by Holly Weiss
“Well, we don’t need it because you hired Gracie,” she said irritably.
“Margaret, tell me what is wrong,” he said softly so that the girls in the back seat couldn’t hear. “It’s more than your arm, and I am worried about you.”
She dismissed him by turning back to Peg and Eleanor. “I want no nonsense from you. Lunching at the Sweet Shoppe on Sunday is a treat. Do you hear my words?”
“Yes, Mama.” Ready to cut and run from the tension, they tumbled out of the car, blew kisses back to their parents, and ran up the steps of the Sweet Shoppe toward Gracie.
****
“There is no need to worry about me, William. We need to go home and count the money.”
“There is every reason to worry, Margaret. You seem very distressed. You have been cool towards Gracie, and frankly, very cranky with the rest of us. I am sure I have done something to upset you.” He stopped the car, moved over, and placed his arm lightly around her shoulder. “I am very sorry I didn’t ask you first before inviting her to live with us. I was trying to give you a nice surprise.”
“I feel betrayed, William,” she said dully as the car turned up the Crestmont driveway. “Gracie knew about the girls’ hiding place, knew they might hurt themselves climbing up and down the ladder, and she never told me. I have done a great deal to help her, and I suppose I expected more in return.”
“Margaret, my love, you are forty-one years old. Gracie is only in her early twenties and appears to lack much life experience. She has a lot of learning to do. You were the one who told me that we were her family. We need to accept her as she is and be grateful for her gifts to us. You’ll see it will be good all around for her to be with us this winter. She needs to learn how a family trust is built.”
“Asking her was very chivalrous of you, William. I know I have been in a bad humor lately. I’m sorry. I am just so weary.”
“Well, let me conjure up a way to pep you up. Ever since we peeked into that safe, I dream about one hundred dollar bills. So many ideas are bouncing around in my head I couldn’t concentrate on my Macbeth lecture Friday.” He started the car and edged it onto Eagles Mere Avenue. “I have been bursting with anticipation for a free day. Now, let’s go count that money!”
****
Jumping up from the table, William delightfully touched each pile of one hundred dollar bills, punctuating his count with excited little gasps. “My dear, Margaret, get your pencil out and let’s go to work now that we know how much we have to work with.”
“William, even though I taught myself to write with my good hand, please be mindful that I have been doing ledgers all week. Perhaps you can do the writing.” She lifted her feet onto the footstool with effort.
“Of course, how silly of me.” Rubbing his hands together, he said, “Now, not only do we need more space for guests, we want to make sure we are more and more progressive. First, we must electrify everything—sleeping floors, cottages—all of it.” He pulled the chair out, grabbed a pencil and started scribbling.
“We will need more bathrooms if we put in new rooms,” Margaret pointed out. “And we must put more private bathrooms in existing rooms. That would at least help us catch up to what the Lakeside Inn offers.”
“Yes, yes.” William’s head bobbed up and down as he wrote. “I have been pondering this for awhile, knowing we would have to do something. There is room on the west end of the house for eight rooms—on all three sleeping floors. Then we could expand the dining room out toward the lake more. How do those ideas strike you?”
“I agree with them. Consider also revamping the layout of our public rooms. I see no need for three ladies parlors, but a card room might be nice.”
“And turn the unpopular guest rooms near the checkout desk into an office for Sid, a coat room and public lavatories. Our offices stay where they are.”
“…and the library, William. It’s perfect where it is. So what we are saying,” Margaret clarified, “is to move all public areas to the west side of the lobby except the library, and convert the former public rooms of the east wing into larger accommodations with en suite baths. That would create a nice private wing.”
“Look at this, Margaret.” William tore off a piece of paper. “Instead of repairing those rotting balconies on the front, let’s tear them off, extend the three sleeping floors out over the porch like this,” he sketched, “and create four spacious rooms with baths on all three sleeping floors.”
