to employ more than two bellhops. She hurried to begin checkout, the ledgers still in her arm. When she opened her office door, her foot caught on the doorjamb, sending her and the books flying. Getting to her feet, she pulled her skirt over the hole the fall had made in her hose, dusted off her navy blue suit, and checked her chignon in the mirror. She’d have to deal with the ledgers later.
Then she spied an envelope addressed to her. After picking it up, she hastily tucked it into her suit pocket and closed the door. Not wanting to invoke any of Miss Woodford’s wrath, she hurried into the lobby.
“Miss Woodford,” Margaret said warmly, handkerchief pressed discreetly against the abrasion on her knee, “I hope you have enjoyed your month with us. We are always so sorry to see you go. I hope everything has been to your liking.”
****
The attendance at the Saturday night dance would be light this week because the Swetts, the Penningtons and Miss Woodford had checked out after their four-week stay. Margaret loved the last two weeks in August because the demands on her were not as great as they were at the high point of the summer. Each year she anticipated spending time with John and Laura Brandon, guests from West Caldwell, New Jersey, who came with their frail son, Phillip, and doll-faced Dora, age seven. The Brandons were kind, genuine people without the airs many of the wealthier guests seemed unable to part with. Imbued with a courage that fed Margaret’s spirits, the Brandons had returned to the Crestmont for the second year since the sobering diagnosis of Phillip’s leukemia. John Brandon’s playfulness reminded her of her father. She overheard him reading to Dora earlier in the library. He balanced a big Raggedy Ann book on his knee.
Raising his voice up into a childlike sound, he read, “‘I can’t seem to think clearly today,’ said Aggendy Ran, ‘it feels as if my head were dripped.’”
“No, no, no, Daddy!” Dora squealed, “It’s Raggedy Ann, and she thought her head was all ripped, not dripped.” Her blue eyes scolded him and she tapped the page of the book as if to say “Do it right this time.”
“All right, let me try again.” Mr. Brandon sighed, looking at her shamefaced, his eyes dancing over her flaxen hair.
Margaret envied their time together. Her summer duties were a major impediment to the time she coveted with her own daughters.
Impatiently walking down to the Woodshed, she wondered when she would find time alone to read her father’s letter. Vacillating between worry and anticipation, she patted the envelope in her suit pocket. She would not have time to read it before the dance because William would already be home and would require more time than she to dress. Perhaps the music and the women’s beautiful gowns, dipping and swirling as they danced, would move the evening along swiftly.
Giving William a kiss of greeting when she reached the cottage, she feigned fatigue. He offered to supervise setting up the West Parlor after the dance for church the next morning. Happy to have a husband so willing to assist, she dressed, picked up the present and headed for the library.
****
Gracie sheltered herself in the library, assuming the guests would be getting ready for the dance. It was August 22nd, the day after her twenty-third birthday. No birthday wishes had arrived from her family because they didn’t know her address, and the only person here who even knew her birthday was Otto. Funny, she had forgotten about him after their fiasco date as quickly as she had fallen for him. She had spent most of her off-duty time yesterday reading the poems she had found in the paper bag and longing for a man to cherish her.
Feeling particularly blue, Gracie dismissed all thoughts of the dictionary and pulled out the Sears Catalogue instead. She put off practical matters, like finding warmer clothes and a winter coat, since there was no money for them anyway. Even though she didn’t know where she would go in the fall, eventually she would have to place a real order, have it delivered a week before closing up the Crestmont, and use her bonus to pay for it Cash On Delivery.
Tonight, however, she itched to play the Sears Catalogue game that so often consoled her. She imagined an exorbitant amount to spend and then wild. Tonight’s allotment was thirty-five dollars. Her fantasy was to find all she needed to be a full-time companion to Mrs. Cunningham. Pretending to choose day dresses for work, a Sunday dress with a pretty pin to match, coat, gloves, hat, books, toiletries and sheet music was a welcome respite from reality. She carefully wrote down the articles she wanted, with page numbers and prices. After tallying up the imaginary purchases, she would refer back to the catalogue to finalize her selections.
“I was hoping to see you here.” Gracie quickly closed the catalogue with her list sticking out the top and turned toward the familiar voice. Mrs. Woods stood before her, looking fresh and elegant in an ankle-length burnt orange charmeuse gown. Soft gathers from the right hip billowed over her shoes and were repeated in long flowing sleeves, which lay loose at the wrists. Her hair was down and swept back over one ear, secured with a day lily. “I’m sorry I didn’t find you yesterday, Gracie. I know this is a day late, but Happy Birthday.” Mrs. Woods smiled, holding out a package wrapped in pink paper with a matching satin bow.
“How did you know…?” Gracie asked incredulously.
“Your birthday was on your application, dear. Go on, open it.”
Carefully undoing the paper so she could reuse it, Gracie found Age of Innocence by Edith Wharton in her hands.
“Oh, Mrs. Woods, one of the Pulitzers we talked about. And a female author! I can’t wait to read it.”
“Look, there’s an inscription inside.”
Opening the book, Gracie read, “Happy Birthday to a fellow reader. Fondly, Margaret Woods, 1925.”
