Love Finds You in Lake Geneva, Wisconsin
Love Finds You™
IN
Lake Geneva
WISCONSIN
Love Finds You™
IN
Lake Geneva
WISCONSIN
PAMELA S. MEYERS
New York
Love Finds You in Lake Geneva, Wisconsin
ISBN-10: 1-60936-769-3
ISBN-13: 978-1-60936-769-5
Published by Summerside Press, an imprint of Guideposts
16 East 34th Street
New York, New York 10016
SummersidePress.com
Guideposts.org
Summerside Press™ is an inspirational publisher offering fresh,
irresistible books to uplift the heart and engage the mind.
Copyright © 2013 by Pamela S. Meyers. All rights reserved.
This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced, stored in a
retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means,
electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise,
without the written permission of the publisher.
Distributed by Ideals Publications, a Guideposts company
2630 Elm Hill Pike,
Suite 100 Nashville, TN 37214
Guideposts, Ideals, and Summerside Press are registered trademarks
of Guideposts.
The town depicted in this book is a real place. References to actual
people or events are either coincidental or are used with permission.
All Scripture quotations are taken from The Holy Bible,
King James Version.
Cover design by Lookout Design, Inc., LookoutDesign.com
Interior design by Müllerhaus Publishing Group, Mullerhaus.net
Printed and bound in the United States of America
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Dedication
Dedicated to the memory of my parents, Roger and Peg Meyers,
and all the special times we had together during my growing-up
years in Lake Geneva. Although they are not here to read my
story, there is a bit of both of them in Meg and Jack.
Contents
Acknowledgments
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Author’s Note
About the Author
Acknowledgments
I thank God Almighty for blessing me with the opportunity to write this story. I’ve always wanted to set a story in Lake Geneva, and God has granted my desire in a huge way.
I am very grateful to the Lake Geneva Public Library and particularly to staff member Alisha Benson, who graciously bent over backwards assisting me with the microfilms of the Lake Geneva News-Tribune from that period. She also helped me by uncovering several different resources when I needed to make sure Flat Iron Park was called by that name in 1933.
Thank you to Doug Elliott, retired editor of the Lake Geneva Regional News, the current Lake Geneva weekly newspaper that succeeded the News-Tribune. I thoroughly enjoyed our long conversations, Doug, as you enlightened me on the culture of the news biz back in the thirties. I couldn’t have made my story true to that era without your input.
Thanks also to the Geneva Lake Museum and to museum volunteer Linda West for your encouragement and help with learning historical facts about the town during my visit there.
Thank you to Sandi Rothengass. I appreciate your friendship so much, which goes back to when we both worked at Citizens Bank in Lake Geneva. Your help and encouragement with this project is so appreciated. It was because of you that I learned that Violette Smith, a key person in my story, was still living, and I was able to visit with her.
And I thank Diane Smith Krapfel, daughter of Violette Smith, for allowing me to visit Violette in the nursing home. Little did we know that she would pass away a week and a half later.
Thank you to Chuck Gray, Lake Geneva harbormaster, for taking time out of your day to allow me into the Riviera ballroom for photographs and notes. Although I’d been in the ballroom many times, I’d never looked at the details through an author’s eyes. You were very helpful!
Thanks to American Christian Fiction Writers (ACFW) and all there who have mentored me, taught me the craft of writing, and encouraged me with prayer over these many years. I’ve said it before and continue to say it: you guys rock!
Many thanks to my Penwrights critique group, which critiqued this story from beginning to end. Thanks also to Ane Mulligan, who, in addition to critiquing my story, brainstormed much of the plot with me. And thanks to Andrea Boeshaar for her support, especially during the time of waiting to see it published.
Thank you to my editor, Rachel Meisel, who encouraged me to write this story from the moment I mentioned I had grown up in Lake Geneva. Who knew when you came to my ACFW chapter meeting that long ago May evening that this would result! I appreciate your input on this story so much.
Also thank you to my wonderful copyeditor, Connie Troyer, for the time she took on this story. You moved my writing to the next level.
I would be remiss to not mention my agent, Terry Burns, who goes above and beyond. Thanks, Terry, for all you have done to enhance my writing career.
Last but not least, I want to thank my Life Group members, past and present—Catherine, Nancy, Judy, and Betty for their ongoing prayer support. Girlfriends, you prayed this book into existence. I love you all!
Trust in the Lord with all thine heart;
and lean not unto thine own understanding.
In all thy ways acknowledge him,
and he shall direct thy paths.
PROVERBS 3:5–6
AT THE CLOSE OF THE CIVIL WAR, MILLIONAIRES FLOCKED TO THE Lake Geneva, Wisconsin, area and built magnificent mansions in which to escape the summer heat. The locals became accustomed to seeing their wealthy neighbors about town, and many found employment as caretakers or household help on their estates.
