The Lost Chloe

       
May 1910

          Every two weeks Nelle and I visit our boarded-up mansion.  She lives nearby during the summer, but I have to take the train.  On those Friday evenings the caretaker meets me at the depot with the buggy and drives me back up the hill to the Swiss Terrace Inn, which I own and they run.  It's a pretty good arrangement, considering the mess we've made of things.  I would prefer to walk the mile and a half from the station unheralded, but that isn't how things are done here.  So we pull into the stable under the inn, the horses snorting and pulling at the reins, and I go change out of my traveling suit.  The filth and noise of New York fades as my shoes creak on the wooden stairs and the murmur of guests sitting at her mother Mary's vast dinners filters through the floorboards.  Nelle is always there with her apron on, refilling coffee cups and coaxing the new ones to open up and leave their problems behind.  In all of my boardrooms, I have never yet met anyone better at making people feel comfortable enough to share their secrets with strangers.

             If I'm lucky, I stand in the alcove outside the kitchen door and listen to a good story before someone sees me.  Bits of my own story have been bandied around Winona so much that everyone knows something about that rich board member with the boarded up mansion. Whenever I walk in anywhere, a hush rises.  But Nelle doesn't care.  She takes off her apron and comes to kiss my cheek and I give her the foil wrapped box with a wink.  Everyone thinks she must have quite the sweet tooth, but my train porter empties eleven chocolate covered marshmallows out of my trash every two weeks.  He's just much too polite to mention it.  

            On Saturday mornings we meet on the porch at 9am for our walk.  She dresses up and holds a parasol or a muff and I bring along my silver tipped cane.  We can't be late as our walk is one of the biggest tourist draws in town.  So, I polish my watch and she pats her hair before we walk down the stairs and over to the swan pond to feed the fish an old biscuit or two.  "How many do you think there are this week?" she might ask as we count the children hiding in the rushes from the corners of our eyes.  It isn't polite for them to be spying on us, but it isn't polite for us to acknowledge them either.  Down the road we promenade, Nelle holding my arm and children running from tree to tree behind us.  Of course those are the newbies.  The ones who live here are already hidden under someones porch to watch.
              Every house along our route has people drinking lemonade or stopping to chat as they pretend not to stare.  We make it down the entire road in sun or rain without a soul stopping us. While I pull out the thick metal key from my pocket and Nelle scans the wooden boards for new carvings, that same hush falls on the street.  "Oh no," she touches a scratched-out heart with the tip of her finger, "seems that Jane and Ben have had a falling out this week.  I do hope they get back together."  Then the door opens and we enter. 

Chicago American  May 10, 1918

Cupid's Great Tragedy
Winona Lake House still awaits Bride

Under the willows that feather Bruning's Point," on the shore of Lake Winona, stands "The Mystery House" its doors locked, its windows sealed. "It has stood so for fifteen years, waiting for something," say the cottagers of Winona Lake, the little Indiana resort town. None of the scant 50 Winter villagers or the thousands of Summer visitors who gape and gossip about it know exactly what this "something" is.

The carpenter, the plumber and the piano tuner, all bring back the heart-stirring information that the house is completely and lavishly furnished, that tinder and logs stood on the hearth, ready for the match, that a silver service for two was set on the dinner table, that two leather chairs were waiting under a reading lamp, that the piano stood, top lifted, keys ready for human hands; that two sleeping rooms, beds made, combs and brushes on chiffoniers, slippers laid out, everything ready for occupancy, were arrayed.

Who Built Mansion
"And," said the favored artisans, "one of the rooms is for a woman, because there are dressing tables in it, covered with these slim, ivory backed things that women use for their hands and hair."

The townspeople know that W. H. Bruning, the wealthy President of the F. J. Bruning and Son Company, spice and tea, wholesale merchants of Evansville, Ind., and New York, built the mysterious mansion in 1903, calling it "Merbrink" because it stood on the brink of the lake and that twice every month since erecting it, fifteen years ago, he comes back to visit it.

No one has never spent a night in the house. The week-ends in Winona Lake he spends in the "Swiss Terrace" Hotel, which is managed by Mary Cooper and her daughter, Nelle Cooper..

The Real Story
When the women lodgers at "Swiss Terrace" grow confidential with Nelle and helpless before their own burning curiosity, and they seek to gain the story from her, she avoids any answer with the sweet, serene smile that has earned for her the title "the best loved woman in Winona."