“Excellent. Of course, additional bellhop and waitress staff is necessary. I estimate we will serve at least thirty more people in the dining room. Perhaps we could host more conventions pre-season to pay for the extra staff. Those are always profitable.”
“Yes, but because May is so cool we must steam heat the main and first sleeping floor.”
“I need to work on these figures, William, before we proceed any further. All these new rooms will need furnishings, and goodness knows what bathroom fixtures will cost.”
“I’ll get a contractor here before next week. We could put the foundation and superstructure up this fall, and finish the inside over the winter.”
“William, I want the contractors to close that entrance to my father’s old hideaway and put a new ceiling in so the girls have no more access.”
“Good. Oh, my dear, isn’t this invigorating?”
“Yes. I find it wonderful to plan and dream with you, William. So often during the summer it feels like we have separate lives.”
William shot out of his chair. “Tennis courts. That’s the ticket—tennis courts!”
“Tennis…no. We don’t have extra money for recreation. Even with this addition, it will be a challenge to accommodate our new influx of guests. We had better focus on that, not tennis courts.” In an attempt to steer him in a more practical direction, Margaret suggested they walk over to the big house to see what walls needed to be knocked down and what rooms could be made larger into suites with bathrooms.
But William persisted. “Listen, Margaret. It’s not so very far-fetched.” He crouched down in front of her. The cleft in his chin quivered excitedly while he made his case. “Swett told me last summer that the French Tennis Championship opened itself to international competitors. What if the United States National Championship in Forest Hills does the same? U.S. pros will be edged out by the Europeans and will be seeking another venue. We could run our own competition, attracting visitors tired of the big city to watch tennis in the fresh mountain air. This is our chance put ourselves prominently on the map. Just imagine—The Annual Eagles Mere Tennis Tournaments.”
****
The girls headed back to the Woodshed after a lunch of tomato soup and olive and cream cheese sandwiches. Eleanor skipped ahead, occasionally twirling around to see if Gracie and Peg had caught up. She cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted, “I like the way you walk, Gracie. You kind of push your hips forward like this. See?” she placed her hands on her hips and demonstrated. “It makes your hair bounce like you have an important place to be.” Her own unruly hair blew every which way in the breeze without her noticing or caring. Peg walked carefully next to Gracie, balancing a box of the Sweet Shoppe’s special chocolate marshmallows for her mother.
“Is that the Age of Innocence?” Peg asked, nodding toward the book in Gracie’s hand.
“Yes, how did you know?”
“I was with Mama when she bought it for you. She thinks you have ‘potential,’ as she puts it. She’s impressed that you read all the time and study vocabulary. My mother likes people with a strong work ethic, as she puts it.”
Caught off guard, Gracie searched for the right response. “Well, I’m just trying to better myself. I never paid much attention to good books or the news before I came here. Your mother has been encouraging me.”
“So I’ve noticed.”
II
The cast finally came off.
“William, if you had taken the whole day off, we could have deposited the money in the bank to sta
rt earning interest,” Margaret groused as he helped her into the car after the doctor’s visit.
“We need to get you home, and I have a faculty meeting that I cannot miss. I want you to rest. Gracie cooks tonight, doesn’t she?”
“Yes,” Margaret groaned, rubbing the leathery skin on her newly freed arm.
“And have her help you soak your arm. Dr. Webber said that would help loosen it up before you do your exercises.”
“I can soak my own arm, William.”
“How long are you going to let this go on without making up with her?”
“As long as I need to.”
****
Mrs. Woods went directly into her room for a nap after the doctor’s visit. She had slept for two hours and Gracie still hadn’t heard a sound from her. The Alpine Eggs Gracie had cooked on Friday were so bad that she threw them out and made toasted cheese and ham sandwiches instead. She had forgotten to add water to Monday’s pot roast, but the family pretended to rave about the tough meat anyway.
