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JOY FELT AS THOUGH Thanksgiving had landed on them rather than arrived. She took a deep breath and gazed around the crowded table at the familiar and now loved faces . . . Breona, Marit, Mr. Wheatley, Billy, Flinty, David and Uli, Sam, Seth, and Ruthie. She bade herself to relax and truly give thanks for the beauty of the season.
They had used only the best of everything today—china, silver, and crystal that would have been sold for a small fortune back in Omaha; linens and lace that had been intended for the tables of wealthy homes; a pair of silver candelabra holding an array of flickering candlelight that might have graced a governor’s home.
And the food! Marit and Uli had assumed direction of the feast while Breona and Joy had tackled the cleaning and polishing and the table arrangements. The women ran Billy and Mr. Wheatley ragged with errands and chores.
Now the assembled guests stared about them at the bounty: an enormous bird, its buttered skin browned and crackling, a savory stuffing bursting from its insides; elegant footed crystal dishes and cups, each one brightly gleaming red, purple, green, orange, or yellow with jellies, jams, pickles, relishes, or sauces; a mountain of mashed potatoes accompanied by a boat of thick, steaming gravy; fresh, sweet-smelling yeast rolls, saucers of churned butter, and three kinds of vegetables.
The men and boys eyed the sideboard with greedy eyes, for Marit, Uli, and Ruth had concocted enough desserts for an army: a three-layer coconut cake, a two-layer chocolate torte, and pumpkin, pecan, mincemeat, cherry, and apple pies. A gallon of sweet whipped cream waited in the ice box.
In the pause before they gave thanks, Joy watched Breona and Marit especially. How those girls were blooming!
Breona, always the joking little spitfire, tormented Sam and Seth without end—and they adored her. It was clear to see that she adored them back.
Marit glowed with pleasure, one hand in Mr. Wheatley’s and the other in Ruth’s. Marit and Ruthie were practically inseparable. Ruthie viewed Marit as a beautiful older sister and Joy realized their relationship had grown into something akin to what Uli and Joy had known as children.
Soon there would be an infant to care for. In the joy of caring for that baby, perhaps Ruthie would help Marit put her shame behind her.
Around the table they joined hands and bowed their heads to thank God for their bounty. And within herself Joy particularly gave thanks for the “family” that had grown under her roof—the band of misfits, orphans, and lonely hearts that had found each other. No, the Lord had found them. Seen them in their aloneness and brought them together. Here in little Corinth.
Dinner began, and Joy looked about her, feasting not on the food, but on the contentment that enveloped her. Despite the many uncertainties ahead, here her heart was finding peace again.
Thank you, Lord. Amen.
—
FOR HER TRIAL ATTEMPT to garner guests for the lodge, Joy had placed a judiciously worded advertisement in the Denver Post. If she attracted even a few select guests over the holidays, she would count the attempt as a success.
No one at the lodge had skills in guest keeping—Joy had management experience and Marit’s cooking was quite good, but only Breona had experience in personal service for “people of quality.” The household quickly learned to defer to her “how-to” guidance and judgments. With their first few visitors, they planned to practice and hone their guest skills. Then, in the spring—if they were successful with their trial guests—Joy intended to reach east of Colorado to attract more and varied guests.
The day after Thanksgiving they received their first significant snowfall. Breona, Marit, Joy, Billy, and Mr. Wheatley tramped a path to “their” overlook and gazed in awe at the snow-laden majesty spread before them. This spot, they decided, would be a destination “must” for lodge guests. Mr. Wheatley set out for Flinty’s to commission some benches to be placed strategically at the overlook. Then he and Billy set upon building railings they would install along the path and at the overlook to make the walk easier and to ensure that guests did not stray into unsafe areas along the ridgeline—especially in the snow.
That day Billy fetched their mail, and in it was a small, feminine-looking envelope. The quality of the letter was evident; the handwriting uniform and elegant.
Dear Corinth Mountain Lodge,
I read with interest your advertisement in the Post. You have described your mountain inn in delightful terms.
If it is available, I should like to reserve your Mountain View Suite for a week beginning December 1. I would expect to arrive by afternoon train and would request that you make arrangements to meet and provide conveyance for myself and my luggage.
If this arrangement is satisfactory, please reply by return post.
Cordially,
Mrs. Randolph Van der Pol
Joy gasped in delight. A guest! It was Friday—December 1 was the coming Tuesday! She called Breona and Marit together and told them that their first guest would arrive in four days.
If the quality of the letter were any indication, their guest would be both wealthy and genteel. Those were the qualities they needed in their first guests to ensure that Corinth Mountain Lodge would be well spoken of in Denver society.
—
TUESDAY MORNING JOY had Domingo drive her into town for some guest soaps and items Marit had placed on a list. Corinth had a small grocery, a bakery, a butcher, and a few sundry shops near the town plaza—and near the sheriff’s office. David considered the area safe to visit as long as the women had a male escort.
