by Holly Weiss
“Can’t come back if I’m working full time. I mean to stick with Sloan if I find him and he lets me work for him again. Do something solid. I’m too old for speakeasies and part time jobs. What about you?”
“The Woods said I could stay in the Evergreen until I get a job. I’d like to be a home companion, like I was for Mrs. Cunningham. I placed an advertisement in the newspaper and I have the money she left me as a cushion. Besides, Eagles Mere is my home. I don’t want to leave.”
“No singing on the road, huh?” He set his root beer down on the porch floor. “I know why. You want to stay and see what happens with Eric Sturdy. I know you threw me over for him.”
“You threw yourself over by locking yourself up in there,” she playfully poked his caved chest with her index finger, “with your Do Not Disturb sign.” She lowered her voice. “Maybe after you find Warren Sloan, you’ll find a woman to settle down with.”
“Oh, I found the woman.” He studied the blue spruce in front of the porch. “Just got stupid and pushed her away.”
“I hope someday you let yourself out of prison.”
He got up, turned around and leaned on the railing to face her. “So what about the Crestmont?”
“I’ll miss it, but I’m sure it will survive without us. There’s another waitress out there dying to work here. Besides, I’ll be in the area. I’ll see the Woods all year and come back to visit my friends here in the summer. They’re all my family.”
“Will you come to my concert?”
“Oh, good. Mr. Woods finally asked you.”
“Yup. Put me on next year’s concert series. Apologized for taking so long.” PT gave her a funny look. “Wondering if someone might have reminded him. Mr. Woods said I could come up on the train for a weekend even if I’m not on staff. Wants me to play jazz, even though I’m sure he doesn’t consider it acceptable music.”
“I’ll be there.”
“Good. See you then, Gracie.”
“I hope you find Warren Sloan.”
He nodded, climbed over the rail and headed up the driveway.
Epilogue
Crestmont Hill
1977
“I haven’t been here since Mrs. Woods’s funeral in 1941. Once she was gone, it just wasn’t the same.” Gracie Sturdy blinked back tears. “She was always so kind to me. Oh, Christiana, you should have seen me. I was naive and completely unsure of myself. Mrs. Woods helped build my self confidence. We bonded in some way right from the start.” Gracie stopped her tan and white Buick at the little booth set up just before the pillars that marked the entrance to the hill.
She rolled down the window and poked her head out. “We’re here for the auction.”
“That’ll be $5.00, please,” said the woman in the booth.
“Does the money go to the Crestmont Inn?” Gracie asked.
“I don’t know. Mr. Simpson just said to charge each car $5.00. Here, take this ticket. You can present it up there to get free hotdogs and soda.” The woman waved them on. “Go ahead. You can drive on up.”
“Who is Mr. Simpson, Grandma?” Gracie’s granddaughter, Cristiana, a sophomore at Penn State, sat in the passenger seat, cradling the old yellow jewelry box in her hands.
“He bought the place from the Dickerson’s. I read in The Crestmont News that Mr. Dickerson is sick and can’t run the inn anymore, so they sold it. Rumor has it the new owners are going to demolish the big house and put up condos. Peg Woods Dickerson is supposed to be here today. That’s why I wanted to come. I lived with the Woods family over one winter and was close to Peg and her sister, Eleanor. Let’s see, Peg would be in her late sixties now. I can’t believe it. She was fifteen when I came in 1925 as a scared little housemaid.”
“What about the other sister?”
“Eleanor has written to me all these years. She lives in Allentown, close to where I grew up. She’s a grandmother herself now, but her arthritis is so bad she couldn’t come today.”
“It’s beautiful here.” Cristiana admired the white pine and hemlock when they rounded the driveway up the hill.
“Right there,” Gracie noted, pointing left out her window to a small cedar shake cottage with blue shutters, “is the Woodshed, where I stayed with the Woods after my first summer here. I’m so happy it’s still here.”
