“Sir?” said the waiter who glided up to our table.
“A bottle of your best champagne, please,” said Gene, once again proving his aptitude for spending my money.
“Now, tell me about this Arkansas purchase,” Frank said, putting on her business demeanor. “Everything in good legal order?”
Even though Frank had put the question to me, Gene responded, wagging his head in my direction: “Better ask the mastermind. And moneybags.”
“Yes,” I said, “I’ve got the title. And Gene’s managed to keep some rooms open. So the cash is flowing.”
“That must be demanding,” Frank said to Gene. “Tending to guests while you’re remodeling.”
Frank, who’d blustered about keeping men in their place at our first meeting, surprised me by fawning over Gene as she did.
Like a playful pup, Gene slapped his hands to the table. “How else can I find poker companions?”
We all had a wonderful time getting acquainted that evening. When talk turned to the hotel business, Frank freely shared her expertise in real estate, including sales strategies. But I hadn’t expected Gene to pour on the charm as if he were a gentleman gone courting. He’d turned into a real ladies’ man. And I had to admit: He was passably managing the hotel remodeling.
After dinner, we dropped Frank off at her room, and Gene walked me to mine.
“My, my,” I said, “aren’t you and Frank thick?”
“She’s one of a kind, that Frank. A woman you could take to the ballroom and gambling hall.”
“You’re not serious? She’s a good five years older than you.”
“What’s wrong with that?” Gene winked at me. “I like older women.”
“Oh, fiddlesticks,” I said, borrowing one of Maman’s favorite expressions, “though it might take an older woman to keep you in line.”
Regardless of what I thought, Gene and Frank obviously enjoyed each other’s company, bantering and baiting each other like brother and sister. But it was Frank and I who formed the strongest link of our triangle. We had a ripping good time: sharing tête-à-têtes on morning walks while Gene slept in; and shopping at The Fair and Carson & Pirie, where I found a silk nightgown, French-made shoes, and the most irresistible three-stone diamond ring.
At the end of our four-day visit, Frank told me: “By God, I can’t believe I allowed you to host me in the city I live in. There’s only one answer to that. You have to come to Pittsburgh and stay with my family. Absolutely no later than my next visit there.”
I reported to Rudolph that I’d befriended a capable woman attorney who advised me to complete the remodeling before putting it up for sale. Yes, I told him in response to his most recent letter, the racetrack was under construction, its site was near the hotel, and the track would open sometime in 1904 or 1905. But his impatience would not be assuaged.
August 2, 1902
My dear May,
Do you know that as of next month you will have been away a full year? I understand that your family needs you, but we can easily provide any assistance they need from a distance. You have installed your brother Gene at the hotel. I trust Paul, who is obviously more industrious, will soon find employment in Menominee. You have them on the right track now.
I must remind you that you have another family—me, Mother, and Miriam. You belong with your husband. I need you here to help me. Mother has recovered from her broken ankle, but she gets out very little now. I think she is afraid of another accident. That means her world is limited to visitors, and I fear that pettiness is taking over her outlook. You and your cheery disposition are exactly what this household needs. Not that I require you to stay here year-round. We still have the London home, and I know how you love it. I would never dream of depriving you of the joy that London society and its distractions provide.
Only I must insist that you make plans to return soon. A full year apart is intolerable. We are husband and wife. Please write soon, and tell me when you will return.
All my love,
Rudolph
I informed Rudolph that the remodeling was nearing completion and that I wouldn’t linger in the States any longer than necessary. However, I didn’t want to leave any loose ends. To nurture my blossoming friendship with Frank, I accepted her invitation to visit Pittsburgh in September. When Gene found out, he begged me to finagle an invitation for him as well. I objected on the grounds that he had work to do, but he promised that his assistant manager could handle the few remaining projects.
I broached the topic with Frank during a phone call to arrange the details. “Gene says he’s jealous of me getting to visit you.”
Without missing a beat, Frank replied, “Well, hell’s bells, tell him to come, too. There’s plenty of room at the house.”
