The Woman in the Photo (18 page)

Courtesy of the Johnstown Flood Museum Archives, Johnstown Area Heritage Association

SOUTH FORK FISHING AND HUNTING CLUB

Summer 1888

U
nder Mr. Eggar's expert command, the return trip is considerably more enjoyable. The sun has darkened to the color of a fresh egg yolk, the water is as deep blue as a field of violets. With my back against the front of the boat, I note the beauty of where we've been. Lake Conemaugh is a sight to behold. Our
sparkling gem. Mr. Eggar, too, has his back to the front of the boat. In essence, he rows us home
backward
. His steady, circular strokes only highlight the inadequacy of my own oarsmanship. However did I manage to get us to the cove!

“. . .
begged
Mother to let me swim in the pond at Hampstead Heath . . .”

The only blight on our beautiful journey back to the club is Ivy's incessant chatter.

“‘Too
murky,
' she said. Which is exactly the point. Those dreadful spa waters at Friedrichsbad are so . . . so
clinical
.”

I cannot help but wonder if I was ever as immature. Only a few years separate us, though Ivy Tottinger seems closer to Henry's age. Has she no sense that Mr. Eggar might not want to hear every mundane detail of a life he can only imagine?

“I was very nearly forbidden to take this trip to America. Mother feared seasickness across the Atlantic, but I never felt the slightest hint of—”

“Have you lived in the area long, Mr. Eggar?” I interrupt, steering the conversation into a more appropriate arena.

“All my life,” he says, turning his neck so that I might see his profile.

“Your family lives in Johnstown?”

“They do. My father was one of the last puddlers at Cambria Iron. I'm now the youngest blacksmith.” His expansive shoulders straighten as he returns his focus to the shrinking woods behind us. As he expertly glides us through the water, he speaks with the same pride I have heard in Mr. Frick's voice when he boasts of profits at the mill. Says Mr. Eggar loudly into the
air, “My family and my neighbors make the steel that builds America.”

“Goodness!” Ivy exclaims.

I, too, am impressed. It strikes me that none of the men in my social circle have made anything other than money. And most, not even that. Theirs is inherited wealth, not the result of a learned skill.

“Is that
Father
?” Ivy suddenly leans to the right of me to see the shore. Mr. Eggar and I both twist around to look at the front of our cottage. My lips part. I cannot believe my eyes.

“Oh, dear,” I whisper.

Our narrow dock is packed with people. Father and Mr. Tottinger lead the throng. Behind them, I see Colonel Unger, Mr. Ruff, Mr. Frick, Mr. Vanderhoff, and Mr. Mellon. Roderick, Oscar, Albert, and Edmond are there, too, wildly waving their arms, as is James Tottinger. Lining the sand at water's edge are Julia, Addie, and their younger siblings. Mother stands stoically alone while (of course) Francine Larkin makes a show out of comforting a clearly distraught Mrs. Tottinger. She appears to be weeping behind a large white handkerchief.

“A welcoming committee!” Ivy squeals.

Mr. Eggar and I exchange looks as he continues to row us into our fate. Clearly the Tottinger girl is barely beyond an imbecile.

“Did you tell anyone you were going out in the boat?” Mr. Eggar quietly asks me.

I shake my head. “In retrospect,” I say, “that was ill-advised.”

After an astonished moment of silence, he laughs. I cannot
help but laugh with him. Even as I notice the unmistakable chin-strapped hats of the Johnstown Metropolitan Police.

In a cacophony of shouts, orders, and exclamations, we float up to the dock and land against it with a thunk.

“Ivy, dearest, you're alive!”

“Give me your hand.”

“Quickly. A blanket.”

“If you'd drowned, we never would have found you!”

“Who is this man, Elizabeth?”

“Ivy.”
Gasp
. “You're covered in
freckles
.”

In a multitude of flapping hands, Ivy and I are practically lifted out of the skiff. We're both instantly swaddled in blankets and hustled off the dock as if being rescued from a shipwreck.

“We're fine,” I say to deaf ears. “Perfectly warm and dry.”

“. . . fallen croquet mallets . . . we feared the most dire . . .”

“Not the slightest clue!”

“Unforgivable.”

“My precious! What has she done to your ringlets?”

“. . . visions of waterlogged bodies . . .”

“We're
fine
, truly. Ivy—” I look up to see a blanketed Ivy Tottinger burrowed against her mother's voluminous skirt and whisked away. Her brother, James, scurries after the two of them. But not before he glances back at me with the most peculiar look on his face. Is it
amusement
?

“All's well that ends well,” one of the police officers says, corralling the crowd on the shore. “Nothing more to see here.”

Along with the other officers, he turns to take the boardwalk path back to the clubhouse and the stables beyond, where their horses are waiting.

At the steps up to our cottage, Mother's stern expression chills me more than the breeze on the lake. “What possessed you, Elizabeth?”

