by Tena Frank
Tate left Mazie, intending to head for the Princess Hotel, when Holly called, inviting her to an impromptu lunch. Given Holly’s busy schedule, Tate jumped at the chance, not knowing when the opportunity to get together would present itself again. They met at Rosetta’s Kitchen and spent close to an hour together. Tate gave Holly an abbreviated version of everything she had learned in the past several days.
“You’ve been busy, Tate!”
“I have been, and there’s more to do. I’m heading to the Princess Hotel right after this to see what I can find out. I hope it’s not another blind alley.”
“The man who owns the place now is a great guy. Took him two years to renovate. I haven’t seen it yet, but I hear it’s beautiful.”
“Hopefully, Leland Howard’s mantelpiece will still be in the lobby. I’d love to see it.”
Tate got her wish and much more. Having finally reached her destination, she introduced herself to the receptionist and asked to speak to the owner.
“That would be me,” the man answered. “How can I help you?”
“You’re the owner?” Tate was confused.
“That’s me. Our receptionist called in sick today, so I’m in charge. At least until my wife gets here. She’s the real boss of the Front Desk.” He smiled warmly and Tate took an immediate liking to him.
“Well, then. I guess I’m in luck.” Tate turned and looked around the lobby. No fireplace. “Or maybe not. This will probably sound strange, but I’m looking for a fireplace.”
“A fireplace?” The man looked puzzled.
“Well, a mantelpiece, actually. One made by a man named Leland Howard, sometime in the 1950s. I think this place was under renovation back then.”
“Oh, that mantelpiece! It’s one of our prize possessions!”
“You mean . . .” Tate took in a deep breath; her heart raced.
“Yes, it’s here. Let me show you.” The man led her through French doors and into a long sitting room off the main lobby. Beautifully appointed, with groups of comfortable seating, low tables, richly hued area rugs and a set of bay windows facing the street, it conveyed luxury and comfort all at once. Three large logs burned in a huge fireplace surrounded by an exquisite mantel gracing the wall at the far end of the room. They walked up to it, and Tate reached out to stroke the wood, running her fingers along the delicate carvings.
Tate’s host gestured toward the mantel. “This is it. One of Mr. Howard’s best, I think.”
“What’s your name?” Tate tried to focus on the man beside her, a difficult task given all the thoughts and questions that ran amok in her mind.
“Warren. Warren Wright.”
“I have been searching for information about Mr. Howard for days now. I know a lot, but so much is missing. Do you know anything about him, about his work?”
“Actually, I know quite a lot. I did a great deal of research when I bought this place. Wanted to modernize it but keep true to its origins, you know, so I poked around in every corner I could find. There were plenty of them.”
“And Mr. Howard? Please tell me. What did you find out about him?”
“That was not easy. He was an extremely talented craftsman, well known locally but never famous. Kept to himself. Apparently he was fussy about who he worked for, what he would build. This is one of only three mantels by him that I’ve been able to locate. He primarily made furniture but would sometimes do other things—desks for hotel lobbies, cabinetry, the occasional custom-designed door—”
Tate broke in. “Like the one on that old house on Chestnut Street?”
“Where?”
“The place on Chestnut? In the news lately? They want to tear it down?”
“Oh, that place. Yes, I heard about it. He did work on that house?”
“I wonder. According to the tax records he owns the place—owned it. Actually it’s held in a trust of which he is the beneficiary. It has an unusual door. It’s oversized with metal fittings like you’d see on a castle. So now I have to wonder if he made them. And if he did that one, then he must be responsible for the one on a little place I own. That’s the only thing that makes sense . . . at least I think so . . .”
Tate looked into Warren Wright’s warm brown eyes. “Oh, I just wish I could talk to him. I have so many questions. But he’s dead, and there are no relatives, and . . .”
“He’s not dead.”
Tate faltered, unable to believe she had heard correctly. Warren Wright grabbed her before she lost her footing.
“You said he’s . . . did you say he’s . . .”
“He’s not dead. I talked to him myself. At least I tried to.”
“And you know where he is?” Incredible! I can’t believe . . . okay, wait . . . what I think is what I create. What I think is what I create . . .
Tate chanted the mantra, willing herself to take in what she was being told. Leland Howard was alive!
“Yes. He’s out there at Forest Glen. Unless he’s passed on since I saw him. That was last year sometime.”
“I’ve got to see him. Will they let me see him?”
“Don’t know why they wouldn’t. It’s a retirement home, not a prison.”
“Okay, I’m going to see him.” Resolution replaced resignation, and Tate turned toward the door.
“Do you want to see the mantel?”
“What?”
“The mantel. You came here to see the mantel, and I’d love to tell you all about it.”
“Oh! Yes, of course . . . I’m sorry, I was so shocked to learn he’s alive, I forgot everything else!”
“If you appreciate his work, you’ll love this. I’d hate to have you leave without really experiencing it.”
Tate refocused. “Beautiful wood. Cherry? No . . .”