Today, excursion boats carry tourists past the many remaining mansions on Geneva Lake’s shoreline, while an announcer relates their fascinating histories. Other tourists take advantage of the public shore path for up-close views of the estates. Back in town, the Riviera Beach is a perfect place to cool off after browsing the many unique gift shops along Main and Broad Streets. Visitors can also cap off the afternoon with a horse-drawn carriage ride
through the town’s historical neighborhoods or enjoy a meal in one of the many restaurants.
As summer eases in to fall, ancient oak and maple trees turn to brilliant oranges and golds, offering an ideal time to catch a final boat ride of the season. If visitors are in town during the first weekend of February, they’ll be able to catch the annual snow-sculpturing contest, which takes place on the front lawn of the Riviera with the frozen lake as a backdrop. The Riviera, a beautiful Italian Renaissance Revival structure on the shore of the lake, with thirty-two Doric columns, parquet dance floor, and sparkling mirror ball, is a focal point of this story.
No matter the season, the time is always right to visit Lake Geneva.
—Pamela S. Meyers
Chapter One
March 1933
Meg Alden closed the notepad and stuffed it into her handbag. A whole hour spent on what would amount to a single paragraph on the society page. Maybe by the next Garden Club meeting, her beat would be hard news about the new building and not about which flowers should grace its grounds.
She stood from the dining room chair the hostess had provided and picked up the brown envelope that hadn’t left her sight all morning. She grabbed her coat and gave a tiny wave to her mother before she slipped out the front door. She had less than an hour to give what she considered her best work to Mr. Zimmer.
This afternoon might be too late.
With quick strides, she arrived at the town’s main intersection and peered down the street toward the lake. Thanks to the meeting, she’d missed her daily check on the new building’s progress.
Even though the outside work was completed, she still loved her regular walks past the brown brick structure, as she imagined tourists and bathers enjoying its new bathhouses and food counters during the day and energetic dancers kicking up their heels in its beautiful ballroom at night.
Meg shifted her attention to the traffic light suspended over where Main and Broad intersected. In the stiff March wind, the thing bobbed precariously. Pressing the envelope to her chest, she shifted her weight from one foot to the other. A gust smacked her in the face, and she grabbed for her hat as the envelope slipped from her grasp and spiraled upward.
It twisted and tumbled, lifted and dropped to the pavement inches from a muddy puddle.
Meg darted into the intersection.
A horn blared.
She froze.
Fred Newman glared at her through the windscreen of his Model A pickup truck, his lips pursed as if he’d just sucked on a lemon.
She snatched up the envelope.
He leaned out the window, his leathery face looking as though it would crack if he smiled. “You’d better watch where you’re going.”
Meg tossed him a wave and puddle-hopped to the curb. The old busybody would have it all over town by lunchtime that Meg Alden had nearly caused him to run her over in the middle of the street. Well, let him. She had other things on her mind. Meg lifted the flap of Dad’s thick legal envelope, and her spine relaxed. No water had seeped through.
She raced down Main Street, her two-inch heels clacking on the sidewalk. Mr. Zimmer would have the front page laid out already, but he always left room on the second and third pages for last-minute items. Meg turned on Center and stepped through the News-Tribune’s entrance. The rat-tat-tatting of typewriter keys, a ringing phone, and cigarette smoke as thick as ground fog assaulted her: deadline day, and she loved every minute of it.
Next to her, the switchboard lights flashed. Meg dropped her things to the floor and pressed the headset to her ear. She grabbed a back cord from a column of cords on the desktop and plugged its end into a flashing socket. “Lake Geneva News-Tribune.”
“This is Jim Olson. Is Oscar there?”
“One moment.” She pulled the front end of the cord from its position on the desk and plugged its other end in the socket assigned to Mr. Zimmer. Then she pulled a small lever in front of the cords to cause her boss’s phone to ring.
Why was the new building’s construction manager calling? A last-minute update for tomorrow’s edition? If things went as she hoped, she’d be the one to take such calls and Mr. Zimmer wouldn’t need to be bothered.
The outside door opened. “That’s some wind. Morning, Meg.” Emily Johnson glanced at the board. “I only ran to the post office. Where’s Dotty?”
Meg glanced into the newsroom and looked for the part-time typist who helped on deadline day. “Over there typing. She probably got called away to do a rush job.”
Emily scurried to the closet and removed her coat. “Thanks for stepping in.” She plucked out her hat pin and removed her hat. Her topknot had already begun losing its battle against her naturally curly hair. “Have there been many calls?”
A pair of tiny lights flashed, and Meg released the cords. “Only one. But now that you’re here, I need to talk to Mr. Zimmer.”
