The Greatest Love Story Never Told

By William Wresch

After her husband is killed, Jessica retreats to her resort in Galena, Illinois. While she is deep in mourning, a Hollywood film company comes to the resort and invites her to join them making a film about Narcissa Whitman, the woman who helped create the Oregon Trail. Jessica travels with the film company supplying food and transportation, but also working as an extra. They travel the entire Oregon Trail from Kansas City to Portland, learning more about Narcissa Whitman as they go. The work is hard, but as Jessica travels the Trail, she finds new love, and new direction in her life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: William Wresch
• Release date: Feb 8, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463961353

William Wresch

I have three sets of books here. The first is an alternative history of the US, envisioning how things might have gone had the French prevailed in the French and Indian War. That series comes from some personal experiences. I have canoed sections of the Fox, and driven along its banks. I have followed the voyageur route from the Sault to Quebec and traveled from Green Bay to New Orleans by car and by boat. My wife and I have spent many happy days on Mackinac Island and in Door County. The Jessica Thorpe series is very different. It takes place in the tiny town of Amberg, Wisconsin, a place where I used to live. I wanted to describe that town and its troubles. Initially the novel involved a militia take over of the town, and it was called "Two Angry Men." But both men were predictable and boring. I had decided to have the story narrated by the town bartender - Jessica - and I soon realized she was the most interesting character in the book. She became the lead in the Jessica Thorpe series. I restarted the series with a fight over a proposed water plant with Jessica balancing environmental rights and business rights. I put Jessica right in the middle of a real problem we are experiencing here in Wisconsin (and most other places). How badly does a tiny town need jobs? How much environmental damage should we accept? The third series changes the lead character. Catherine Johnson solves mysteries. She also travels. It took her to many places I have been. The last several books take place in Russia. I admit I have no idea what is motivating the current madness there. Catherine looks, she tries to help, she struggles. What else can any of us do?

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The Greatest Love Story Never Told

A Jessica Thorpe Novel

By William Wresch

Copyright 2019 William Wresch

Smashwords Edition

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After her husband is killed, Jessica retreats to her resort in Galena, Illinois. While she is deep in mourning, a Hollywood film company comes to the resort and invites her to join them in a film about Narcissa Whitman, the woman who helped create the Oregon Trail. Jessica rebuilds her life and finds new love on the way to Oregon.

Chapter 1

Willie Meets Willie

This story is about Narcissa Whitman and her role in creating the Oregon Trail. We made a movie about her. I helped. Granted, I was just an extra and a body double and the caterer as we traveled the Trail, but I think I was useful. And I think I can tell her story. But I have a short story I want to tell first. A bit about me and why I helped with the film. You can skip it if you like. Just jump ahead to Chapter 2. But if you don’t mind, I thought a bit of introduction. Some explanation for why I joined the Hollywood folks on the Trail. And a memory. Me and Willie.

Here's Willie’s story.

Willie and I were in Galena, Illinois. Much as I love my home in Amberg, Wisconsin, Galena was more fun. Our resort there had great music, great people, and great memories. So we used it as our headquarters for Heritage Hotels, now numbering ten. We had the seven I acquired with the help (and apologies) of the FBI (long story, best told elsewhere), and three we had bought over the last two years – La Crosse, St. Paul, and Duluth. In all three cases local owners – and the city mayors – came to us. We had a reputation. We could give new life to old hotels.

We added several management people to the front office at Galena, and I spent some time visiting our hotels and dealing with occasional problems, but we hired carefully, and much of the daily grind was handled by people who were pretty talented. So much of my day started with office chores but ended on the dance floor.

The Galena Resort had three different music venues, one of which was handled by Willie. You should know that Willie’s real name was Nelson Wilson (his folks loved Willie Nelson) and he started singing Willie in high school and college (very minor gigs). When he joined the FBI, he made the mistake of listing his former gigs. One was at an underworld bar. They sent him straight back undercover, and he remained undercover through a twenty-five-year career. That’s where we met.

So, jump ahead a few years. Willie leaves the FBI, we marry, and he helps run our hotels. And he still performs. Willie Sings Willie actually occurred in our smallest venue, but that’s the way Willie liked it. He sang Willie Nelson songs, couples danced, I tended bar in the back of the room, and when he put a tape on for breaks, he and I would dance. And yes, he sang softly in my ear while he held me tight and managed to get at least one hand on my ass for most of the dance. One more reason to love our time in Galena.

One night Willie was doing his second set, and I was mixing margaritas, and in walked Willie Nelson. I about dropped my pitcher. It really was Willie Nelson. And he walked straight up to the stage, got his guitar out of a case, and sat down next to my Willie. They were a duet. What the hell? My Willie is sitting there like Willie Nelson came in to join him every Tuesday or something. And I noticed – for the first time – there is a second chair and second mic all ready for the man. So this was expected? How?

