Crestmont Read Free

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.
    A stunning view of the lake took his breath away as he reached the top of the mount. Standing motionless at the center of his new universe, he mentally transformed Cyclone Hill into The Crestmont Inn. Amidst the devastation surrounding him, William Warner planted his feet 2200 feet above sea level and knew he stood on opportunity.

     

 
    The Crestmont Inn
    1910 – 1911

     

     
    “You have to correct this,” thu
nde
red William Warner, stomping his foot. “You’ve got a dance listed on this bulletin board for tonight. We always have a hymn sing in the West Lounge on Sunday night.”
    “It’s Tuesday, Dad,” William Woods patiently reminded his father-in-law. “You and Margaret always gather flowers on Tuesday. You helped her arrange fresh floral bouquets just this afternoon.”
    “No, I am quite certain that was yesterday. I distinctly remember adding some of my famous roses to the vase in the main lounge to impress the guests checking in on Saturday.”
    Woods bit his tongue. “Let’s find Margaret and ask her.” He bustled in to his wife’s office. “Margaret,” he said through gritted teeth, “You are the only one who can control him. I am trying to get the bulletin board set up for the weekend activities and he insists it’s Sunday again. Do something with him so I can get some work done, please.”
    Margaret Woods battled more frequent bouts of disquietude over the disturbing fluctuations in her father’s behavior. When William Warner, builder and owner of the Crestmont Inn, began his decline, she was the first to notice and the last to admit that he could not continue in his leadership role. It only made sense that her talented, capable husband, William Woods, should take over.
    She met her father in the hall, affectionately curled her arm through his and led him into her private office. “Daddy, you know how overwhelming July can be with us sending out last minute August confirmations. Would you help me? I know you’ve memorized all the names of the guests and the weeks they stay with us.” She loved spending time with him and didn’t mind balancing keeping him occupied with completing her own work.
    Sitting him down in a chair opposite her desk, Margaret wound the Crestmont stationery boasting “View of Twelve Counties” around the paper spindle of her Remington