What once was (The Eyes of Ms. Wetherby)

As a Writer, for a distant moment, in my mind, a story begins to form, and as the mist of time fades, I see……a story more clearly….....

In the autumn of 1907, a train carrying Richard Calloway pulled into Pulaski, Virginia, with a rhythmic hiss of steam and the clang of iron against iron. A businessman by trade and a lonely soul by nature, he had come on behalf of his company to inspect the prospect of a new textile operation. With his overcoat buttoned tight against the chill, he stepped onto the platform, eyes immediately catching the grandeur of the Hotel Pulaski in the distance.

Built in 1891, the Hotel Pulaski stood proudly at the southwest corner of Washington Avenue and Main Street. Its red brick façade was a beacon of prosperity in the growing town, boasting a lavish dining hall, polished mahogany furnishings, and gas-lit chandeliers that illuminated the lobby in a golden glow. It was a fine establishment in Pulaski, and Richard, a man who seldom indulged in luxury, allowed himself the comfort of its accommodations.

As he checked in, a soft voice from the parlor drew his attention. There, by the fireplace, sat a woman in a deep blue traveling dress, her posture poised, but yet weary. Beside her, a little boy played quietly with a wooden horse. She was Diane Wetherby, a widow of means, her wealth newly earned from her late husband's ventures in coal and railroads. New money, some whispered, but Richard saw only a woman carrying the weight of loss with quiet dignity.

Their paths crossed at dinner. The hotel’s dining room, known for its fine service and fresh Appalachian fare, provided the setting for their first real conversation. Over Fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and vegetables, they spoke of business, of loss, of the peculiar isolation that accompanied wealth and ambition. Diane’s eyes, dark and intelligent, held his with a quiet understanding, and for the first time in many years, Richard felt a warmth beyond mere companionship.

Then another day passed in quiet camaraderie. The hotel, with its grand staircase and sprawling verandas, became their small world together, a place suspended in time. They took afternoon tea in the lounge, where the scent of tobacco and coffee mingled in the air. They watched a new combustion engine truck rattle past the window, the town’s industry growing with each passing year.
Richard spoke of his travels, and Diane spoke of her dreams, ones she had scarcely dared to voice since her husband’s passing.

One evening, as the sun melted low behind the hills and the sky turned the color of the gold of old parchment, they lingered longer than usual on the Hotel’s porch over-looking Peak Creek. The warmth of a shared brandy emboldened their conversation, turning laughter into long, reflective silences. Richard reached for her hand almost without thinking, and when she did not withdraw, he turned to face her, her eyes, usually guarded, held a glint of youth and sorrow. In that hush between night sounds and breath, he kissed her, tenderly, without expectation. Diane returned it, her hand tightening in his, but it was a fleeting surrender. As quickly as the moment blossomed, it passed.

She rose, smoothing her skirts as if to press the feeling back into the fabric. He looked away, ashamed of his hope. In the days that followed, they spoke gently, with the same familiar warmth, but a certain distance had crept in, like autumn’s chill through an open window. When the time came to part, they held one another a beat too long, each pretending it was merely courtesy. But the ache lingered in their silence, made sharper by the memory of what nearly was.

But all things, no matter how sweet, must come to an end. The morning of their departure arrived with a heavy sky, rain misting the hotel’s grand entrance. Richard’s train would take him north, Diane’s to the south. On the platform, they lingered a moment longer than necessary, their hands nearly touching before propriety pulled them apart.

“I hope we meet again, Mr. Calloway,” she said, her voice steady, but her eyes betraying her with a wistful sadness.

“Perhaps in another place, another time,” he replied, tipping his hat before stepping onto his train. She turns, a solemn tear cascades down her face.

Decades later, the Hotel Pulaski, once a symbol of Pulaski’s golden era, met its own departure. In the mid-1960s, its walls, which had held so many stories, maybe even one like this, were brought down to make way for progress.

The "People's Bank of Pulaski" started operations in 1902 in the old Pulaski Land and Improvement Company building. Then, it moved to the Dalton Building until 1950, when it finally moved into the Pulaski Hotel. The bank later demolished the old hotel and built the present building on the same site.

In its place rose a modern bank, yet today it only sits as another empty shell. Yet, for those who remember, the echoes of the Hotel Pulaski remain, sounds of footsteps on polished floors, of laughter in the dining hall, a small boy playing with his toy and two lonely souls who found solace in each other for a fleeting moment in time.