I am standing behind the bar, frozen in place, but I am the only statue in the room. Everyone else is moving towards the stage. The tables had only been about half full before (my Willie is good, but not that good), but now there was a rush of people in from other places, phones taking pictures and texting, and general noise from conversations and real excitement. Meanwhile, my Willie and the Willie do Blue Eyes Crying. A few couples dance but the room is full now, and everyone just wants to get close to the stage and take pictures and videos. The two Willies just sing and smile.

They finish that number, and the Willie Nelson says, Jess. He pauses and looks back at me behind the bar. There is a man up here who would like to dance with you.

Well, I am no fool. The room was crowded, but people let me through, and I came up to the stage. Meanwhile my Willie took off his guitar and held out his arms to me. I practically jumped into them. Willie Nelson sang You were always on my mind, my Willie held me tight, the room exploded in applause, and I kissed every part of Willie’s face I could reach.

Willie Nelson finished the number, and then said (really) My turn. The two Willie’s exchanged places, my Willie played On the Road Again, and the Willie Nelson and I danced, well, we danced as well as we could given how crowded the place was. If you are curious, Willie Nelson is pretty old, and fairly short. As he stepped toward me, I kicked off my shoes, or I might have been taller than him. But when you are right there with him, you don’t think about the lines on his face, or how gray his hair is. You notice how his hair is braided down his back, and you wonder what woman got to do that, and you notice his huge eyes. And his big smile.

The man can dance, and people backed off just enough so he could spin me, moving pretty loose and fast for a man his age. When the song ended, I had to hug him, and I had to ask, Thank you for coming, but…

Willie asked, so here I am.

Willie asked?

Years ago, I walked into a bar I should not have walked into. I was looking for my favorite plant. Your Willie waved me up on stage, and in between numbers he blew his cover and warned me not to go into the back room. Narcs.

Wow.

Yes. And I have always wanted to see this place. I wish I had been able to meet Shakira.

I think he wanted to say more, but people were pressed all around us. He smiled, thanked me for the dance, and then danced with an endless stream of women while my Willie did Blue Eyes crying about six times in a row while women surrounded Willie, took selfies, and offered him room keys.

He danced for almost an hour while my Willie sang every Willie song he knew, usually three or four times. Then the Willie got back up on stage, and they did a set for another forty-five minutes. My guy actually did a nice job with some harmonies. I was back at the bar. Fortunately, two other bartenders joined us (my people are really sharp), and we managed to keep the waiting lines from getting too long. We were helped by the fact that almost everyone was riveted by Willie’s presence and performance.

Eventually the set ended, the two Willie’s talked for a few minutes, and then the Willie Nelson packed up his guitar and left, pulling a train of people behind him, some talking to him as he walked, some just happy to have another look at him.

Once the room cleared, I walked up to the stage, grabbed my Willie by the belt, and pulled him behind me back to our room. I wanted him in our bed and in me, and I wanted it now. And that’s what I got. The man performed perfectly, even though he was being hampered by a crazy lady who had her arms around his ribs tight enough to stop his breathing, and her mouth all over his face. I was insatiable. He was fabulous. My man.

Sometime later that night, I had my arms and legs wrapped around him so tightly he couldn’t move, but I had calmed enough that I could talk. I hoped he could too.

You invited Willie Nelson.

It was easier than you might think.

Because you saved him from a drug bust.

Because he’s a good man.

Thank you.

This ended our conversation for a while. I kept my face smashed against his, and my legs, well, they competed with my arms to see which could hold him the best. It was a close competition. He seemed determined to talk, and eventually he was able to draw enough breath to continue.

This was the first part of your anniversary gift. For the second part, I will take you anywhere in the world you…

Paris.

Sure. If that’s where…

Paris.

I pulled his head down next to mine and kissed him until we both fell asleep.

Paris. Why Paris? I had seen Casablanca a dozen times. Ingrid Bergman wore a blue dress and a white hat with a wide brim. She and Rick rode around the Arc de Triomphe in a convertible, drank champagne, and listened to music. Somewhere in there I was certain she had sat with him at a sidewalk cafe. I would do that. I would not leave my man at the trail station. We would do Paris.

I think back on that night often. Yes, having Willie Nelson at the resort was pretty special, but that was only a small part of my memories. There was so much happening that evening. My Willie and I together, working our resort, playing music, dancing, smiling, touching, holding each other. A moment. We all have them, right? A moment that is perfect. A moment we go back to as we drift off to sleep or raise from our memories as we slowly wake in the morning. A moment we love. A moment we know is special. A moment that warms us and makes us feel gratitude. It happened. It was beautiful. My Willie with me, my thoughts of wearing a blue dress and riding around Paris. Willie holding me. I will always have that night. That moment.