I have no satisfactory answer. To avoid her accusatory stare, I turn to thank the town boy who rowed us safely back to the family dock.

“Mr. Eggar?”

He is gone. The skiff is secured to the dock piling, the excess line is coiled in a neat circle. The picnic basket sits primly on the pier. Shaking off the blanket in which I am ridiculously wrapped, I turn all the way around and search for that rugged face.

In the midst of the entire hubbub, Eugene Eggar has vanished into the woods he probably knows better than anyone else.

NORTH BEVERLY PARK

Present

T
he lagoon pool was lit lime green. Its free-form shape wound around little palm tree islands like the lines on a topographical map. Robotically wiggling through the water were large, brightly colored mechanical fish. They swam around each other like a party scene in a cool, downtown aquarium. The effect was magical. In the deep end, instead of a diving board, a slide curved out of a rocky structure to spit its riders into the water. This was a pool built for
fun
. Completely opposite to the Adells' pristine infinity rectangle. As Lee furtively hopped over the stucco retaining wall in the dark, she heard the trickle of a water feature from somewhere behind the slide. A Jacuzzi, no doubt, tucked into a private cove.

Quietly, she made her way to the shallow end of the pool. Across the crew-cut lawn, the downstairs windows of the house seemed to bulge with the mass of dancing bodies within. A hip-
hop beat was all bass. The trio by the tennis court had gone inside, or gone somewhere. No one was in sight, just writhing shadows barely visible through the windows. Kicking off her dirty sandals, Lee stepped into the chilly water and swished her feet around, thinking how fun it would be to play Marco Polo in a pool with so many hiding nooks.

“The heat's off.” From the shadows near the house, a familiar voice startled her. When the boy stepped into the light, Lee saw that it was
him
.

“I—” she blurted, unsure what to say next.

“I get it,” he said, ambling toward her. “You were a fish in a former life. You can't resist water. Your secret is safe with me.”

Lee laughed. The boy said, “I've been waiting for you. I saw you walk down the hill. Then back up. Then back down.”

Unnerved, Lee froze. Then she removed both feet from the cold water, blushing, grateful for the darkness. With his chin on his chest the way she'd seen him earlier, the boy said, “That sounded
way
creepier than I intended. Honestly, I haven't been standing here all night watching your movements. Well, not
all
night.”

Again, Lee laughed. She bent over to pick up her sandals. After clapping the soles together to shake off the dirt, she tossed them beneath a nearby chaise. Her cold toes were ten perfectly shaped digits. Her best feature.

“I'm George,” the boy said, standing in front of Lee with his hand extended. He was gangly and shy. But it was the type of shyness that had confidence at its core. George's demeanor bespoke a boy who was raised to believe that all doors were open to him. All he needed to do was grab the handle and turn it.

“George?”
It slipped out. Lee pressed her eyelids shut. “That sounded
way
meaner than I intended.”

When George grinned, Lee noted three divots on his face: two dimples and a cleft in his chin. Her heart hip-hopped, too. They shook hands.

“I would have named myself Bubba,” he said.

“Bubba?”

“Or something like that. But I come from a family of Georges. It was preordained. I'm the fifth.”

“George the Fifth? How regal.”

“My friends call me ‘York.'”

“Ouch. Duke of York. Sorry about the demotion.”

He laughed. “It's much lower than that. They call me York because I live in New York. Among the commoners.”

Lee's toes were frozen. Not that she cared.

“That's a relief,” she said. “I've let my royal etiquette training lapse. Not sure if I bow to a duke. But, as I recall, with a New Yorker, the protocol is giving you the finger, right?”

York laughed full out. In the now-chilly air, Lee felt warm all over. His very essence relaxed her. She felt like someone else. A
clever
girl, reeking of confidence. Even as she discovered that York's face—now on full view—was perfectly pleasing in every way. His eyes were as dark as his hair. His nose was straight and large enough to look masculine. Black stubble on the verge of beard appeared in patches on either side of those massive dimples. Plus his lips, wow, they were down cushions the color of mulberries. Lips that looked as if they always tasted sweet.

York was
way
out of her league. If he knew who she really was, he'd politely excuse himself. If he knew.

“Do you have a name?” York asked. “Nemo, perhaps? Or Ariel?”

Grinning, Lee said, “I'm . . .
Elizabeth.
”

“Like Queen Elizabeth?”

“Exactly.”

He bowed. As she had seen earlier in the Adells' pool, York's loose ringlets fell onto his forehead. He wore light-colored khakis and an ironed white oxford shirt, the sleeves rolled up. On his feet, a pristine pair of black-and-white Air Jordans.

“We are amused,” Lee said, feeling flirty. She drank in York's effortless style and resolved to remove her chandelier earrings as soon as he wasn't looking. Dangly, fake-gold evidence that she was trying too hard. The rest of her ensemble, she reasoned, could pass. Her hair, dark and curly like his, fell nicely down her back with the help of the deep-conditioning shea butter masque she'd applied that afternoon after her swim.