“Red Oak. A superb specimen and the craftsmanship is incomparable. Not many woodworkers took the time to focus on every aspect the way he did. He used only the finest wood he could find. Every detail is flawlessly executed. And he always added something special. Do you know about that?”
“Well, the whole thing seems special.”
“Yes, but look at this.”
Warren Wright stepped to the left end of the mantel, closed his eyes and ran his index finger gently along a row of delicately carved notches decorating its lower edge. Tate heard a faint click. To her amazement, a long, slim drawer dropped open, revealing a stash of chocolate-mint coins, each wrapped in silver.
“After dinner mint?” Warren asked, eyes twinkling.
“I’d absolutely love one!” Tate squealed, pure delight taking over.
EIGHTEEN
1940
Harland Freeman did not allow himself to feel uncomfortable when in the presence of others. Such undesirable feelings lay deeply hidden beneath his façade of self-confidence and tendency toward dominance in every situation. But at this moment, he squirmed in his own skin as the woman and her child walked along the street in front of him, obviously unaware he trailed just behind. He had to speak to Ellie, but not now—not in the presence of the boy.
Harland and Ellie crossed paths on occasion, but they never spoke, or even acknowledged each other, for that matter. In fact, Ellie uttered her last words to him as he left the park following their one mating all those years ago. Back then he feared she would pursue him after their encounter. He had many ways of sidestepping heartbroken girls, and he had prepared himself to use all of them with Ellie. But, the next day she walked right past him in the hall at school, her head held high, as if he didn’t even exist. She surprised him even more when she became engaged to and then married Leland Howard immediately after the two boys graduated.
Ellie’s refusal to acknowledge Harland did not bother him. The child caused his queasiness. The boy’s birth occurred barely seven months after the rushed wedding, and Harland could not help but wonder if he watched his own son walking hand-in-hand with Ellie. And that name: Clayton—Harland’s own mother’s maiden name and his middle name—why had she chosen to pass his family name on to her offsp
ring?
A handsome child, the boy sported black hair and dark, intense eyes, much like Harland’s own. Never having met him face-to-face, Harland could not be sure, but he thought he detected in the child the same slightly bulbous nose and square jaw he saw reflected in the mirror each morning when he shaved.
Harland did not want children. He did not want a wife, a family, or even any close friends for that matter. Harland craved only respect. He secretly yearned for people to treat him the way they treated a successful man worthy of reverence and emulation. He imagined gaining status as the most important businessman in the city and people seeking him out as if the sole fact of being in his presence constituted a special event. Yet seeing the boy brought into question, if only for a moment, the value of living a solitary life, which in Harland’s case had not yet come even close to meeting his expectations.
No offers came from professional baseball teams after high school, and the superficial popularity granted him as a star athlete melted away quickly after he found himself working as a clerk in the local hardware store, taking orders from a man he could barely tolerate.
Maybe his dreams had not materialized so far, but he continued to plot his way to the success he considered his due. It irritated him that even now as an adult he had to figure out how to please others in order to get his needs met, but he recognized that necessity, so Harland went to work each day. He meticulously organized the bins of screws and bolts, swept the floors and greeted customers with the bright smile he wore like a suit of armor polished up each morning before heading out into the world. It’s my way out. This thought alone held Harland in check and stopped him from rushing out the door never to return.
He’d had a lifetime to grow accustomed to uphill battles like this one. He had spent his formative years living in that horrid cabin just north of downtown with his father, who eked out a living as a handyman working for rich folks, and his mother, Crazy Eulah.
Everyone knew his mother by that name, even beyond the boundaries of their little neighborhood, and once old enough to understand its meaning, Harland thought of her as Crazy Eulah, too. She gave birth to him at age 32—too old to have a child, as she told him countless times. His arrival strained her already tenuous hold on reality even further, and she retreated into herself to the point of sometimes losing complete touch with the world around her.
A neglected child must make a difficult choice early in life if he is to survive. He can cling helpless and childlike to the parents who have cast aside basic conventions such as feeding, clothing and protecting their offspring, or he can learn to fend for himself.
From birth, Harland insisted he would thrive, and his squalling determination pulled his reluctant mother from her stupor long enough and often enough that she fed and occasionally bathed him, though he often spent days clothed in nothing but a ragged diaper.
By the time he could crawl and even before he had acquired language, Harland had an acute awareness of the abandonment he would later describe as being estranged from God. How else to account for the fact that Eulah left him unattended in his crib for hours on end, or that his father failed to recognize Harland’s need for touch and interaction, no matter how weary he may be after a long day filled with menial work?
People felt sorry for the scrawny boy with the thick black hair and sharp dark eyes, and he became adept at begging for his sustenance from them by the time he could crawl. Mazie saved him from careening headlong into the life of a tramp, drifting from mark to mark. She provided security, dependability and so much more. Through Mazie and her family, he acquired his social skills, and with their nurturing, by the time he entered high school, he had a veneer of likability and the athletic prowess necessary to become a star on the baseball team. Most of all, Mazie taught Harland how to love. Harland decided on his own that any emotion with the power to sway a man from his own calculated path must be carefully avoided.
