Crestmont

In memory of my parents,

 
N. John and Dorothy L. Weiss

Who nurtured my other voice — singing.

Author’s Note

I was inspired to write this novel when my husband, Ernie, and I stayed overnight at The
Crestmont
Inn in November, 2006. The restful atmosphere of the inn, the graciousness of innkeepers Fred and
Elna
Mulford
, and the beauty of the surrounding area captivated me. More importantly for this work, the rich history of the inn struck me. We stayed in The Evergreen Lodge, which was converted into its current form from staff quarters built in 1926. Small staff rooms that housed two or three waitresses in the 1920s through the 1970s were cut through to create the large and luxurious suite where we stayed. Original transoms over the doors and antiques from the inn’s early years perked my interest about how these staffers lived and worked. I have attempted to remain faithful to the spirit of the
Crestmont
in my imaginings of their stories.

William and Mary Warner, William and Margaret Woods and Peg Woods Dickerson are actual people who, at various times, administered the original
Crestmont
Inn. Eleanor Woods was the younger of the two Woods daughters. Sid Fox served as faithful steward from 1901-1947. All of their names and dates are real. Their characterizations and that of opera singer Rosa Ponselle are wholly the author’s creation and in no way are intended to represent their real lives. Warren Sloan was my maternal grandfather. He invented the automatic pinsetter with his partner, Joe Clark, and later sold the patent to AMF Bowling. The other
Crestmont
staff, guests, and residents of Eagles Mere are entirely fictional.

In an attempt to steep myself in the historical knowledge necessary to lend the novel authenticity, I made numerous visits to Eagles Mere and The
Crestmont
Inn during the writing of this book. I interviewed not only the
Mulfords
, current owners, but also former employees of the inn. Shopkeepers and residents of the town shared stories with me. Thanks to all who fueled my enthusiasm to research a place about which they are impassioned.

Writing fiction affords the author the flexibility to modify events to suit the story. Although I endeavored to maintain the spirit of Eagles Mere, I found it necessary to make some revisions in its physical and historical detail. I expanded the size of the lake to give shore front to The
Crestmont
Inn’s property. The reader may note certain liberties taken in historical dates, such as the inception of the tennis tournaments. I hope others who love Eagles Mere will be forgiving of any modifications necessary to make the narrative plausible and enjoyable.

The
Crestmont
Inn, a unique historic country inn, is a hidden treasure in the northern foothills of the
Appalachians
. It is nestled in the mountaintop town that seems timeless, Eagles Mere,
Pennsylvania
, which is listed in the National Register of Historic Places. Beautifully appointed rooms, sumptuous dining, gracious innkeepers and attention to detail are some of the many reasons to visit the inn. Set on the highest point in the picturesque Victorian village, the inn is surrounded by state parks, breathtaking vistas, and one of nature’s wonders, pristine
Eagles
Mere
Lake
.

There have been many attempts to explain how the mountaintop lake came to be. I gave a new twist to an old Indian legend. I hope a spirit of healing is reflected in my retelling of the story.

Bush and Barbara James, former employees of The
Crestmont
Inn, reflect on Eagles Mere. “To really understand Eagles Mere is to know…that indeed the stars do shine a little brighter here, the lake is purer, the air fresher, the wild flowers more abundant, the people friendlier; and life moves inexorably slower so that what little time we are permitted can be more fully spent in escaping to our private island on the mountain.”

“It is not by idle chance that I have come here.”

—Latin proverb

“Sing praises to the Lord…oh, rejoice in his presence.

 
He gives families to the lonely…”

—Psalm 68:4, 6
TLB

Prologue

Eagles Mere,
Pennsylvania

“I will arise and go now, for always night and day

I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore…

I hear it in the deep heart’s core.”

—William Butler Yeats

The Eagle rested on the hemlock, quiet but in
tent
. His dark
brown plumage blended with the branches, his yellow hooked bill the only hint of his presence. He watched for the coming of spring and for the enemy of the deer. His keen eyesight, coupled with his ability to swivel his head, enabled him to see the
Haudenosaunee
moving across the land from the north. Spreading his majestic wings, he soared high, willing the approaching Native Americans to feel his disapproval and change direction. He did not fear for his own safety, for he knew the
Haudenosaunee
revered him, but he sensed impending danger for his friends, the scarce white deer.

The
Haudenosaunee
, also called the People of the Long House, ignored his entreaty and continued their approach. When they reached his mountain, he called to warn the deer. They clambered for safety up a small hemlock-covered hill that rose above the valley, sacred in its peacefulness, home of the swallows and bluebirds.