This then, it seems, might be all Winona Lake knows. Forty years ago John Cooper, an educator of New York, although no longer a young man, followed the Greenley injunction, then quite popular, and came West. He brought with him his wife and daughter Nelle, then a girl of 18. Evansville, Ind., recognized his worth and made him superintendent of schools.



The Bachelor Arrives
For some three years John Cooper lived so, his family happy and the way clear before him. Then his health began to fail and his wife and daughter sought to stem adversity by taking boarders.

Among the first boarders to come was W. H. Bruning, partner with his father in the town's oldest tea and spice store. It is said that he loved Nelle Cooper from the first, that she loved him and that they became engaged directly. But something interposed.  Whatever it was, she went with her parents to Winona Lake in 1895 when Mrs. Cooper decided to maintain a hotel at that resort, then opening for its first season.

Their first cottage was named "The Homestead," and, though small, was popular with the vacation hunters. An old-world courtesy and charm hovered around their rooms and brought local fame to them.

A year passed and John Cooper died. With the widow and daughter, Bruning grieved as a son, and to aid them in meeting the world he built a magnificent cottage, capable of housing some hundred guests, named it "The Swiss Terrace," and installed in it the two women as proprietors.



That same summer Bruning bought a lot on the point where the bathing harbor curves out to the more rugged shoreline. For weeks the place teemed with dredges and drays, as he built out and filled in making "Bruning's Point." When a new acre was made, he imported carpenters and on plans which he himself and perhaps another had drawn up, began the erection of the fated house.

Into it went the best timber, the most ultra-modern conveniences. In that economical day its cost was more than $10,000 which made it the show place of the town. Its weatherboarding was lined with mineral wool, its chimneys were bottomed with wide fireplaces. Cheveal mirrors, chandeliers, thick Brussels rugs, ensignia of luxury in those times, filled it. Art went on its walls, a bluish gray scheme of color, subdued and beautiful, ran through its living rooms. Twenty-one rocking chairs are scattered through it. Gas lights were ready, fires were laid on the hearths, and a magnificent silver dinner set was placed beside rare china in the cupboards.

Bride never Came
Why Miss Nelle never came down to take Merbrink, now known to have been meant for her, is known to none but herself and Mr. Bruning. No explanation was ever given. The lover is ever the suitor, the admirer, bringing at each trip (and he has never in all of these years missed his regular bi-weekly visit) a box of candy, presenting it to Miss Cooper with the manner of the story book swain.

He allows no decay to creep into it--"The Mystery House." Each year it is painted anew, the piano tuned, the water and gas pipes examined and any loose boards replaced. Twice in the fifteen years new draperies have been carried in. The house is as ready today for occupancy as when it was built. The stone sun-dial which Bruning set up on the lawn a few years back is kept in as perfect alignment as though there were owners to run out from the house behind at any moment to note upon its face the progress of the day.

The grass in summer is mown weekly, the snow and sleet which in winter blow across the wide veranda are cleaned away by a workman who knows no more of the building's interior than do his neighbors. When the waves cast driftwood over the concrete wall, Bruning built against the blue lake, the caretaker carries the wood away as though a lady from the house within might open her eyes in the morning and be offended by the litter. 

Where Lovers Meet
One thing and one only betrays time's flight. This is the names and carving on the planks that board the windows. These boards are thick and stout, for curiosity seekers are constantly prying at them, striving to see behind. Over them are scores of lovers' names, written and carved. In summer the boys and girls wander down to the point and hand in hand circle "The Mystery House" or sit on the veranda steps.

There has never been a "No Trespass" sign on the premises. At least three times these boards have been replaced so whittled were they by the knives of young lovers, carving entwined hearts, linked names and all the lazy, dreamy, totem-pole symbols to which aimless-youth-in-love is addicted.

What irony this is, graven on the house that waits for love, can only be told by the man and the woman, if indeed, they ever tell at all.

 

Early October 1950

          Jane stopped the car and turned off the key. "She sure doesn't look as good as she used to," Ben said, looking out the window. "But then neither do I."  Jane patted the white arm resting on his knee, but didn't tear her eyes away. 

            "I can't do it," she gripped the steering wheel.

            "Yes, you can," he rested his palms on the dash.

            "Oh Ben," she said. 

            "The day of the funeral," he wheezed. "The arrangements are all made.  All you've got to do is sign it." He sat up straight and smiled at her. "We've been over this.  You'll need something to occupy your mind since Addy's going off to college." 

            She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and turned away from the old house.