She stepped to the closet and reached for her hat. Her heart sank. The stylish new cloche was probably lying in front of Cobb Hardware. If not already trampled on, it soon would be. Such a pretty color too.
Meg peeked into the mottled mirror hanging on the back of the closet door and rearranged what was left of her finger waves. At least taking want ads over the phone had its benefits. No one could see her. The lost hat forgotten, she picked up the envelope and hurried toward her desk on the far side of the newsroom.
Thelma Brown, Mr. Zimmer’s middle-aged secretary, looked up from her typing as Meg passed and nodded at her. Always the picture of perfection with her iron-gray bun and crisply starched blouses, the woman gave Meg a critical look and returned to her work.
Meg dropped her purse into her bottom desk drawer and then slipped the single sheet of paper from the envelope. She skimmed her words for the umpteenth time. Not a single mistake. She peered into the corner office, thankful for the unobstructed view of her boss as he sat at his desk.
Oscar Zimmer, his sleeves rolled to his elbows and his unruly thatch of white hair looking as though it hadn’t seen a comb in days, pressed the telephone to his ear. Another call must have come in. She needed to talk to him right away. Meg tiptoed across the newsroom, hoping to catch him before he received another call or took the layout to Composing.
Mr. Zimmer hung up the phone, and she rapped on the door frame.
He looked up, his eyes wide behind his thick wire-framed lenses. A smile erupted on his wizened face. “Miss Alden, come in.”
Meg gulped against the dryness in her throat and stepped closer. “Mr. Zimmer, would you please read this article I wrote on the lakefront building? My friend Gloria’s husband is one of the bricklayers, and he gave me wonderful insights from a worker’s perspective. With Mr. Bowman’s departure, you’ll need additional articles this week.” Castigating herself for talking too fast, she held out the paper.
He stared at the article as his mouth made a slight downturn at the corners. Wasn’t he going to take it?
Finally Mr. Zimmer drew in a breath. “The article sounds interesting, but we won’t need filler pieces this week.”
Pressure built behind her eyes. Not now. She had to remain composed. “Perhaps…if you read it—”
“I’ve got a man taking over Bowman’s position.” Mr. Zimmer’s gaze shifted to a spot behind her right shoulder as his lips lifted into a smile. “Ah, here he is now. Miss Alden, meet Jack Wallace, our new reporter.”
Meg’s heart squeezed. Mr. Bowman had left so suddenly, she thought she’d at least have a chance—the only chance she’d had in three years.
Gone.
She turned slowly. The tall, broad-shouldered man was about as good looking as Clark Gable. Actually, better. She always did dislike mustaches. His blond, short-trimmed hair glistened. Never had she seen eyes such a deep blue. His impeccable suit and polished wingtip shoes were of far better quality than—
“Miss Alden?”
At Mr. Zimmer’s voice, Meg dragged her gaze away from the man’s footwear and up to his chin. “Pleased to meet you.”
Mr. Wallace flashed a smile that could have lit up a dark alley on a moonless night. “Nice to meet you, Miss Alden. And you are a reporter as well?”
She met his eyes, and their warmth drew her in.
“No.”
At Mr. Zimmer’s strong tone, she snapped her head his direction. “Miss Alden is our want-ad taker and occasionally does society news—who’s visiting whom or garden-club doings. She also fetches me coffee when I ask.” He held up a dirty coffee mug.
Dregs from yesterday’s brew adhered to its insides like glue. Meg frowned as she took the cup. Unlike most people, Mr. Zimmer didn’t drink coffee until afternoon. She recognized a brush-off when she saw it. “Welcome to the News-Trib, Mr. Wallace.” Without waiting for a response, she spun and dashed toward the door.
What a dolt she’d been, acting as if she’d never seen a good-looking man before. A man who came out of nowhere, taking something that wasn’t his. She plopped onto her desk chair, crumpled the article, and tossed it into her wastebasket. She heaved a breath and removed the typewriter cover.
Where had he come from? Judging by the cut of his suit and the shine of his shoes, not from any food line. Maybe he’d had a good job and lost it. News from the city was filled with hard-luck stories. If that were the case, could she blame him for taking the position? But she’d spent hours last night at Dad’s typewriter. She at least deserved a chance. She rolled paper into her typewriter and then pushed a stack of forms aside to make room for her notes.
Her phone rang, and she yanked the receiver to her ear.
“Isn’t he a looker?”
Meg turned. Emily wore her headset cocked at an angle, and her playful grin filled her round face.
“I didn’t notice.”
“Come on, Meg. You may be older than me, but you’re not dead. Any woman would give her silk stockings to go out with the likes of him. I say he’s a needed distraction around here, with only Mr. Zimmer and Lester to cast a shadow.”