Wendy Rich Stetson – Guest Post
Looking for a magical spot to get engaged? Might I suggest a gazebo.
More specifically, a whimsical, Victorian gazebo ringed by wild tiger lilies in a tiny mountain town that time forgot.
photo by Terry Wild
Nestled in the Endless Mountains of Pennsylvania, Eagles Mere is a gem of a village. If you didn’t grow up in PA, you’ve likely never heard of it. Even if you did, the odds are slim. At the turn of the 20th century, Eagles Mere was a booming resort town, hugely popular among the residents of Philadelphia’s Main Line. The magnificent, Queen Anne style “cottages” lining the leafy streets are a testament to the wealth that once congregated in this summer community. And crystalline Eagles Mere Lake, dotted on sunny summer afternoons by striped sails and colorful kayaks, is a haven.
The Eagles Mere Playhouse was legendary in its day, attracting well-known actors such as Charlton Heston and Patricia Neal to tread the boards. I grew up in farm country not far away as the crow files, though the wide-open fields and rolling ridges of my hometown are nothing like the forests surrounding Eagles Mere Lake. In my early twenties, I found my way to the storied Players Cottage on Pennsylvania Avenue as a teacher and performer at the Ensemble Theatre Community School. That summer, I fell in love with the quaint historic town and its Sweet Shop ice cream parlor and quaint sandy beach, and of course, with its gazebo.
On a summer night in 1993, my then boyfriend and I lingered on the steps of that Victorian folly, gazing into the heavens and whispering plans for the future. Overhead, the sky was impossibly starry, and a lifetime unspooled before us like the sparkling, silver path of the Milky Way. Sitting at his side in the dark, I had a sudden inkling he might, out of the blue, ask me to marry him. With a heart-fluttering thrill, I realized if he did, I would say yes. But he is a New Hampshire boy and impulsive as a hunk of granite. A spur of the moment marriage proposal was not the way this particular future doctor chose to make major life decisions. But he considered it, that night under the stars. And somehow, I knew he considered it. A year later, in that very same gazebo, he got down on one knee, and with a ring that I helped pick out, he proposed.
What surprises me, as I write this post twenty-seven summers later, is that until now, I never drew the connection between that mountaintop gazebo and the gazebo that brings together the hero and heroine in my debut romance, “Hometown.” In a little town (not unlike my hometown), a tall red-haired young woman (not unlike me) finds the courage to ask a strong and silent Amish carpenter (not unlike my husband) to build a very special gazebo in her yard. He agrees, and in many ways, that gazebo brings them together. Though the gazebo in my story bears little resemblance to the one in Eagles Mere, the two structures are of one family. Call them summer houses, follies, or belvederes, gazebos exist for no other reason than to bring joy. Their mission is to beautify, delight, and inspire.
I can’t imagine a better place to begin a life together.
When all roads lead home, choosing one is far from simple…
When Tessa's big-city plans take the A Train to disaster, she lands in her sleepy hometown, smack in the middle of the most unlikely love triangle ever to hit Pennsylvania's Amish Country.
Hot-shot Dr. Richard Bruce is bound to Green Ridge by loyalty that runs deep. Deeper still is Jonas Rishel's tie to the land and his family's Amish community. Behind the wheel of a 1979 camper van, Tessa idles at a fork in the road. Will she cruise the superhighway to the future? Or take a slow trot to the past and a mysterious society she never dreamed she'd glimpse from the inside?
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EXCERPT:
The girl entwined her fingers in her skirt and tugged the fabric tight. “Your hair is the same color as my cat, and she’s the best cat in the world.” In a heartbeat, she fled and buried her face in the man’s lap.
“My goodness. What a compliment. Thank you.” She fumbled with the clasp of her wallet, discovering only then she smooshed her thumb deep into the whoopie pie.
The elfin child giggled and bounced on bare toes.
Standing, the man swept her into his arms and smiled down at Tessa. “Rebecca has not seen many women with ginger hair.”
Ginger hair. For years, she was tormented by boneheaded boys shouting, “Carrot Top” and “Flame.” No one ever called her mane ginger. Beneath his candid gaze, her curls heated like embers, warming her from top to toe. Who was this man?
The girl wriggled, knocking askew his straw hat.
He tossed her under one arm like a sack of flour and righted it, loosening a tawny curl that escaped the wide brim and fell over one brow. His gaze passed over Tessa’s face.
Her unruly hair and short shorts tweaked at her consciousness. What did the Amish call outsiders? English? She was definitely dressed like an English woman. And not one from a Jane Austen novel.
He deposited the giggling girl right-side up on the floor and approached the table. “I’ve rarely seen hair that color myself. Like a copper penny.”
She stared at the mangled whoopie pie and blushed even deeper. For a brief moment, she felt his gaze trail down her body like a caress. Or did she?