“Plenty of room” proved to be an understatement. Frank’s parents lived in a spacious three-story stone home with the most lovely touches: stone columns supporting an iron fence that skirted the cobblestone street; a four-story turret with a tile dome and gargoyles circling its spiraling levels; and, behind the house, a cutting garden with the cutest stone cottage for potting and storage. A copper weathervane of Mercury topped the turret, and a trellis of jasmine lined the entry walk, with just enough bloom to sweetly scent the entranceway.
Gene and I arrived on the same train, and Frank toured us around the home and property, showing off a wood-framed sun porch decorated with wicker furnishings and African violets. We ended up in a large sitting room on the main floor, admiring a river-rock fireplace and the collection of Egyptian amulets and tomb figurines displayed on its mantel.
“You’ll meet the lord and lady at dinner,” said Frank. “Come, I’ll show you your bedrooms.”
We climbed a curving staircase to the second level, passing a sitting bench nestled into a window alcove. Frank motioned us to follow her down the second-floor hallway. She swung the second-to-the-last door open. “Here’s your room, Gene.”
I peeked in. Gene’s room sported masculine décor—solid burgundy wallpaper, paintings of fox hunts, and a tall case holding old rifles.
“Why, Frank,” said Gene, sidling up to her, “you know me too well.”
I had to chuckle. Gene was no sportsman. He only hunted when Paul insisted on it, and all he knew about guns was that the barrel required pointing.
We left Gene, and Frank showed me to the room at the end of the hall, which was decorated in the style of an English country estate, with an antique wall clock, a poster bed covered with embroidered pillows, and paintings of an English-style garden and outdoor tea service. “It’s a lovely room,” I said, kissing Frank on the cheek. “So welcoming and comfortable.”
Over dinner, we had the pleasure of meeting Mr. and Mrs. Shaver.
“I’ve heard so much about you from Frank.” Mrs. Shaver looked to me, then Gene, her sky-blue eyes sparkling against her delicate complexion and the snow-white hair she’d swooped into a chignon.
“And I must thank you,” said Gene, between spoonfuls of clam chowder, “for welcoming us to your lovely home.”
Mr. Shaver, from whom Frank had apparently inherited her sturdy frame, turned to me. “I understand you and the Baron are in property investment.”
“I wouldn’t consider it an ongoing venture. We own residences in Holland and London. I’ll soon be selling the Arkansas hotel.”
“Yes, well, that sounds like a worthwhile investment.”
“And I understand that you, sir, helped design the Westinghouse air brake?”
“Yes, Mr. Westinghouse is a wonderful man to work for. He’s built a sound company.”
Gene pitched his frame toward Mr. Shaver. “Do you still have occasion to work with Mr. Westinghouse, sir?”
“Oh, yes, the man works longer hours than most anybody else. That’s why I have such confidence in the company’s stock.”
The maid swept in and scooped up our soup bowls.
“Some say Roosevelt’s overreaching on the Panama Canal rights.” The way G
ene hunched over and gazed at Mr. Shaver, one might have thought him a petitioner for a post. “What do you think, sir?”
“Oh, without question, moving forward on the canal will be a boon to U.S. business.”
As we neared the end of our scheduled one-week visit with Frank and her family, I overheard Gene remark to Frank, “Perhaps next week we can tour Fort Pitt.” As soon as Gene retreated to his bedroom to dress for dinner, I knocked on his door.
“Yes, come in,” said Gene, as casual and relaxed as a seaside vacationer.
I let myself in and closed and leaned against the door. “What’s this I hear about you and Frank going on an outing next week?”
Gene undid the top button of his shirt and circled a finger around the collar to loosen it. “I’m thinking of staying on a little longer.”
“And why haven’t you mentioned this to me?”
“Frank’s my friend, too.”
“You’ve got work to do in Arkansas.”
“Another week or two won’t matter,” said Gene, sitting down on his bed and crossing one leg over the other.
“We need to finish the remodeling. Rudolph expects me home as soon as possible.”