The big house, however, carried so many memories; she wanted to stall before she saw it. Turning right at the water tower, she drove down to the two clay tennis courts. She nudged her granddaughter. “Back then people didn’t wear little tennis shorts like they do today. Even so, I had a gander at your grandfather playing in trousers and a long sleeve shirt on that court and knew he was my man.” She giggled. “I never told him until we had been married for two years.”
She turned the car around and headed up toward the big house. At the top of the hill, she stopped the car.
“Is that it, Grandma?” asked Christiana, gazing at the huge brown structure.
“That’s it, Christiana. The Crestmont Inn. I can’t believe it. Those famous yellow awnings are gone, the porch has collapsed…” Her voice trailed off.
“It looks like it’s ready to fall over, Grandma. What are those men with the axes doing?”
“I don’t know, but I’m sure going to find out.” Gracie got out of the car, stopped an important-looking man, and demanded, “Who are those men?”
“Those are the Mennonites. They bought the wood.” He walked on, stuffing a hotdog in his mouth.
Two white open-sided tents, filled with lamps, mirrors, knickknacks and books were set up on the back lawn. Furniture from the big house was lined up in rows on the grass.
“Good,” said Gracie, “they haven’t started the auction yet. I’ll show you the Evergreen Lodge, where I lived for two summers.” She parked the car and led her granddaughter past the garage down to the laundry porch. The white filigree and railing welcomed her back. “I spent many a late afternoon after work cooling off on this porch.”
A woman of about sixty sat stoically on the porch swing. Gracie recognized her immediately. Touching her granddaughter’s arm, she said, “Give me a moment, Christiana. Wait over on that porch for me,” she said, pointing to the Evergreen Lodge.
“Peg? It’s me, Gracie, the one who promised not to tell your mother about Room 440, your secret hiding place.”
“Gracie. Oh, my goodness, I don’t believe it!” Peg Dickerson jumped up and gave her a big hug. “How many years has it been? You’ve been a stranger for too long. Where do you live now?” Curling her arm through Gracie’s, she led her along the little path to the Evergreen Lodge past the fish pond she and Zeke had built in 1926.
“Eric and I moved to Harrisburg in 1958, soon after the grandchildren started coming. We didn’t want to miss seeing them grow up. Peg, I’d like you to meet my granddaughter, Christiana. Christiana, this is Mrs. Dickerson.”
“Nice to meet you. My grandmother has told me a lot of stories about you when you were young.”
“Did she tell you I taught her to swim?” Peg Dickerson laughed and nodded toward the dorm. “Go on in and check it out. Your grandmother lived in the fourth room on the left for two summers.”
“Oh, Gracie, how time has flown,” she continued after Christiana ducked into the Evergreen Lodge. “Why haven’t you come back for a visit?”
“I couldn’t, not after your mother died. I know you and your husband breathed life into the Crestmont, but I couldn’t bear to come back after she was gone.”
Peg sat down heavily. “Look at what we’ve come to, Gracie. There’s nothing classier here than a hot dog stand. Simpson and his auction have made a mockery of what my parents and grandfather spent their lives building. They’re going to level the big house within the week.”
The Mennonites worked steadily, tossing away crumbling cedar shakes and tearing down the hotel board by board, loading the wood into their trucks.
“They’re taking it away?”
Peg nodded sadly. “They paid for it. I
guess they can do what they want with it. They’ll probably build barns or something.”
“So the big house will live on in some twisted sense.”
Peg shrugged. “They were kind enough to give me the family portraits.”
Gracie put her arm around Peg’s shoulders. “This is so sad.”
“They’re going to convert your old dormitory into a new Crestmont Inn. And this,” she said, pointing to the laundry house, “will be the new reception area and dining room.”
“Convert the Evergreen Lodge? But those rooms were so small. Oh, and so hot. I was always so thankful for those transoms to give us a little breeze.”
“The plan is to rip out the wall between two rooms and convert them into one big suite. King size beds, air conditioners and jacuzzis.”
“What do you have there?” Peg asked, pointing to the yellow jewelry box.
