Chapter 5
Every morning, since the dawn of time apparently, a house tour was conducted by a member of the staff. Could be someone who worked the front desk, could be someone who worked in catering, could be Jonathan Bryant himself. Didn’t matter, the point was that each staff member told essentially the same story, with a few personal anecdotes to personalize the history of this grand old hotel.
It always left from the Lakeside Lounge promptly at 9:30 a.m., and it always covered, weather permitting, the main house, the gardens, and the dock. When Archie and I had arrived at the Lakeside Lounge, he was stunned to realize I hadn’t seen that side of the resort yet.
“What do you mean you haven’t seen the lake yet?” he asked, incredulous.
“Weather was terrible last night, and after finding out that my bellman was the owner, and not at all happy about me checking in early, it seemed like a good idea to stay in my room and not get in your way.” He had the decency to look the tiniest bit chagrined, perhaps feeling as though he’d jumped the gun yesterday. “Plus I didn’t want to go wandering around the halls late at night, all those creepy people staring back at me from the walls.”
At that Archie rolled his eyes, any fleeting glimpse of apology gone the moment I mentioned the creepy pictures. It occurred to me that I didn’t need to mention those creepy pictures, not yet at least, but I couldn’t resist. Was I poking the bear a bit? Perhaps.
“Nevertheless, you should take a moment and see the lake. It’s like going to the Grand Canyon and just trying to see it from the parking lot.”
“You’re comparing a lake in the Catskills to the Grand Canyon?” I asked, arching an eyebrow.
“We’ve got five minutes before the tour starts, Ms. Morgan, see for yourself,” he replied, gesturing for me to head into the lounge as he turned to speak to someone from the front desk.
I did really want to see the lake, so I headed inside. But not because he told me to.
The Lakeside Lounge was aptly named. Relaxing and comfortable, it boasted several long trestle tables stacked with games like Monopoly, Trivial Pursuit, and for the kiddos, Chutes and Ladders. Thick, double-wide planks of pine covered the floor, smooth but pleasantly scarred with years of use. Armchairs and love seats, clad in more cabbage roses and toile, were clustered into conversation areas, the walls were covered by gorgeous inlaid-wood paneling, and there was another one of those gargantuan fireplaces.
This one was flanked by emerald-green glass tiles, blackened here and there from years of smoke and ash. The mantelpiece was a single length of carved wood, and the andirons alone could support a sequoia. As I explored, someone from the resort hurried in with a basket of kindling, and set about lighting a small bonfire inside the cavernous hearth. Opposite the fireplace was a long and cozy-looking leather couch and several rocking chairs, and it wasn’t hard to imagine curling up here on a chilly afternoon with a good book and a hot chocolate. I looked around, expecting to see just that, but the place was almost entirely deserted, except for two older gentlemen playing cards in the corner and three little old blue hairs and their knitting needles, the silver flashing as they worked and chatted.
Hmm. We’d need to work on bringing in a younger clientele for sure. But right now it was all about the hint of blue to my right that begged for my attention. Wide windows spanned the width of the room, opening up to a long porch where at least fifty rocking chairs beckoned. And just beyond? The lake.
I’d seen pictures and read up beforehand, but nothing could have prepared me for the sheer beauty of this water.
Carved into the mountainside millions of years ago, almost like mirrored glass reflecting the puffy clouds above, the lake was wide and long and filled with the bluest water, deep blue, almost indigo.
Almost as blue as Archie’s eyes.
The thought bubbled up quickly, unbidden. I just as quickly batted it away.
Stay focused, Clara, there’s a job to do. And a lake to admire.
Ringed around it were enormous craggy boulders, spilling down into the water like a giant had been tossing pebbles. They were visible under the clear water, stretching down into the depths. A forest of pine circled the lake on all sides, protecting it from much of the wind that whipped down this very mountain, resulting in the smoothest glassy surface on the water.
A pine dock reached out from the edge, dotted with beautiful old canoes and rowboats, but I could see several kayaks and paddleboards stacked up as well.
Twisting off from the main porch off the lounge were walking paths and hiking trails, some leading around the lake and some heading up the mountain. And high above, almost at the farthest reach of the lake, was a stone observation tower at the top of the nearest cliff.
In a word, it was stunning. The sense of peace I got just standing on the porch for a few minutes was restorative, soothing. It was so easy to imagine carriages full of wealthy families from New York and Philadelphia, just off the sooty train into Poughkeepsie station, traveling those last few miles up to Bryant Mountain House to spend their summers out of the hustle and bustle of the big city, and the sense of wonder they must have shared at this glorious landscape.