“It’s practically done. William’s got it all in hand.”
“Still, I’d prefer that you return with me. We have matters to wrap up.”
“Such as?”
“The installation of those lamps for the lobby, and the last of the bills for the workers and materials.”
“William can handle all that.”
“And the general management? I don’t expect the property to sell tomorrow.”
“All right, all right. If you let me have one more week of vacation, I’ll work every day until it’s sold.”
I returned to Arkansas by myself and spent the next three weeks overseeing the completion of the remodeling in anticipation of putting the hotel up for sale. Thank goodness, William proved to be a competent assistant, for Gene’s stay in Pittsburgh stretched on and on—to a full month. But I could hardly be annoyed with him when he wrote to tell me he’d asked Frank to marry him and she’d accepted. In fact, I was overjoyed: I heartily congratulated him and told Frank it pleased me in the utmost to welcome her to the family. Perhaps their marriage would provide the security Gene—and the whole family—so sorely needed.
FOR RUDOLPH’S FAMILY
NEW YORK TO MEXICO—OCTOBER-NOVEMBER 1902
It had been over a year since I’d absented myself from my husband’s side, so I wasn’t surprised when Rudolph insisted I return to Holland by Christmas. I left Arkansas in October and relegated oversight of the hotel sale to Gene. For safe measure, I asked Frank to review any documents related to sale offers. She was altogether amenable: “You can count on me; it’s all in the family now,” to which I’d responded, “I can hardly believe we’ll soon be sisters-in-law.”
Before sailing for Liverpool, I decided to stop a few days at the home of Rudolph’s uncle and his wife, who lived in New York City. I’d had occasion to get acquainted with Philip and Saskia during their visits to Dalfsen in the early years of my marriage. Six years ago, they had relocated to New York and taken a home on West Fifty-eighth Street.
Philip and Saskia had decorated their brownstone in the latest style, Art Nouveau, with elegant swan-neck lamps gracing side tables and finely crafted furniture of curvaceous design in every room. My first evening in New York, we dined in their cozy dining room and afterward retreated to the parlor for Cognac. As I relaxed in an armchair with legs as arced and branching as deer antlers, I asked, “Are you settling permanently in New York?”
Saskia, a large-proportioned woman with the grace of a ballerina, smiled at this. “We rather enjoy the city’s offerings. Especially the Metropolitan Opera. It’s surprisingly good.”
“I’ve never been.” Knowing that Saskia had performed some mezzo opera roles in Holland, I said, “But your appraisal makes me want to go.”
Saskia’s wide-set green eyes brightened. “Really? I could get orchestra seats for us. Why don’t you stay on for a while?”
“I shouldn’t. I’ve finally put the hotel up for sale, and Rudolph is expecting me.”
But within two days I had relented. The truth is, I’d fallen a little in love with the couple: with Saskia’s flair for Art Nouveau décor, infectious love of opera, and generous, unpretentious manner; as well as with Philip’s sad-looking face, unfailing chivalry, and charming habit of chastely kissing Saskia’s cheek at the slightest excuse.
Then, the day I planned to secure my ticket for the crossing, Saskia insisted we have a serious chat and asked the maid to prepare tea service for the three of us.
We sat in our customary places in the parlor. The usually suave Philip cleared his throat, as if to summon courage. He set his high brow and narrow jaw into solemn thoughtfulness. “There’s something we’d like to discuss with you, May. A rather sensitive matter.”
“We’re family,” I said, inching to the edge of my seat and perching there. “You can speak openly with me.”
“I’ve bid on an iron-mining interest in Mexico. A very large contract.”
“Has the bidding closed?”
“It should have, but I’ve learned the time’s been extended. We don’t really know how these things work over here.”
“You’re worried about how it’s being handled?”
“Yes. I submitted a rather handsome bid, thinking that would settle the matter.”
“And the contract is obviously important to you.”
He clamped his hands together. “My business may not survive without it.”
I knew Philip’s business manufactured cast metal items—cooking vessels mostly. “Your business is struggling?”