Now he stood on the threshold of adulthood, and he had no doubt that with perseverance and cunning, the success he pursued would be his. He already had amassed what seemed like a fortune from selling the land on Pearson. He would continue to grow his savings, set himself up in business and build a fine house one day. His single-minded quest for respect blinded him to the slow death of his boyhood charm—the saving grace of his youth—and the emergence of the bitter, angry man lurking just beneath the surface.
Harland struggled through the years of clerking at the hardware store and gaining the foundation he needed to move ahead in the business community. He worked his way up to the coveted position of manager and then, at the young age of 27, purchased his own business. Freeman Mercantile joined the many successful shops lining Lexington Avenue. He obtained the business in a distress sale that resulted from the collapse of all the local banks seven years earlier in the wake of the crash on Wall Street. He had squirreled away every dollar from the sale of the old family land on Pearson and then continued to build his fortune by diligently saving most of his earnings and making wise investments. His smugness about protecting his money during the Great Depression that swept the nation and broke the backs of many local business owners cheated him of the admiration he anticipated. Harland made things even worse by taking every opportunity to brag about his foresight and good timing, oblivious to the festering resentment of his colleagues.
He had turned himself into a powerful businessman, so they had little choice but to show him what passed for respect. One of them might offer him a ride across town when they saw him out walking, or vacate their seat on the trolley for him on the rare occasion he used that conveyance. But they didn’t like him, and Harland knew that beyond a doubt.
Well, he didn’t like them either. It didn’t occur to him there might be a connection between these facts, an almost tangible chain of cause and effect. Harland Freeman did not waste time trying to understand the perspectives of other people. He had plenty else to think about. He had to keep the store running and make it as profitable as possible. He planned and plotted how to get the most work out of his staff for the lowest wages he could manage. If he could make a profit selling a mediocre product for an inflated price, that’s exactly what he did. If the product could be obtained only from Freeman Mercantile, the price would be even more exorbitant.
He kept busy thinking about how he presented himself in public, always making sure his suit looked slightly better than the suits of the other store owners along Patton and Lexington Avenues, his shoes were highly polished and his shirts impeccably starched and ironed. But above all, Harland spent long hours laying the plans for the house he would build on Chestnut Street. After a few years of owning his business, the time had come to take another bold step. This house would be his crowning achievement, and he was certain he would finally be graciously welcomed into the ranks of the elite businessmen in Asheville.
“Oh, yes!” he boasted to Wallace Flanders, who owned the men’s furnishing store two doors down and who lived on Cumberland Avenue in a second-hand house. “Yes, I bought the property on Chestnut. Don’t know why such a prime piece of real estate hadn’t already sold.” He paused for the shortest moment then prompted, “Don’t you think it’s perfect for my mansion? Would you like to see my plans?”
“Nice to see you, Freeman,” Flanders lied as he moved quickly out the door with his purchase under his arm.
Harland looked after him, and instead of feeling the anger or disappointment or rejection that stalked him, he puffed himself back up and strode off to attend to the next customer.
NINETEEN
2004
Asheville has been a traveler’s destination throughout its history. It was originally the ancestral homeland of the Cherokee Indians; their footpaths crisscrossed the area. Those trails slowly grew into bigger crossroads as the white settlers arrived, and those new inhabitants attracted traveling tradesmen who came to barter pots, pans, knives, sugar and other hard-to-get-supplies for the deer, bear and beaver furs available from the local mountaineers.
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br /> The town had grown at a leisurely pace until the late 1800s when George Vanderbilt made his first visit. In addition to his French-inspired mansion, he built a village to house his craftsmen and supervisors and a church for the community.
Forest Glen Manor joined the varied accommodations that sprang up in the early 20th century to serve the many travelers to the city. Tate recognized it as one of the nicer ones. It had been converted to a retirement center in the 1970s.
Besides a collection of small buildings set among the rolling slopes on a broad expanse of land on Hendersonville Highway, the grounds held several ponds and the landscaping accented the gentle ridges and well-worn, paved walkways winding through the four acres that housed the complex. Tate imagined it had been quite successful back in the heyday of cross country traveling, when automobiles were the conveyance of choice by families from across the continent. It enjoyed a desirable location, on a major thoroughfare and within a short distance from the Biltmore Estate, which had been opened to the public in the aftermath of the Great Depression.
Tate parked as close as she could to the entrance, grumbling about the number of empty handicapped spaces holding the choice locations. She felt a bit ridiculous for feeling this way, especially given the facility’s status as a retirement home. But it always annoyed her to see dozens of rarely filled spaces designated for handicapped parking in all the parking lots in the world, it seemed. She laughed at herself as she approached the reception desk.
“Afternoon, honey. How can I help you?” Tate blanched at the unwarranted familiarity even though the woman’s open smile signaled her eagerness to be helpful. Tate asked to see Leland Howard.
“Mr. Howard?” asked the receptionist.
“Yes, Leland Howard.”
“Are you a relative?”
That’s quite nosey of her. Tate felt her irritation building. “Do I have to be in order to see him?” she challenged.