No wonder the Bryant family settled here, determined to share their love of nature with their guests.
A summer up here could be exactly what world-weary families could still benefit from.
Rejuvenated, I headed back inside, ready for my tour.
Two other guests had joined us. Two. Both at least in their eighties, if I was being generous. Very generous. Both ladies were gazing adoringly at Archie as he chatted with them—clearly they knew him well and had been coming here for years.
“Thank you for joining us, Ms. Morgan.”
“Wouldn’t have missed it. You were right about the lake, by the way, it’s beautiful.”
He looked pleased. “Well then, let’s begin. Ladies, I know you’ve accompanied me on this tour numerous times, but we’ve got a new guest today, first time up on our mountain.”
“Oh my, welcome, welcome!” one of the ladies squealed, clutching her handbag to her chest as though it were a teddy bear. “Isn’t it just the most?”
“Yes.” I smothered a laugh. “It is the most.”
“You’ve been a guest with us since, oh, since you were a little girl, isn’t that right?” Archie asked Handbag, and she squealed in delight.
“Since Archie’s father was just a young boy, I used to look forward to coming here all year. My parents brought me, and then I brought my children, and that’s how it goes!”
“I used to spend every single Fourth of July here, my family would rent out a few rooms for the entire summer,” the other woman chimed in, eager to add her story to the mix. And perhaps to bask in the glow of Archie’s grin as well. “Back then, the wives and children would stay the entire time and the husbands would drive up on the weekends.” It was like this at many of the old hotels I worked with, generation after generation full of similar memories. Fourth of July and Handbag smiled at each other, then at Archie, and I coughed to hide my chuckle.
“Well then, I should let you ladies give the tour, I bet you know it as well as I do,” Archie said, giving them a grand smile that made them giggle once more. I was struck suddenly with an image of Cary Grant, smooth and suave and a real old-school charmer. That’s who Archie reminded me of, complete with an upper crust East Coast accent.
Once the giggling subsided, the tour finally began. And almost instantly, I was immersed in the history of this place. It all started in 1872 when the Bryant brothers—Theophilus and Ebenezer—purchased the small eight-room Sky Inn on Sky Lake, just outside Bailey Falls proper. Construction began the following spring on a larger hotel, specifically aimed at bringing in wealthy families from around the Northeast to take in the mountain air and rejoice in the church of nature. The Bryant brothers were strong proponents of being stewards of the earth and protecting nature, buying up much of the surrounding countryside and farmland and setting it aside as a protected nature reserve for generations.
“That’s when they began hosting what they called the Greater Good Society. The brothers felt, from early on, that if they could bring world leaders, heads of state and heads of industry together in a place as beautiful as Sky Lake, they could influence one another to work together for the greater good.”
“Well, that’s genius,” I said.
He whipped his head toward me, looking skeptical. “Are you speaking sarcastically, Ms. Morgan?”
“Not at all, Mr. Bryant,” I replied, wondering if we’d ever move beyond the Mr./Ms. stage. “I actually think that’s genius.”
“Well, yes. And very much ahead of its time.”
“How’s that going these days?”
“Oh, the Greater Good Society was officially disbanded back in the thirties, just before the US got involved in the war. There was talk about reviving it afterward, but by then Ebenezer had passed away and Theophilus had ceded control to his son, who was running the day-to-day operations of the resort. Remember, after the war was when things really picked up around here, every single day there were people coming and going, the lines at check-in sometimes spilled back outside!”
I was about to ask him how he knew—his own father was only a baby in those days—but he answered my unasked question. “I’ve seen the pictures,” he explained, and I nodded. “I had a feeling more sarcasm was on the way.”
“It was,” I admitted, but then asked, “Given the times we’re living in now, Mr. Bryant, getting that society back up on its feet might be a great way to increase community involvement. And if we can market this strategy through Facebook, Twitter, Snapchat, etc., we could introduce an entirely new set of visitors to the resort. Hopefully ones with an enormous social-media presence.”
“Are you suggesting if I get Taylor Swift up to my mountain she can solve world peace?”
“Now who’s speaking sarcastically?” I asked, giving him a pointed look.
He grumbled something unintelligible under his breath, then hurried us along. “Now you’ll see here, ladies, as we head into the music parlor, when they designed this room they had the utmost concern about acoustics . . .”