Squeezing Gracie’s shoulder, Mrs. Woods said, “I hope you enjoy it, dear. I must run. Mr. Woods and I always start the first dance.”
“A fellow reader.” Mrs. Woods was kind enough to remember Gracie’s birthday. Gracie gulped, remembering her promise to keep the girl’s hideout a secret from their mother.
“It’s about trust.” Magdalena’s words came back to Gracie as she guiltily closed the book, swallowing the bile that crept up in her throat.
****
August 20, 1908
Dear Moppet,
How is my big girl doing today? I hope I remember to leave this letter where you will find it. My memory doesn’t seem to be what it was. I don’t mean to upset you, but if you are reading this, I am either incapacitated or up in heaven.
Margaret, now that you are married to William, I am confident the two of you can run the Crestmont with the high standard I attempted to put into place when I built it. To do that, however, you may need financial assistance for which I have made provision. Go to the back wing of the third sleeping floor. You will see a small trap door in the hall ceiling. It leads to my little private hideaway where I used to escape to catch a nap, or just to be alone. There’s a small safe in the room. I systematically saved a great deal of cash since we opened in 1900. I kept it secret from your mother, or she would have frittered it away. To access the room, use the ladder in the utility closet at the end of the hall.
I don’t want to dictate how the money might be used, as I trust your judgment, but I suspect the concept of a flush toilet in one’s own guest room will become increasingly popular. I regret not juicing the entire house when I built it, so you might want to electrify the upper sleeping floors. I am hoping the inn will become too small for the number of guests wanting to share our retreat, and that an addition might be helpful.
I call my hideaway Room 440. God showed me the empty cyclone hill which was to become the site of the most imposing hotel in Eagles Mere at precisely 4:40 p.m.
Moppet, listen to your fa
ther. Find your own Room 440 where you can replenish yourself. Our profession is rewarding, but exhausting. Make time for yourself, or you will never be able to properly attend to your guests, not to mention your family.
Search my desk for the combination to the safe.
Love, Daddy
P.S. In case you are wondering how I did it, I put the mattress up there after the floor joists were up, but before the carpenters put the floor in. Your daddy always was a good planner.
Alone in The Woodshed, Margaret refolded the letter and returned it to her suit pocket. Awed by her father’s vision and his faith in her, she cried, fondly remembering his endearing joviality. She wanted to locate the safe and surprise William. Undressing, she slipped into her bathrobe to await his return, wondering if she would sleep at all tonight.
****
Her spirits buoyed by this morning’s church service, Gracie bounced past the offices after staff lunch, winking at Old Tim in the lobby. The library was her friend. When Gracie got there, Mrs. Woods’ favorite chair was empty. Sundays were busy for the Woods and any time off would be spent resting in their cottage. Gracie worked up her courage to sink into her mentor’s chair. Settled there, she pondered her two new homes—this inn that she loved and the Presbyterian Church.
Conversations with people at church had moved beyond casual greetings. People called her by name and seemed genuinely happy to see her. The choir director introduced himself this morning, inviting her to sing a solo before the choir started back in the fall. Astonished at her good fortune, she nodded yes, but later wished she had actually accepted out loud.
She loved Rev. Sturdy’s sermons. He preached like he was teaching himself. Sometimes his message seemed so personal and sensitive, Gracie wondered if he was putting on an act, but the more she heard him, the more she felt he was genuine. “Who Is My Family?” was the title of this morning’s sermon. He had talked a lot about God and the church being family. Something he said really struck her. “Your family consists of the people who love you.”
Who loved her?
Pondering that, she guessed she should write to Lily again, but had forgotten to bring her pencil. She moved over to William Warner’s desk and opened some of the drawers. A child’s spinning top was in one, and some eraser gum in another. She pulled out the smallest drawer all the way on the right and saw some scrawly writing on the side. It was a series of numbers with L and R interspersed. She closed it quickly, feeling she had seen something she shouldn’t have. Pulling down a pencil stuck in an upper cubby, she wrote to her sister.
****
“That’s the room you called ‘storage’ when I was young, isn’t it?” Margaret questioned the charcoal eyes in the portrait when she finally had time on Monday. “Daddy, I had to empty your desk years ago. How will I ever know where the combination went?”
Sid Fox passed her in the hall, pushing a cart stacked with canned goods ahead of him. “Sid, do you remember seeing a box with the things my father used to store in his desk?”
He stopped, caught his breath and pushed his glasses back up on his nose. “No, Mrs. Woods, can’t say as I have, although after twenty-five years I have to admit one storage box begins to look like every other.”
“Twenty-five years. Good gracious, Sid. I had forgotten you’ve been here from the beginning.” He tipped his cap to her and headed down the hall toward the dining room.
Anticipation made the climb easy, and soon Margaret found herself on the third sleeping floor, pondering the trap door above her head.
Whistling, Peg turned the corner and stopped dead in her tracks. “She told you!” Peg wailed. “She promised she wouldn’t.”
“Who told me what?” Margaret stared inexplicably at her daughter.
“Gracie. She promised she wouldn’t tell you when Eleanor and I showed her our hideout.”
