Betty Larosa
Why would wealthy Philip Creighton leave his bride of only seven months to join the Union army at the outset of the Civil War--with the hope of being killed?
That is the question at the heart of Creighton’s Crossroads, Betty Larosa’s novel of love, war, betrayal and retribution. Creighton‘s Crossroads is the first book in a four-part family saga.
Philip Creighton is jarred from the privileged existence he’s always known and is forced to re-assess his view of life after sharing war-time experiences with a cross-section of soldiers from different states. These experiences take him from fashionable Washington soirees to the bloody trenches of Petersburg, Virginia, but his emotional journey is even longer and more difficult.
Larosa, who lives in Bridgeport, West Virginia, near the heart of Civil War country, with her husband Gene, felt inspired to write about the human wreckage left in the wake of that war. During her research, she visited many of the battlefields and all the locations mentioned in the four books.
Betty Larosa has always loved history and has always loved to read. When she was in high school, she concealed Gone with the Wind inside her textbooks so she could read it during class “No wonder I had trouble passing geometry,” Larosa says. Being married, working, and raising two sons filled the greater part of her life before West Virginia’s statehood centennial celebration sparked an interest in the Civil War. It was then she became intrigued by that era. Living in the state that was born out of that conflict made travel pleasant and convenient to do research at the battle sites mentioned in her four-part saga.
Larosa and her husband live in Bridgeport, West Virginia, where they pursue their interests.
There was nothing in the rising wind that held even a whiff of foreboding. Or possibilities.
But, on this brisk October evening, Philip Creighton was too distracted to notice. Thanks in no small measure to this most recent argument with his mother about his unexplained absences from those damned monthly socials she held for the chosen few of the town.
As he hurried down Main Street toward the Strand Hotel, his hands thrust into the pockets of his greatcoat, he decided that he definitely was not in the mood for this meeting with a New York businessman.
Lifting his face into the wind, Philip paused under the pool of light from a gas street lamp and gazed across the street at the bank established by his ancestor, the original Philip Creighton who had settled and developed the Susquehanna River valley town that now bears his name-- Creighton’s Crossroads. At the end of the block stood the yellow brick building occupied by the family-owned newspaper that still exerts considerable influence in the area.
Everywhere he looked, Philip could see evidence of his ancestors’ civic involvement and ambition by forging their distinctive mark on this Pennsylvania community. He stood transfixed in the wash of the street lamp, struck suddenly by the realization that something was missing from his life. Here I am, he thought, twenty-six years old with nothing to show for my life so far. Nothing, except acting as caretaker to the Creighton holdings--still living with my parents, and fending off Mother’s insistent meddling into my life.
He paused in his musings and shook his head. Damn it, he thought, this latest episode with Mother is forcing me to face several uncomfortable truths. It is long past time that I stop drifting along on the backs of my ancestors and strike out on my own. I am perfectly capable of making significant contributions to this community and building my personal legacy.
Then perhaps, I can rid myself of this great emptiness in my life.
With renewed energy and purpose, Philip now felt ready to face his business meeting, still unaware of portents swirling in the wind.
He entered the Strand Hotel lobby lit with gas chandeliers and an inviting fire that crackled in the huge fireplace. Pausing at the dining room door, he handed his greatcoat to an employee and surveyed the few diners inside.
The maitre d’ greeted Philip with a bow. “Good evening, sir. Your table is ready.”
“Thank you, Adolphus. I see there aren’t many folks dining out this evening.”
“Monday evenings are usually slow,” Adolphus said. “This cold snap may have kept most people indoors. My mother predicts that we can expect snow flurries later tonight and she is usually correct about those things.”
“Yes, she is,” Philip chuckled. “Give your mother my best wishes.”
“Yes, sir, I will. Thank you for remembering her.”
Philip followed Adolphus to his table, smiling at the other diners as he strode by. Nearly six feet tall, broad-shouldered and trim, he boasted a full head of black curly hair, the hereditary mark of a Creighton. Those who had the misfortune of crossing him had seen his dark eyes flash fire, but he was, on the whole, even tempered and generous to the less fortunate.
“I am meeting a Mr. Ryder this evening. Please show him to my table when he arrives.”
Slipping Adolphus a generous tip, he added, “I’ll have some bourbon now to take the chill off, and a bottle of champagne from my private stock later on.”
“Very good, sir.”
Relaxing over his bourbon, Philip consulted his notes about this evening’s meeting. He was scribbling a note to himself when he heard a soft feminine voice say, “Mr. Creighton?”
He jumped to his feet, nearly spilling his drink. “Yes, may I help you?” He smiled at the young lady in a dark green suit, clutching a fur muff. Her auburn hair, piled high on her head, was held in place by pearl hairpins. Green eyes regarded him evenly. Everything about her, he noted with appreciation, spoke of elegance and breeding.
She extended her hand. “My name is Samantha Ryder. I believe we have an appointment.”
“You are S. A. Ryder?” he asked in an incredulous voice. Grinning sheepishly, he shook her hand. “Forgive me, I was expecting--”
“A man? Then I am sorry to disappoint you, sir.”
“Oh no,” he stammered. “Believe me, I am anything but disappointed. May I order you a drink?” He motioned to Adolphus for service.
Setting her muff aside, she took the seat Adolphus held for her. “Champagne, please.”
“I have already taken the liberty of ordering.” Snuffing out his cheroot in deference to her, several questions immediately popped into his mind. He asked the most obvious question first.
“Was your husband unable to make the trip?”
“My husband is deceased,” she replied in a strained voice.
The struggle for control of her emotions did not escape Philip’s eye. “I’m sorry. How thoughtless of me.”
She shook her head. “You had no way of knowing. It is I who beg your forgiveness, Mr. Creighton. I should have been more specific in my letter.”