The tour lasted a little more than an hour, and it was the best crash course in all things Bryant I could’ve gotten. We peeked into the dining room as they were setting up for lunch, went to the fourth-floor balcony to see the view of the lake from there, and made a stop at the spa, which I was pleasantly surprised to see had been renovated recently. I’d be taking advantage of the spa as soon as humanly possible.
And my favorite part? The old-fashioned soda fountain. Located inside the gift shop, it boasted a long counter with twisty barstools, a mirrored backsplash, penny candy, and rows and rows of barrels of homemade ice cream. In addition to all the sweet treats, they served a very limited selection of lunchtime snacks for those who didn’t want the more formal and full-service lunch buffet in the main dining room. Several signs hung behind the counter depicting some of the menu highlights, and I noticed one along the bottom called—
“The Archie Special? Hold up, you’ve got a sandwich named after you?” I asked as Archie tried to hurry us away.
“You betcha,” the woman behind the counter piped up. Easily in her sixties, she wore her gray hair in long twin braids down her back and her eyes danced with fun. “Wanna know what’s in it?”
Archie looked mortified.
“Oh, I’d literally love nothing more,” I replied, keeping my eyes on him.
“Well, you start out with some plain white bread,” she began, and Archie shook his head.
“Judith . . .”
“—top piece gets ketchup, the other Miracle Whip, right, Archie? Never mayo for this kid!” Judith jerked her thumb in his direction and he shrugged sheepishly.
“—and you add three slices of pickle—”
“Love that pickle!” Handbag squealed and Fourth of July giggled.
“—and you finish her off with one big glob of braunschweiger spread stem to stern.”
“Ew, that should be illegal.” I laughed.
“Thank you, Judith,” Archie said from the far end of the counter.
“Does anyone actually ever order that?” I asked.
“Sure, Archie gets the Archie Special at least three times a week, although every so often he gets the Jonathan.”
“What’s the Jonathan?” I asked.
“Same thing, but with onion.”
“Good God, no,” I said, with a horrified face.
“Thank you, Judith,” Archie repeated, ushering us all back out into the lobby.
“When do we get to try some of that Archie Special?” Handbag whispered, prompting Fourth of July to giggle all over again while Archie blushed to the tips of his ears.
“Let’s continue the tour, shall we?” he said, leading us away from the soda fountain where Judith was waving proudly.
“Oh, I can’t wait to see what’s next,” I chimed in brightly.
Handbag and Fourth peeled off with a waved good-bye and a final giggle in Archie’s direction, and the two of us ended up in the TV lounge.
“You see, Ms. Morgan, you have access to a television anytime you want one,” he smiled, saccharine-like.
I rolled my eyes, looking around the room. Like everything else up here, it was bedecked with beautiful dark carved wood, lined with comfortable-looking easy chairs and love seats, all clustered around an ancient console television that had begun its life sometime in the early ’80s.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d think this was a joke.”
“No joke.”
“You have an actual VHS player, Mr. Bryant, and you’re going to stand there with a straight face and tell me ‘no joke’?”
“Look closer, it’s a dual VHS/DVD player.”
“Wow. Just . . . wow.”
“My grandfather did consider installing televisions in the rooms back in the ’60s, my father as well a few years later. But they saw, as I continue to see, the benefit of truly being able to come up here and escape. These days it’s even more important to be able to disconnect and unplug.”
“You’ve mentioned this before.”
“However,” he continued, “of course we’ve always seen the need to remain somewhat connnected to what’s going on in the world, so we’ve always made sure there was a television available when necessary. Guests love being able to watch the ball drop on New Year’s Eve together, crowded into the same room where guests watched Neil Armstrong walk on the moon. Super Bowls, the Olympics, election nights, all events when our guests have remained in touch with the world but somehow connected together in such a unique way.”
“Okay, I get it. I do, especially this shared community space you’ve got going here. It’s quaint, it’s homey, it harkens back to another time and place and blah blah blah. But for God’s sake, people like TVs in their rooms! Especially for how much you’re charging per night!”
“Price per night, are we back to that? Ms. Morgan, what you fail to realize is that everything is included in the price. Meals, activities, afternoon tea, entertainment . . .”
“. . . but no TV. Come on, you gotta work with me on this, at least a little bit.”
“Why is it so necessary that you have a TV in your room?” he asked, in a challenging tone. A fair question, even if he was a nosy fucker.