“This,” she said, pointing to the trap door “is your hideout? What is up there? I cannot believe you kept this from me.” Not waiting for a response, she commanded, “Bring me a ladder.” Too afraid to argue, Peg brought it and laid it in place.
“I can show you if you want, Mama.”
Her mother cut her off. “No. You have been secretly climbing up here and allowing Eleanor to do the same. Don’t you move an inch.” Margaret made her way carefully up into the room above.
The small window was insufficient to fully illuminate the room. She stopped to let her eyes adjust after nearly tripping over an old mattress. A crudely placed white sheet covered something in the corner. Margaret lifted the sheet, coughing as dust hit her throat. She crouched before a foot-high gray steel safe sitting balanced on two boards. The numbers 440 were crudely painted in yellow next to a combination lock on the front.
“Peg, go back to the Woodshed and wait for me. Do not say a word of this to anyone. I will deal with you subsequently,” her mother said sternly and clambered down the ladder.
****
Meanwhile, after tidying Room 58, Gracie lingered there, musing over the Paperbag Poet and the woman he loved. Maybe if she spent time where she found the poems she could fill out their story. She jumped when an uncharacteristically stone-faced, dirty Mrs. Woods flung open the door.
“Come with me this minute.” A hot flash crept up Gracie’s neck as she climbed to the third floor and followed Mrs. Woods up the ladder.
“How dare you allow my daughters to do such a dangerous thing without telling me? I suppose the three of you knew about this also.” Mrs. Woods pointed to the safe.
“No, honestly, Peg and Eleanor just wanted me to sit with them on the mattress, sing and talk. They made me promise not to tell you, Mrs. Woods, but after I did, I knew it was wrong. I knew that ladder wasn’t safe, so I told them they couldn’t come up alone. I wanted to tell you, really, I did. I’ve been miserable.”
“You’ve been miserable. Your feelings don’t count for much at this point, Miss Antes. You will tell no one about this. Mr. Woods and I will deal with you later. Right now, I have to find the combination to this safe.” Regretting the desperation she heard in her own voice, she sent Gracie down the ladder with instructions to wait.
Standing dumb and scared in the hall below, Gracie realized her discovery of the numbers and letters on the desk drawer might be considered a further indiscretion. “Uh, Mrs. Woods,” she ventured, when her employer reached the floor, “I’m pretty sure I know where the combination is.”
****
“Sid, fetch PT to bring the car immediately!” Mr. Woods crouched over his wife as she lay on the first floor landing. Flowers and shards of pottery lay scattered all over and water dripped over onto the top step.
“Oh, William, I was careless. I didn’t want to go all the way back to the kitchen and bring back the water pitcher. I added the water to the vase downstairs to save myself a trip. It was too heavy to carry all the way up the staircase and I knew it. When I tried to place the bouquet on the table, my leg gave out and I lost my footing. My arm must have become wedged into the table somehow.”
“Everything’s going to be fine, Margaret. I don’t want you to move. We’ll secure that arm and then drive you to the clinic in Dushore.”
Hours later, frustrated because she couldn’t sleep, Margaret wiped tears from her eyes, realizing she could never find the contents of the safe without help now that her right arm was wrapped in a plaster cast.
****
“Yes, William, I am well enough to work. I can type with my left hand.” Margaret distractedly flipped papers from one side of her desk to the other the next morning. “Please find Gracie and send her in.”
“Yes. Gracie. Splendid idea. She’s the ticket,” her husband replied helplessly as he hurried out.
When Gracie arrived, she was relieved to find Mrs. Woods more anxious than angry.
“I’m sorry, ma’am.”
“We have much to sort out between us, but now is not the time. You kept my daughters’ secret and now I request you keep mine. I need to get that safe out of tha
t dark room and into a secure place so I can see what is inside. May I have what you copied off the desk drawer?” Gracie hastily handed the piece of paper with the combination on it. “You are to tell no one, not even Mr. Woods about this. Do you understand?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Go tell Sid Fox you need one of his carts to distribute some cleaning supplies. Tonight during the concert, carry it up the back stairs to the trap door, along with twenty feet of rope and a flashlight. I will meet you there at eight o’clock.”
Gracie stole down to the boat house on the dock during dinner, grabbed the rope and a flashlight and hid them both in the third floor utility closet. Getting the cart up the stairs was a losing battle until she realized she could tie the rope around it and pull the cart behind her, lifting it from step to step. She had everything in place just as Mrs. Woods turned the corner, obviously uncomfortable in her cast and sling.
“Loop it around the top, cross the rope on the bottom and bring it up around the other side. Now, knot it well on top. You’ll have to lie down, push it to the edge and lower it onto the cart. I can at least guide it with one hand. No one is in 78 at the end of the hall, so we will wheel it in there.”
The cart creaked and almost buckled when the weight of the safe hit it. Gracie climbed down, her arms aching. Mrs. Woods dismissed her the minute they reached Room 78.
****
Gracie was so upset about Mrs. Woods; she had lost all her joy from singing at the staff talent show. Realizing she had never thanked PT, she went to find him. He and Otto had their heads together at the bowling alley entrance.