Chapter 2

Hollywood Arrives

Willie was killed two days later. Don’t ask me to tell that story. I refuse. I have told it too many times. Wrong place, wrong time. That’s all I will say. I gritted my teeth through the funeral and memorial services, listened to I am so sorry… countless times, and just tried to get through it all. Days passed, then weeks, then months.

Back in Galena, the business continued as before. We had hired good people and promoted the right ones. Making Bobbi Steiner manager in Dubuque was a genius move on my part. Making the former manager – Andy Tower – corporate trainer ranks up there pretty high too. I had sent them down to Springfield to enliven that hotel, and then sent them to Champagne. It was like pumping adrenalin into those old places. They were currently putting two days a week into the La Crosse hotel, and I was sure we would see miracles there as well. I knew both were being pursued by Hilton and Marriot. My response was to keep them based in Dubuque where they each had family, to boost their salaries to $100,000, and to give them new titles – Chief Operating Officer, and Chief Training Officer, respectively. I also paid off Bobbi’s student loans. I still might not keep them forever, but every month on the job was marvelous for the company.

While my managers worked, what did I do? I did what I had done before. I had lost so many loves in my life I had my own protocol. I cried all night. At dawn I got out a pad of paper, and I started writing. About Willie. How we met, what we said, what we did, where we did it. I wrote. If I got tired, I went back to my bed. If I got thirsty, I drank water. I ate nothing. I showered, I changed clothes, I wrote. Page after page after page. I wrote about Willie, reliving every moment. As I wrote, I could see his face, I could feel his hands, I could feel his breath on my face as we laid together. I kept writing, and remembering, and smiling. I had been so lucky.

By eight each morning I was ready to face the world. My world. The Galena Resort. I did my walk – all seven buildings, all walkways and gardens. I think I was less investigating and more appreciating. The place had been well designed. No building was more than three stories, and all were built into the side of the hill leading down to the river. Shaded by trees and separated by gardens, you never had the sense of how big the place was. You saw beauty. And, as the Illinois summer heated up, you felt the shade of all those trees.

Then breakfast. We have several dining areas. I would pick one, work the room, talk to any and all, and at some point, just join a table. They would tell me about yesterday’s wedding, or tonight’s reception, and I would feed as much off their joy as I fed off my eggs and toast. A good way to start my day.

Breakfast over, I would spend much of my day in reception. There to meet and greet, and eventually to meet the Hollywood people.

The Hollywood people arrived in late-May. How do I know they were Hollywood people? Our social media guru told me. By the way, that was the title she wanted on her business cards – Social Media Guru. She was pretty sure all nine planets revolved around her, but she was good at her job. She kept the twitter feed and Facebook pages full of events and celebrities. She had no trouble getting their permission. And we did have a fair number of celebrities -- mostly in the Midwest, but people from the coasts doing a theater tour in Chicago would often manage to get to us for a couple days.

But we didn’t get that many from Hollywood, so when she saw the reservation, Ms. Social Media pulled me aside (yes, she was actually happy when I called her that). Lisa Lang would be coming with four assistants (celebrities never traveled alone), she would be staying five nights. I admitted I had never heard of her. Ms. Social Media promptly took on the airs of a pompous math prof and explained Lang had acted in five movies when young and now had her own production company. I asked why she was coming, at which point Ms. SM got a little huffy, after all we were such a hub, our image had gone viral, so of course everyone wanted to share in the spotlight here. Or she said some variation of those terms, the main point being she was personally making the place famous, so I shouldn’t be surprised if famous people wanted to visit. I didn’t ask if Lisa Lang really was famous since I had never heard of her. I thanked SM, got her out of my office, and went back to work.

Did I greet Lisa Lang and company? Of course. Wasn’t sure what to expect. Bigger woman – maybe five nine. Not good enough to be only that tall, she wore heels that had to be four inches. I am five six and tend to wear low heel pumps. She towered over me, and over everyone else in our reception area. Her people filled in forms. Lisa stood out where she could be seen. She waited for me to come to her, knowing that I would. After all, she was famous. People would come to her.

We talked for a few minutes. I assumed she was going to be high maintenance. She was Hollywood. What else could she be? But initially she made no demands. She even seemed nice. We shook hands, she asked a bit about the history of the resort, and then she was off with her crew in tow. I had met Hollywood and she didn’t seem too bad. I went back to meeting and greeting. We were pretty full. Marriage season.