But how do you explain to a stranger why silence and quiet were simply unacceptable?
“My reasons are my own,” I hedged, not wanting to explain why a grown woman preferred the cool twangy stylings of Classic Country brought to you by Time Life rather than let the voices of the past swoop in and drag her down.
Conway Twitty versus your mother went to jail and left you in foster care?
Actually, that could be a country-western song . . .
“The point, Mr. Bryant, is that while I can appreciate your family’s devotion to nature and the preservation of a quiet respite, for God’s sake you gotta loosen up a little bit!”
He held up his hand.
“Are you shooshing me?” I asked, crossing my arms.
He cocked his head to the side. “Can you hear that?” He leaned down to the large radiator in the corner, listening closely.
“Can I hear . . . hey! Hey, come back here,” I yelled as he took off through the lobby at a brisk pace, grumbling under his breath. “I was talking to you!”
“Well then, keep up, Ms. Morgan.”
“Oh you little . . .” I took off after him, chasing him through the lobby, through a double set of doors behind the reception desk, and down two flights of stairs.
“Literally, I was in the middle of something with you, and you just take off like a bat out of hell!”
“Not everything can revolve around you and your incessant need for a television.”
We went around a corner, past some old lockers, and down another steep staircase.
“That’s exactly my point, Mr. Bryant, that I’m not in the minority here. Practically everyone has a television in their room, certainly when they’re on vacation. Quit trying to make me feel like I’m totally off base here!”
At the bottom of the staircase he paused, grabbed a flashlight off a shelf, and made a sharp right turn.
“If you’re feeling off base that’s your own doing. I am merely trying to point out that when you’re up here, away from the big city and the noise and the hubbub, you should be able to unplug.”
“Did you really just say hubbub?”
We hurried through old brick archways, past stone-lined cold rooms, and when we ran past an old barrel-vaulted wine cellar he interrupted his critique of my television addiction to go back to playing tour guide.
“That’s where they used to store the hooch during Prohibition.”
“Really? I figured this place would have been as dry as the Sahara back then.”
“It was officially, of course.”
“Of course.” I grinned, thinking about all those buttoned-up Bryants down here swilling gin with the help. “Still got some down here?”
“It’s not even noon, Ms. Morgan.”
“Will we be wherever we’re going by cocktail hour? Where is it we’re going exactly?” I asked, as I followed him down another twisty tunnel, this one the darkest yet.
“Boiler room” came the answer, floating down the long, dark hallway in front of me.
“As in Freddy Krueger?”
“The red-and-green sweater guy?”
“The razor blades for fingers guy, yeah.” I brushed cobwebs away from my face, peering into the darkness. At the end of the hallway, a heavy metal door swung back on its creaky hinges and he stood in the doorway.
“Then yes, that kind of boiler room.”
“Great.” I swallowed, and then was swallowed up by clouds of steam. “Good lord, it’s like pea soup down here!” I exclaimed, narrowing my eyes to see better through the clouds. An entire city of pipes and pumps lived down here, incredible roaring metal and steam . . . everywhere steam.
“No wonder you’ve got fireplaces in every room,” I said, looking over the equipment. Stone Age, these boilers were from the Stone Age! “Where are the guys in overalls shoveling in the coal?”
“Aren’t you being a little bit dramatic?” he asked as he consulted a hand-drawn map on the wall. “Lakeside Lounge, Lakeside Lounge, aha!” He started fiddling with gauges and levers.
“I don’t think so, Mr. Bryant,” I said, looking around with a more critical eye. “Do you have any idea how much money you’d be saving in heating costs, let alone the tax credits you’d receive, if you switched over to greener technology?”
“Wait, just wait a second, you just got here and already you have me installing an entirely new heating system? We’ve been using this system for years and it’s never failed us before.” The steam was getting really thick, the room was hot and sticky and good lord was it getting hotter by the second.
I tugged at my leather jacket, trying to flap a little breeze in. “Then why exactly are we down here? Why exactly did you run away in the middle of a conversation?” He looked at me incredulously just as a loud knocking began ringing out from the furnace on my right. And the furnace on my left started to spew an enormous jet of steam, filling the already hazy air with an even bigger cloud.
“You were saying?” I asked, smirking more than a little bit.
He stepped closer, ducking underneath a pipe, tugging at his tie as he came. “Oh, you’re an expert in heating systems now? When did hotel management school cover that?”
