Crestmont Read Free Page B

mother and William.
    “At least he died a good death,” the doctor said, after examining her father’s body.
    “A good death?” Margaret cried incredulously.
    The doctor moved his glasses back up onto his nose as he closed his bag. “When the patient doesn’t have to suffer, we sometimes refer to it as a good death.”
    The comment pained her. She had suffered, watching the father she loved replaced by a person who didn’t even recognize her. All because of an untreatable dementia.

     
    ****

     
    How many tears are there in a person?
    Margaret found a rare moment of solitary reflection two weeks after the funeral. Tears came, flowing beyond control, especially when she walked into the library where her mother had moved her father’s desk. Wiping her eyes with her handkerchief, she took two slow breaths to compose herself. Praying silently for strength, she reverently ran her hand along the back of the chair he had so capably occupied for ten years. She sat down and pulled it in toward the desk. Untying the laces of her shoes to let her feet breathe, she realized that the big feet she had always hated were an unwelcome gift from her father. She visualized him on the telephone, rocking back in his chair, one big foot slung over the other knee, demanding more hot water from the steam room. Her fingertips lovingly explored the empty nooks and crannies where her father had systematically kept his orderly paperwork.
    The desk from which William Warner’s heartbeat had breathed life into the Crestmont Inn was relegated to the library. Margaret resented that something so private was available for anyone to intrusively open drawers or sit and write a letter, but that was what her father would have wanted. He venerated any way he could share himself with his guests. To honor that, she had a plaque made and mounted on the top of his desk:

     
    William Warner
    1853-1911
    Creator of the Crestmont Dream

     
    “Foolish sentimentality,” her mother said when Margaret showed it to her. Mary Warner, who had resented how the Crestmont had taken them away from her family in Germantown during the summers, now seemed eager to assist in running it with William Woods.
    Warner had systematically taught his daughter every aspect of managing the summer resort precisely because he could see that his wife was dispassionate about it. Margaret found it difficult to respect her mother, who had chastised her father so frequently in life and seemed so easily to have gotten over his death. The one solace Margaret could find in her own grief was that she had been loving and supportive to her father when he was alive.
    “If only you were here, Daddy,” she whispered as she lay her head down on her hands on the desk. She was horrified at herself for resenting his last request. The enormity of what he had asked engulfed her. She understood that it was her responsibility as his daughter and protégé to ensure that the quality of the Crestmont continued, but she now felt none of the strength he claimed she had. Visions of putting her own needs aside in order to fill those of the guests revolted her.

     
    ****

     
    The 1911 summer season would begin in three weeks. Although June 15th was the official opening, some guests arrived early and stayed in the rooms with fireplaces to keep off the late spring chill. Correspondence confirming arrival dates for the waitress and housekeeping staff was complete. While Margaret finalized menu preparation for the fine table for which the Crestmont was noted, William and her mother planned guest activities and ordered supplies.
    Craving solitude, Margaret donned the crocheted white sweater that hung on the back of her office door. Instead of going past her husband’s office to exit via the main lobby, she turned left and inspected the lounge across from the dining room. Gold and white patterned wallpaper above the chair rail peeled from the corners at the ceiling. She would have to bring this to William’s