“It’s hard to compete with all the new U.S. companies.”
“I see.” I eased my cup and saucer onto the side table. All this time, Saskia had held herself statue-still, shifting her gaze only enough to track the measured volley of our exchange.
Philip gripped the arm of the settee, leaned to the side, and crossed one leg over the other. The corner of his mouth twitched. “I need this contract to sell in the American market. And I know you’ve managed business deals in Japan and the U.S.”
They needed—and trusted—me. How could I not help such darlings? Turning to Philip, I said, “If there’s anything at all I can do, I will be glad to help.”
The next morning, Philip arranged our travel to Mexico City and wrote Rudolph a long letter explaining the circumstances. I spent the day bustling about: purchasing clothes suitable for the conduct of business, as well as books on Mexico and the Spanish language; requesting that Frank submit a bid to the Mexican government on behalf of Iron Mountain Mining (a company I invented to serve the purpose of the trip); and unpacking my steamer trunk and packing two suitcases for what could be a stay of a few weeks in Mexico. Still, I managed to dash a cablegram off to Rudolph: DARLING MUST ASSIST PHILIP ON BUSINESS IN MEXICO STOP MORE TO FOLLOW FROM HIM STOP LOVE MAY STOP.
One of Philip’s business associates had wisely cultivated a contact in the Mexican government. During the train journey, Philip briefed me on his findings: the names of parties submitting competitive bids; transaction dates; and offices and entities involved. I made a record of the information for future reference and secreted it away in the bottom compartment of my traveling case. Philip wired for a reservation for himself and Saskia at the Gran Hotel Ciudad de México, a luxurious establishment near the National Palace. I later made my own reservation at the same hotel.
When our train arrived in Mexico City, we took separate carriages to the hotel. As much as I enjoyed their company, I had a job to do, and it required the utmost discretion. I used my rudimentary Spanish to request transport to the Gran Hotel, and my driver embarked on a winding journey through a maze of streets: past a mix of buildings, some in smooth adobe, others with Spanish-style towers and arches; among donkeys and the occasional horse, their heads dipping and rising as they pulled thei
r carts and wagons; and along a broad avenue with a line of electric cars. Mexico City was unlike any other city I’d ever visited: set in a bowl-shaped valley and surrounded by mountains; its streets teeming with men in broad-brimmed hats and women in bright-colored dresses; the air thin and dusty; but everywhere people, great hordes of people, as if they’d decided en masse to throng the late-afternoon streets.
When I walked into the lobby of the Gran Hotel, wonder tinged with disappointment washed over me. If only I could have shared the moment with Philip and Saskia. Standing in the middle of the Art Nouveau lobby, I hardly knew where to look first: at the canopy of turquoise, yellow, and red-orange stained glass arching high above; at the open-cage elevator of coal-dark metal flourished with golden knobs; or at the curving layers of wrought-iron rails lining the upper floors opening onto the lobby. Perhaps later, once we had managed the business deal, the three of us could enjoy it together. But for now our communications would be restricted to behind-closed-door meetings in our hotel rooms.
The next morning, I set out on my mission. I ordered a carriage and asked to be driven to the Palacio Nacional. The ride took me only three blocks from the hotel. If I had known the way well enough, I would have simply strolled the distance. November’s weather, crisp but dry and sunny, certainly presented no impediment. Henceforth, I resolved, I would walk and enjoy the avenue’s tall, open-branched trees and gardens of exotic plants, some with leaves as large as fans and others with thick, pointed shoots.
The National Palace’s fortress-strong front stretched the length of a New York City block. Atop the tower at the building’s midpoint, the Mexican flag’s green, white, and red bands sagged in uneven parallels. In order to open the palace’s bulky doors of carved concentric geometries, I had to grip the handle firmly and shift the whole of my weight backward. Along the first level’s wide corridor, people stood in lines before service counters staffed by men in olive-green shirts. I walked to the end of this corridor and found another of the same length, this one with closed doors that probably housed workaday administrators.
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