Joy was leaving a tiny specialty shop just as another woman had her hand on the door to enter. They tussled with the door for a moment before realizing their impasse. The middle-aged woman standing in the doorway had striking red curls above a full mouth. She was pleasantly plump . . . but that plumpness was displayed in a day suit so tightly corseted that Joy must have gaped as she ran her eyes over the woman. The suit exhibited every possible curve on the woman’s body to its best advantage.
“I-I beg your pardon,” Joy stuttered. She did not know what she was apologizing for, but she found herself mentally taking inventory of her own dress and finding it somehow lacking.
“Not at all. I believe the fault was mine.” The woman wore a mild, amused expression. “Miss Roxanne Cleary. You must be Miss Thoresen?” She extended a gloved hand.
“Why, yes, I—” Joy was cut off as Dom took her by the arm just as she was raising it. Joy slid him a reproachful glance only to be met by a fire-red face and a clenched jaw.
“Señora, we are go now,” he muttered with clenched teeth.
The amused smile still on her face, the woman nodded and stepped aside. Domingo ushered Joy through the door and down the street to their wagon.
Although the encounter had lasted mere seconds, Joy had, at the end, understood Domingo’s actions. As the horses trotted around the plaza she asked him, “Is she . . . one of those women?” The polished confidence of the woman had shaken Joy. Somehow she had envisioned “those kinds” of women as defeated and broken. Roxanne Cleary was undoubtedly neither.
“That one! She is—!” Domingo sighed in agitation. “Señora Joy, do you know what ‘madam’ is?”
Joy’s response was tart. “Something tells me a ‘madam’ is not merely a French woman.”
Dom uttered a wry laughed. “Verdad! You are right.” He sighed again but added nothing more.
“Indeed,” Joy said to herself, somewhat disappointed. The woman had intrigued her but Uli would have to fill her in later.
When they returned to the lodge, delicious smells were already coming from the kitchen. Marit was determined to make an impression on their first guest. She had breads and pies cooling on the back of the stove and was just sliding a pot roast into the oven.
That afternoon Billy returned to the lodge with their guest in the “new” carriage. Joy had managed to locate and purchase a four-seat buggy that had seen better days. Mr. Wheatley had mended and polished its worn seats and livery to a fare-thee-well.
Billy extended his hand to assist their guest. From the windows Joy examined her. She was, perhaps, forty years old or thereabouts, dark-haired, and handsomely dressed. The woman glanced about her with interest, her eyes sparkling.
Joy opened the lodge door. “Welcome to Corinth Mountain Lodge.” She smiled and extended her hand. “I am Miss Thoresen, your hostess.”
Mrs. Van der Pol took her hand. “Thank you. I am anticipating my stay. What is that delicious smell?” She looked about the great room. “And such ambience! Rustic yet elegant. Quite charming.”
She followed Joy up the stairs to the room at the end of the hall. Breona stood waiting for her.
“Mrs. Van der Pol, this is Breona. She will be looking after your needs while you are here, although any of the staff would be pleased to help you.”
Breona bobbed a curtsy. “May I unpack for you, ma’am?” Joy had worked with her to say it just so rather than “Can I be unpackin’ for ye, ma’am?”
Joy smiled at Breona from behind Mrs. Van der Pol’s back.
“Yes, thank you.” She turned to Joy. “This is quite agreeable! And I look forward to the views you wrote of.”
“Ah!” Joy replied. “Perhaps you would like to see one now? The small balcony just outside your door is my particular favorite.”
She opened the door and led her guest outside. The wind pulled at them, but the snow-clad mountains, with the sun just beginning to set, were changing from white to brilliant reds and oranges. Mrs. Van der Pol’s hand crept up to her throat as she soaked in the grandeur before her.
“Magnificent.” That was all she said for several moments until Joy involuntarily shivered. “Oh, my dear. I apologize for my thoughtlessness.” They returned inside and found Breona opening a trunk and beginning to unpack.
“I will leave you for now,” Joy said smiling. “That delicious aroma you commented on when you arrived is dinner. We will serve at your convenience, of course, but the dinner rolls will be ready shortly, and I believe you will enjoy them most fresh from the oven.”
Later that evening as Breona and Marit gathered in the kitchen for pie and coffee, Joy brought up the woman she had met that day with Domingo. Marit looked clueless but Breona nodded her perception.
“Oh, yis. A ‘madam’ is bein’ th’ woman who runs a whorehouse, Miss Joy—pardon m’ French. Miss Cleary? She ist th’ chief woman as runs them two fancy houses.”
Joy opened her mouth, but not a sound came out.
Breona chuckled without humor. “’Tis belavin’ I am thet Marit ’n’ me were thet close t’ havin’ th’ honor o’ knowin’ Miss Cleary up close and personal loik.”
Joy said nothing more, but she shivered.
~~**~~