“I bought this silly jewelry box on my way to the Crestmont that first summer and have kept it all this time for sentimental reasons. The Crestmont News said they might be interested in some antiques to decorate the new rooms.”
“Yes, go to the second tent, just up from where the bowling alley used to be. Take it up there and tell the Simpson’s your history here. I’m sure they’ll pay you for it.”
“I noticed the bowling alley was gone when I drove up. My good friend, PT, used to run that.”
“The guests lost interest in bowling and we needed more guest cottages, so my husband and I had it cut in half, placed side by side, so to speak, to create what we call North South Cottage. It’s up there near the Woodshed.”
A message blared out over the loudspeaker.
“Oh dear,” said Peg. “They’re going to start the bidding. I’m not sure why I came today, except it didn’t seem right not see this through to the very end.”
“Will you be here for awhile, Peg? There is something I need to do, but I’d like to see you before I go.”
“Yes, I am going to sit here and watch the sun go down over those trees one more time.” She took Gracie’s hand. “I can’t tell you how much it means to me to see you again.”
Gracie pulled Christiana away from exploring the second floor of the old dorm and steered her up to the furniture on the back lawn. They wound in and out of the rows of tables, bedsteads and chairs until she found what she was looking for. Settling into the folding chairs, they awaited the bidding. The auctioneer banged his gavel. The small pieces went first. Then Old Tim, the grandfather clock that had graced the lobby for seventy-eight years, went after only two bids.
The auctioneer flashed his gavel over to a roll top desk. Gracie patted her granddaughter’s hand.
“Watch this.” She calmly topped each bid on the desk.
“$700, do I hear 750?” The auctioneer’s finger was in the air ready to point to the highest bidder.
“Grandma,” Christiana whispered in her ear, “that’s so much money!”
Gracie raised her hand to accept the bid. “It’s okay,” she said to her granddaughter. “I have plenty. I was always a good saver.”
Silence followed his plea for more. “Sold to the lady in the rear for $750.”
“I’ll take this old plaque off if you want,” Mr. Simpson asked later when Gracie went to claim her ticket. “You can hardly read the engraving.”
“Don’t you dare.”
“Okay, lady, I didn’t mean any disrespect. I must not have the history here that you do. Here’s your ticket. You can pick up the desk when you leave. If you can’t transport it today, you’ll have to make other arrangements. If it’s not gone by Friday, we burn it with the rest.”
“Why did you want the desk, Grandma?” Christiana asked.
“You remember me telling you about Mrs. Woods, Peg Dickerson’s mother?” Christiana nodded.
“Well, this desk was in the library of the big house when I worked here. Mrs. Woods cherished it because it belonged to her father, the one who built the Crestmont. I spent a lot of time sitting at it after my shifts, reading and trying to improve my vocabulary. Quite often, I’d run into Mrs. Woods hiding out there in the evening, trying to recoup from her day. We had some good talks. She seemed to understand me, to know where I was weak, and she tried to help me figure myself out.”
“How?”
“Oh, she told me about good books to read, taught me to cook, to trust my own mind.”
Christiana squeezed her grandmother’s hand. “So you’re going to give the desk to her daughter.”
“That’s why we came, Christiana. It’s a way of giving back. And I’ve changed my mind about the jewelry box. Would you like to keep it?”
Christiana nodded enthusiastically.
“Take it back to the car and I’ll meet you there in a few minutes.”
Gracie strolled back to the laundry porch, enjoying the mountain air one last time. She pressed the ticket into Peg’s hand.
“What’s this?” Peg asked.
“Your grandfather’s desk. I want you to have it. It needs to stay in the family, don’t you think? He was the one who started it.”
“William Warner, Creator of the Crestmont dream,” Peg smiled.
“He helped us all.”
Something caught Peg’s eye. “Gracie, look.”
An eagle soared above the big house and graciously dipped one wing.