Ever mindful of his family’s hunger, the eagle sought the mice and squirrels that breakfasted upon the succulent
Juneberry
bush. He swooped down, grabbed his prey with his talons, and soared over the valley to his nest. The basin he crossed was cut into a mountain, with springs of water rising from its floor. Rhododendron, mountain laurel, hemlock and white pine gave eagles nesting places for their families and shelter from the wind.

Stormy Torrent, chief of the
Haudenosaunee
, gazed respectfully at the soaring eagle and felt its presence a good omen for his people’s hunting. Annually, after the Maple Festival in the spring, he led his people south from the lakes shaped like fingers to find new planting grounds for the corn, beans and squash that sustained them. Some of his people still wore the cornhusk foot coverings from last harvest. He needed to find deer for venison and leather for tunics, leggings and moccasins. A mountain rose before him. Thrusting his spear upward, he began to climb. Obediently, his people followed. He anticipated the aroma of venison smoking and the dancing and singing of the women and children for the joy of sustenance. His newly captured
Susquehannock
slave, Laurel Eyes, would keep him warm at night.

Laurel Eyes, frightened and angry, labored behind him with her packs. Her tribe, the
Susquehannock
or the People of the
Muddy
River
, had refused to join the Five Nation League and were thus hated by the
Haudenosaunee
. Capturing her was a conquest bestowing great honor on Stormy Torrent. The
Haudenosaunee
women equally shared respect, leadership and the carrying burden with the men in the tribe. Laurel Eyes, however, struggled not only with her own pack but also his, her strength fueled by hatred. He had wrenched her away from her life. Now she longed for her life to be over.

Stormy Torrent surveyed the valley, a chasm cut into the earth with curious wellsprings dotting its bedrock. He knew the rumor that the
Susquehannock
had chosen this as the sacred departure place for their dead and he could feel the eerie presence of the enemy spirits. Momentarily afraid, he knew he must demonstrate courage by descending into the chasm to desecrate his enemy’s burial grounds. Laurel Eyes would accompany him and he would break her. She was his now, all ties to her
Susquehannock
tribe severed.

With a high-pitched cry to summon the attention of his people, he grabbed Laurel Eyes and pushed her toward rock steps that led below. Not wanting to dishonor her people’s remains, she stubbornly planted her feet in refusal. He dragged her, wailing, into the depths. His people watched. Only the echoes of her screams cut the silence that followed.

The
Haudenosaunee
waited, fearful of the Great Spirit’s punishment for their arrogant leader’s desecration of the sacred spot. The wind soughed through the hemlocks, counting the minutes that passed. A squirrel, ignorant of the tension, scolded his mate. A final anguished scream echoed from below. Then silence. Stormy Torrent, his face contorted, returned alone.

“The one known as Laurel Eyes is no more. Her spirit has joined her people, our enemy. I confess to you, my children, that I have committed a wrongdoing. Had I not forced her into disgrace, she would not have died of sorrow in the chasm. We camp here tonight. The deer have punished us with their absence, so there is no meat. Tomorrow we move south.”

The night passed long for the people. Eventually, they slept. The Great Spirit looked down upon them, weeping for the foolishness of Stormy Torrent. His eyes welled with tears of sad forgiveness, flowing into the basin. The eagle awoke, and his hot tears joined with those of the Great Spirit. All tears mingled together, producing a soft, cleansing rain. The rain grew stronger, filling the lake. All night the tears washed away the evil that had been done.

At dawn, the
Haudenosaunee
awoke. Amazed, they watched while the sun cleared the mist from a crystal, tranquil lake where the chasm had been. Afraid to allow them to drink, Stormy Torrent bade them pack quickly. He led them south, never to forget what had happened in this magical place.

The deer, reassured of their safety by the eagle, carefully descended the little hill. Before them lapped peaceful, sweet water, which in meeting their tongues dissolved their fear along with their thirst.

“Name the water ‘Spirit Tears,’” called the eagle. But the Great Spirit wanted instead to honor the inhabitants of the woods that surrounded it.

“Let the cherished white deer whose lives were spared name the lake,” declared the Great Spirit.

Humbled by the honor, the deer cried in unison, “The eagle saved us with his warning and joined your tears for Stormy Torrent. Let the lake be called ‘Eagles Tears,
Eagles
Lake
, Eagles Mere.’”

And the Great Spirit smiled because the lake was named for the forgiveness that filled it.

Eagles Mere,
Pennsylvania