I could feel a trickle of sweat running down my chest and I gave up trying to flap a breeze and just tore off my jacket. “I literally know nothing about heating and cooling, other than when I turn on my AC in the summertime I don’t want to hear a groaning unit. What I do know is your bottom line, and I know the amount annually spent on utilities is staggering.”
“I have a huge hotel,” he countered, taking off his own jacket and grabbing a giant wrench.
“That I’m sure is sealed up nice and tight for the winter,” I replied, ducking under a pipe and stepping right in front of him. “You want me to tell you about the draft in my room last night? My bed was freezing! First I thought it was from the balcony, then I thought it was coming under the door from the hallway outside. Turns out it was from both. It was like a freaking wind tunnel.”
“I am sorry, Ms. Morgan, that your bed was so cold last night.”
“Says the guy bragging about his huge hotel.”
We stared at each other, locked in a silent battle of wills. Archie’s glasses were beginning to fog over, yet there we stood, toe-to-toe. We breathed in at the same time, and I could see his pulse beat just below his jawline beneath the barest hint of five-o’clock shadow. We were both worked up, angry, annoyed. Then he licked his lips. Just the tip of his tongue flickered out, catching the tiniest bead of sweat. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re incredibly rude?”
“Everyone who’s ever hired me.”
“And you’re proud of this track record?”
“Every one of them is now a sterling reference. I can give you their contact info whenever you like.”
He shook his head, turned away, and set to work with the wrench, turning down the thingamabob, throwing his entire body into it. He grunted at one point, and because of the steam I could see the muscles in his back straining through his white shirt. I took a step closer, just the one, to watch as he struggled with the whatsamahoozit.
“Almost . . . got it . . . there!” he cried, turning around triumphantly in a final burst of steam and whistle to find me standing much closer than I had been only a moment before.
Surprised it was over so fast, and totally caught staring, I mustered up a “Bravo, Mr. Bryant,” and then internally slapped myself for sounding so Happy Birthday, Mr. President when I said it.
He smirked. I scowled.
Asshole.
We emerged from the basement sweaty and sticky, messy and a little bit sooty. Back in the Lakeside Lounge where we’d started the tour, I clapped my hands together, eager to get us back on track and away from whatever it was that just . . . whatever.
“Well, thanks for the tour, particularly that very eventful ending. Do all the guests get that extra-special ending or . . . ?”
“Just you, Ms. Morgan,” he said, making a show of putting his hand to his ear and listening to the radiator. “Listen to that, purring like a kitten.”
“A kitten who’s carrying around a kettlebell maybe.” I snorted. “It’s still clanking.”
“Patience, some of these systems need a little extra stoking from time to time, but in the end, it’s worth the extra-special attention.”
“Stoke this, I’m going to go get cleaned up. And then, per your father’s request that I enjoy my day up here on your mountain, I’m off to do a little sightseeing.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” he answered, cleaning the last of the steam and soot from his glasses.
“Where do you think I should start?”
“Massage?”
“Maybe.”
“Too chilly for a swim in the lake.”
“Agreed, I was thinking of going for a hike, any thoughts on which trail I should take?”
“You’re going to hike? In this?” He looked out the picture window at the drizzle that had started up again. It was a bit warmer than yesterday so this time it was rain only, no icy slush. No slippery slopes.
“I won’t melt. Besides, anything more than a day indoors and I start climbing the walls.”
“You could hike around the lake. It’s flat, covered in gravel so it shouldn’t be too muddy. It’s a nice way to see the property, and you get a great view of the hotel.”
“Done,” I said, turning to go.
“Do you have dinner plans?” he asked, so quickly I wondered if he was asking me to— “I mean, do you need me to make a reservation for you in the dining room or will you be dining in your room again?”
“How did you know I dined in my room last night?” I blinked innocently.
He shook his head dismissively. “This is my hotel, Ms. Morgan, do you really think I don’t know everything that’s going on?”
I chose not to answer. “I’ll be in the dining room tonight, I’ve got a date. Two, in fact.”
“Oh. Really.” Statement, not a question.
“Mm-hmm, my friends Roxie and Natalie are coming up for dinner. Any recommendations?”
“Everything is excellent,” he replied, once more that sense of pride creeping over his face.
“Really? So all those TripAdvisor and Yelp reviews I’ve been reading were wrong? I guess we’ll find out since one of my dinner dates is a professional chef, and I’m sure she’ll have lots to say about how excellent everything is.”
The pride was gone, irritation was back, and I decided it was time for me to head out on that hike.