THE END
Afterword
Current day Crestmont Inn owners Fred and Elna Mulford uniquely defined their mission as innkeepers on their wedding day. The Crestmont Inn is normally closed on Christmas day, but in 2004, its rooms were packed. Twenty relatives of Bill Pass, a resident in the condos where the original Crestmont Inn stood, had come to be with him in his final days. The family expected Rev. Pass to end his suffering within a day or so, but he surprised them all by living until January 2nd. Because the relatives stayed so much longer than expected, the Pass and Mulford families had time to develop an unusually strong bond. Little did the Mulfords know that their wedding day would take an unexpected turn because of this man.
Bill Pass, a minister and resident of Eagles Mere, Pennsylvania, had battled his cancer a long time. His family poured into town from all over the country, needing a refuge while they cried, reminisced and laughed with him until the end. Fred and Elna opened the doors of the Crestmont, sensitively caring for the Pass family—providing beds they could sink into for comfort at night and delicious meals to sustain them. Days before his death, Bill, who shared a love of waterfowl with Fred, asked his family to prop him up and hand him his favorite photograph of a redhead duck. Laboriously, he inscribed the back:
Dear Fred and Elna,
You have become very special to the Pass family recently. You’ve opened your house and rooms to my clan guys—a brave thing to do. Mostly, you’ve opened your heart of love. There is very little in Eagles Mere of this kind of kindness, especially to take in my gang so we could all be here for this particular occasion. The Lord bless your Christian ministry, full of consideration and thoughtfulness! You made our day, our night and the happiness of our friends. The Lord bless you and your business—You are a wonderful asset to Eagles Mere,
Bill
P.S. I’ll train your dog any time. 12/26/2004
Notes of thank you from many of his family members were added underneath.
On January 2nd, Fred and Elna stood before a minister in front of the fireplace in their beloved Crestmont pub. It was a simple ceremony, attended only by close family and friends.
Afterwards, arm in arm, they strode happily out into the Fouquet dining room, expecting to break open champagne and celebrate their marriage. The winter chill ushered in the Pass family when they poured through the front door of the Crestmont, oblivious to the “Closed” sign on the door. Having no idea that the Mulford’s had just been married, the relatives crowded around them, needing and giving hugs, because Bill had just died. Fred and Elna said nothing about their wedding, but instead, shared moments comforting them. To this day, they believe the fa
mily didn’t know they had been married that afternoon.
Although this was an unusual and poignant occurrence, the tone was set for the graciousness with which the Mulfords have treated their guests ever since. It is a reflection of the legacy of William Warner, who built The Crestmont Inn in 1899, as well as Margaret and William Woods and those who followed.
Acknowledgements
I am deeply indebted to Fred and Elna Mulford, owners of The Crestmont Inn, for their enthusiasm, generosity and willingness to share personal anecdotes as innkeepers as well as their knowledge of the hotel’s history. Bush and Barbara James graciously gave me permission to research their publications about the original Crestmont, replete with floor plans, menus, contracts, family history and other fascinating details. These sources are listed in the bibliography for the reader’s interest. My husband, Ernest L. Whitehouse, gave me patient, tireless support and wrote the poetry of the Paper Bag Poet. I thank T.C. McMullen and Janet Elaine Smith of Star Publish LLC for their expertise and patience. Catherine D. Brown’s brilliant cover design brought a depth to the book words could not express. My cousin, Nancy, and friend, Jean, read every word of the manuscript, giving me encouragement and feedback. Tina, Deb, Sarah, Mary, Sally, Roberta, Laurie, Janet, Laurel, Joyce, Ralph, Bruce, Alice, Ann, Jane, my book group, my voice students and others, encouraged, prayed and contributed in their own unique ways.
I could not have completed Crestmont without the help of the Eagles Mere Bookstore, the Eagles Mere Museum, and the people who shared their stories about Eagles Mere and the Crestmont; Cooie Klotz, who gave me her pink applesauce recipe, Louise Reighard, whose grandfather owned the Lakeside Hotel, Bonnie Adams, Charlie Gardner, Paula Holcombe, Fred Holmes, Edwina Vauclain and Kay Wilson. You know how you fit into the puzzle that became Crestmont, and your help was invaluable.