door silently behind them. They started slowly down the stairs, each wooden step reacting with a familiar squeak.
For Ellen, stepping off that porch was like descending into another world. A city block ahead of her stood the grand main building, towering and impressive in its architectural simplicity, baked in a reddish pink stucco that reminded travelers of Marrakech at sunset. In contrast, ribbons of iron fire escapes criss-crossed the sides, black dull metal that seemed reluctantly slapped on to satisfy various safety codes.
It was a tall building, seventeen floors high, one of the largest in the rural Catskill world where even a twelve-story skyscraper looked gigantic. The view from the penthouse was breathtaking. On a clear evening, one could easily see sixty miles around. One guest even swore he saw the Empire State Building from his terrace, a claim Ellen and Phil laughingly chalked up to a full moon and the effects of an equally full bottle of Scotch.
There, to the left, were the half dozen clay tennis courts, already in use by the early risers. The quick snap of a serve, the sound of the ball slapping across the court, the squeak of sneakers turning and twisting, all of it was audible as the two women made their way from the farmhouse.
As they continued on the central pathway to the main building, watching the grounds keepers and gardeners already at work mowing and scything the lawns and hedges, Ellen nudged Magda and pointed to the clusters of small cottages on their right. They were primarily private bungalows, each with its own patch of grass and flowers, mostly sought after by honeymooners and illicit lovers.
It was strange to have to admit, but after nearly fifteen years, the hotel, all 650 rolling acres of it, still had the power to hypnotize her. Phil used to say it was the world’s most demanding mistress. It had a presence and personality of its own; it often took more than it gave but in the long run was worth it and it would probably still be there long after they were gone. Today, unfortunately, as she looked around at the land she loved so dearly, Ellen wasn’t quite as sure.
Despite the fact that they were one of the Catskills’ few year-round resorts, they were still heavily dependent on a strong summer season. The ten weeks between July 4th and Labor Day were crucial because winter facilities notwithstanding, there were still weeks during the spring and fall when they were lucky to break even. On top of that, in the midst of her untimely transition into power, she was confronted by the phenomenon of a changing vacation world; a world, in 1958, of jet airplanes, prepackaged tours, and the lure of Miami and the Caribbean. And then there was Jonathan.
“I dread going in there with Jonathan and the accountants next week,” she said, as they continued across the lawn. “Phil mentioned a few months back that we could be headed for serious trouble, but he was always too busy to get into specifics. I just hope I’ll be able to understand what they’re talking about.”
“You’ll learn,” Magda reassured her. “You may not know all the answers but then again,” she asked with a shrug of her shoulders, “who does? All you have to remember is that you’ve had fifteen years of live-in experience and in many areas, probably have a better idea of how things should run than they do.”
“I hope I can convince them of that.”
“Convince yourself. Once you do that, you can convince anybody.”
Ellen gave her friend a smile that did more than express her thanks. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“And I don’t know what I’m going to do if I don’t get some breakfast.” She held her hands to her stomach in mock agony. “Are you ready to hear about our plans for the weekend?”
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” Ellen said, feeling a surge of excitement. Magda built her confidence. “Let’s get started.”
Without further conversation, they quickened their pace toward