Gracie knew there was a chicken in the icebox that Mr. Woods had brought home yesterday, so she pulled out the cookbook and ran her finger down the index. Surely she could make “Herb Roasted Chicken.” She only had to read the cookbook carefully, just like Mrs. Woods told her when she started working for Mrs. Cunningham. Maybe if she made a nice dish, Mrs. Woods might cheer up. She opened a cupboard in the kitchen, pulled out some canned vegetables, and slid the roasting pan out as quietly as she could. She worked diligently and was finally starting to feel she was making a significant contribution to the Wood’s family when Mrs. Woods emerged from her nap sleepily patting her hair into place.
“Do I smell creamed peas? Mm, my favorite.”
Gracie nearly dropped the spoon in her hand. “I’m sorry if I woke you, ma’am.”
“Sorry, sorry, that is all you ever say, Gracie. It’s not necessary, you know.” Margaret said gently, sitting down at the kitchen table. “Your dinner smells delicious and I am the one who is sorry. I have been out of sorts lately. Put the kettle on, won’t you? We’ll have tea and talk this out.”
After the air was cleared, Gracie relaxed.
“Dr. Webber said it will be several weeks before I have the full use of my arm.” Margaret said. “The ladies from church are sending dinner home on Sundays. Perhaps you could continue to cook four nights out of the week.”
Gracie gulped, but tried to nod enthusiastically.
“We could motor to Laporte on Monday’s to buy groceries, and tomorrow, have a little adventure in the laundry house.”
“I’d like that.” Gracie was relieved at the chance to blend in with the family.
“Thank you, Gracie. Your help is a godsend. Why don’t you do something special with the girls on Friday after school?”
****
“Oh honestly,” marveled Gracie, “I always wondered what it was like in here, but I was too scared to find out.” The sharp smell of bleach hung in the air. She moved in between the mass of washing machines and the row of ironing boards, each one the home of an iron with its electric cord wound around like a cat’s tail. Several huge sinks stood against one wall and she noticed her favorite rocker from the porch wedged in a corner with some other outdoor furniture.
“What are these?” Gracie pointed to four massive, coffin-like machines with hinged aluminum covers.
“Those are mangles, industrial-size pressing machines. You can imagine how many sheets we launder all summer. The machines are helpful time savers, but they make it very hot for Magdalena and her crew. I know this may all seem a bit much for a family of four to use, but it’s our property, so we take advantage of it during the off-season. I hope you find doing the laundry today to be an adventure. Use this Allen washer. All the moving parts are ball bearings, so you don’t have to worry about oiling anything. Because it’s electric, there is much less work. Watch.” Mrs. Woods wet a towel in the sink, took it to the washer positioning it close to the cylindrical rolls, and pushed the button.
“That’s amazing. After the rinse cycle all I do is adjust the wringer to the right height and push a button.” Gracie said, watching the rubber rolls suck the towel through, squeezing out the water. “At home I had to I hand-crank it. This will be fun, Mrs. Woods. Is there a clothesline outside?”
“Yes, but when the cold weather comes we hang the wet laundry over here.” She led Gracie to an additional room in the back that was strung with clothes lines. “I’ve been reading that we will soon have what they are calling tumble dryers, powered by electricity. So many modern conveniences. Well, I’ll leave you then and send the girls down to help you carry the laundry back.”
“The girls are here so you don’t have to.” Peg banged open the door and jumped up on one of the pressing machines.
“We knew where you were, so we came to help.” Eleanor was carrying a wicker laundry basket over her head like an overturned canoe. “Wow, Gracie’s in the laundry house. I’m telling Magdalena,” she joked.
“Peg, I just turned that mangle on. Get down before you burn yourself.”
She hopped off obediently. “Mama, that washer has to run awhile. I’m going to show Gracie where Isaiah, Olivia and Samuel live all summer.” She made for the stairs to the second floor, taking them two at a time. Mrs. Woods smiled at her daughter and nodded for Gracie to follow.
“I got an A+, Mama!” Eleanor eagerly pulled a paper out of her pocket, unfolded it and handed it to her mother.