That evening I worked my usual routine. I started in the marriage bar, stopping at most tables, sitting if asked, saying all the right things about the new marriage videos being projected on the wall. The girls did look good. I bought a few drinks, sipped a Captain and Coke (the bartenders knew under no circumstances was some actual rum to get into that drink. I had a long night ahead of me), and I slowly made my way to the restaurant. There I repeated my approach, standing, talking, stealing a carrot stick or French fry, buying a round, being the consummate hostess.

When I got to the Hollywood table, they seemed to absorb me. Lisa Lang herself stood, hugged me, introduced her assistants, and invited me to join them. I did of course. I thought given enough time I might recognize her from one of her five movies (I learned later they much prefer if you call them films), but I didn’t. Maybe she had grown. When she stood to hug me, she towered over me. I was wrong about her being five nine. She was at least five ten, maybe five eleven. She wasn’t fat. I guess you would call her solid. She was wearing silk, well cut for her, and had shoulder-length blond hair that shown, as did her face from fresh moisturizer. Looks? Good, but she had to be mid- forties, and even movie (sorry, film) star looks fade. Her nose was a bit big, and the skin around her eyes sagged around wrinkles. Time is not a woman’s best friend.

What did we talk about? Lisa Lang, of course. She was embarking on a significant new project. She would bring life to a story the world should know about. The best love story never told. But now she was going to tell it. I got to hear pieces of it. Something about a missionary and the Oregon Trail. She got interrupted by her assistants who wanted to emphasize parts of the story, and she got interrupted by our waitress. Alice came over every two minutes. She brought our food (Lisa Lang had already ordered for all of us), she refilled water glasses, she brought more wine, she asked about our needs, always hovering close, usually right behind me, one hand on my shoulder while she addressed the table. Her skirt brushed my arm every time, and I found myself looking at her. I am not sure her real name is Alice, but that is how I thought of her. She had thick blond hair all the way down her back, deep blue eyes, and resembled every picture book version of Alice-in-Wonderland. I liked her smile.

Lang persisted in telling about her project, mostly emphasizing the woman she wanted the world to know about – Narcissa Whitman. The most beautiful woman of her generation. The most perfect woman in New England. The most spiritual lady a missionary could dream of. The bravest woman in a world of brave women. So, okay, a paragon. I ate my dinner, drank my white wine, and gradually eased my way back from the table. Alice was right there to ask if I needed anything, her hand somehow in mine. I smiled, told her she was doing a great job, and stood, maybe a moment longer than normal, to look into those blue eyes. She really was beautiful.

Next stop, the music venues. Back by popular demand was a Sinatra impersonator. He was actually an ass who liked to order the staff around. So I got there early and stayed within ear shot. It took him about two minutes to get on our sound guy. I walked closer and stood staring at him. That’s all it took. We had dealt with each other before. I signed his check. He would mind his manners. As I watched, he apologized to the sound guy, and went into some weird act clearing his throat.

The guy could sing, and he knew how to work a crowd. He began his set with My Kind of Town, Chicago is, and things went fine from there. I helped at the bar, danced a few times, was back in my room and in bed by midnight.

Around two there was a knock on my door. Mrs. Wilson, it’s Monica from the front desk. By the second knock I was up and came to the door.

Yes? I wasn’t wearing much – a white satin night gown that went to my knees. But it was the middle of the night. Who, but Monica, was going to see?

We have gotten several calls about Ms. Lang. People say her dog is barking. I went to her room, and she said you had approved of her dog.

We don’t allow pets. Ever. So I had not approved. But I wasn’t going to ask Monica to handle it. She was great at her job. Been with me six or eight years. Usually it was the new ones who got the graveyard shift, but Monica liked nights, and I trusted how well she covered the place. I slept easy knowing she was at our front door.

Just a minute. I turned and picked up my robe. It was also short, but it had half sleeves and would cover my chest. I put it on and went back to the door. Monica stood blocking my way.

If I may. She reached up and put her fingers in my hair. She got my hair arranged somewhat better, and then adjusted the collar on my robe. I put my hands on her hips while she did it. She finished, smiled, and stood looking at me. I took my hands off her hips.

I will take care of this. Go back to the front desk. Her room number?

1106.

She hesitated for a moment, blocking my way, smiling. Finally she touched my hair one more time and then walked off. I closed my door, and then padded off in bare feet, walking through the area with our shops, and then down a long hallway, listening for the sounds of a dog. Fortunately, I heard none.

1106 is a suite – one of our best. I really did not want to clean up after a dog in there. I knocked on the door, and one of Lang’s assistants immediately opened it. All five of them were there, lounging on cushions on the floor. All were wearing nightgowns, two black, three white, all short. Lang’s was black