“An A+ in Arithmetic. How wonderful, Eleanor. That extra time on your homework paid off. I am so proud of you. You must show it to your father tonight at dinner.”
“No, he won’t care. He only cares how his students do.”
“Eleanor, darling, of course he cares.”
“Come on, Mama. Let’s go home and do your exercises.”
As they climbed the hill together, Eleanor caught red and gold leaves drifting off the trees and handed them to her mother. Once inside the Woodshed, she ran for the yardstick.
“I suppose that means we are ready, coach,” Margaret said, reluctantly moving her index and middle fingers in a walking motion on the wall.
Eleanor moved the yardstick farther up the wall. “Come on, Mama, two more inches. Now that your cast is off, we’re going to get you all the way up to the ceiling so when Christmas comes you can decorate the top of the tree.”
****
Madeleine Cunningham normally sat in her car with the motor running waiting for Gracie to arrive. Each Thursday Gracie tried to get to work a little earlier, but she never managed to find Madeleine still in the house. She looked unusually stormy today. She unloaded a large bushel of apples from the trunk of her car and plopped it into Gracie’s arms. “It’s about time,” she complained. “I have a hair appointment at nine and I don’t want to be late.” Her normally pomaded black hair had been mussed by the wind giving her a frazzled rather than disheveled air.
“What are we going to do with the apples?” Gracie asked.
“We are not doing anything. You will be making my mother’s applesauce.”
“I don’t know how…”
“Mother will show you everything,” Madeleine snapped, plunking another bushel on the ground. “Just get these apples in the kitchen.”
“Goodbye, dear. Tell Zelda I said hello,” a soothing voice called from the parlor as Gracie opened the door.
“It’s just me.” Gracie called out. “Your daughter’s left for a hair appointment.” She stored the bushels next to the back pantry and went to find Mrs. Cunningham.
“Oh, good morning Grace,” the old woman said, patting her gray hair. “Come on, fix me some toast and we’ll get to work,” she said, rising from her chair and heading toward the kitchen, fingering the furniture to guide herself.
“Grace, dear, we are making my famous applesauce today. I’ll show you exactly what to do.”
Up popped the toast. Gracie buttered it, placed it on the table and poured prune juice from the icebox.
“Ooh, smell those apples. They came down from New York on the train yesterday.” Mrs. Cunningham placed a finger demurely over her mouth while she chewed. “Pull out the big white enameled pot from the cabinet to the left of the sink, dear. That’s it. Now get the Foley mill behind it.”
“Shouldn’t I start peeling, Mrs. Cunningham? There are an awful lot of apples here.”
“I never peel them. Even when I could see, I didn’t peel them. ‘Tis my secret, you see.” She made two quick “t” sounds with her tongue on the roof of her mouth. “Just wash them well, take out the core and quarter them; then into the pot with a little water they go.”
“Oh, what a relief.” Gracie chuckled. “At home, Mother used to make Lily and I do the peeling. I hated that job.” They chatted as she dropped apple quarters into the pot. Striking a match, she lit the gas burner and transferred the pot to the stove. “How much sugar?”
“None.”
“Oh, my mother always added a lot. And cinnamon too.”
“No cinnamon. It spoils the pink. Grace, my dear, for someone who never talks about her mother, you certainly remember a lot about how she made applesauce.”
Gracie flushed. “Oh, sorry…er…I mean, I have to ask you something. May I leave at early today so I can check my post office box? I might have a package.”
“Excellent, you opened the post office box. I’m so proud of you. There’ll be a letter from your sister any day now. Tell me more about your mother, Grace,” Mrs. Cunningham coaxed.
Eager to change the subject, Gracie said, “I’ve never heard of pink applesauce.”
“Well, cooking the apples with the peel turns the applesauce pink and those Cortland apples are so sweet I don’t add sugar. An old diabetic lady like me can enjoy sweet applesauce with no stern warnings from my doctor. I hear it bubbling. Turn the burner down, dear, and let’s enjoy a cup of Postum in the living room.”