“Want to meet my friends?” York asked.

Lee fought the urge to say,
No. I want to stay out here by this amazing pool and trace the shadows of the water ripple along your chin line.

“Sure,” she said, instead.

Inside, a blast of music assaulted her senses. It was hard not to gawk. The ceiling in the huge room overlooking the pool rose up two stories. Beamed in dark wood, it was a sharp contrast to the white walls and cobalt-blue, green, and sun-yellow floor tiles. The tiles felt cool on her bare feet. Even without shoes, Lee was an inch or two taller than George. Not that he seemed to notice.

There must have been speakers tucked into walls all over the
house because the pulsing music seemed to come from the air itself. The dance floor—really just the center of the enormous room—resembled a giant sea anemone. Bare arms bobbing in the air, bodies undulating in sync. Lee felt her confidence quiver as she spotted one gorgeous blonde after another. Those who weren't dancing were draped decoratively on white furniture along the edges of the massive room. Couches, easy chairs, upholstered chaises were sprinkled in conversational clusters throughout the open space, with a quieter alcove at the far end of the room. How did all that light fabric stay clean? The girls wore skinny jeans and bejeweled high-heeled sandals. They drank pink cocktails and vaped at each other. Real gold and silver spangles decorated their wrists. Lee made a mental note: You really
can
tell the difference between real jewelry and fake. No matter what the Home Shopping Network would have you believe. Thank God she left her cheap sandals outside! As she'd expected, the girls were dressed for the warmth of daylight. Their tight sleeveless tees revealed serious tanning commitments and trainer-led workouts. Lee quickly removed her earrings and tucked them in the pocket of her dress.

“York, my man! Whom do we have here?”

A boy who resembled every other boy at the party marched over to Lee. Like York, he wore light pants and a dress shirt open at the neck with rolled-up sleeves. His excessive brown hair was perfectly tousled and his features were, well,
perfect
. The genetics in that room were mind-blowing.

“Elizabeth, meet Drake,” York yelled over the music.

Of course his name is Drake,
Lee thought, her pulse pumping blood into her face.
No Bubbas in this crowd
.

“Hey, Drake,” she yelled back, wondering if she should shake his hand the way York had shaken hers by the pool. To test the waters, she flopped it in front of her waist in a semiwave. Had he wanted to, Drake could have grabbed it. But his right hand was holding a craft beer bottle and his left was casually tucked in his front pocket. Shaking her hand might have ruined his
GQ
look.

“Elizabeth lives up the hill,” York said.

Lee's heart clutched.

“The Adells' house?”

She swallowed. “Actually,” she hollered, “York found me wandering in the brush.”

Drake laughed. “You know, there are skunks in that hill.”

“Aren't there skunks everywhere? I mean, we
are
in L.A.”

Again, he laughed. York did, too. Drake shouted, “What's your drink?”

“How 'bout something pink?”

“I like her,” he said to York, before turning around to flag a roving waiter. Lee couldn't believe there was a
waiter
at a college party. The last party she went to was in a Northridge garage. When they weren't completely contaminating the keg's spout with their slobbery lips, everyone gulped cheap beer out of red plastic cups. The food was a giant bowl of Doritos.

To the waiter—as handsome as every other male in the room—Drake ordered, “Two Naughty Sauce Stouts and something
pink
for the lady.”

The lady.
Lee liked that.

In a gentlemanly way, Drake put his hand on Lee's back and guided her to the quieter end of the room. York followed.

“Unencrypted biometrics . . . 6TB SSD . . . islands of serrated wrack . . . degaussed cop cams.” Sporadic words poked through the primal beat. They made no sense at all.
The rich even have their own language,
Lee thought. As the threesome snaked their way through the wriggling bodies, Lee mentally calmed herself with the knowledge that no one at the party knew her and no one would ever see her again. The freedom of it felt exhilarating.

In the back alcove, there was more white fabric and dark wood and stunning coeds perched on every surface. It looked like a Tommy Hilfiger ad. With the music now muted, Drake asked, “How is it we've never met?”

Again, Lee's heart lurched. Her gazed quickly flicked over to the corner of the room. “Bösendorfer Imperial?”

Drake's brows shot up. “The lady knows her pianos.”

“A pilot could land a small plane on that soundboard.”

“You play?”

Lee nodded. “Unfortunately, that's exactly right. I
play
. I never got good enough to do more than that.”

York looked perplexed. “What's stopping you?”

What could she say? There wasn't room in the pool house for a
shower,
much less a piano. Not even her secondhand Baldwin.

Thankfully, the waiter appeared. On his tray was a skinny-stemmed, triangular glass full of frosty pink liquid and two brown bottles of beer. Drake gulped the last of his old beer before taking a fresh one. Lee held her glass by the stem.

“To new friends and old money.” Drake raised his beer bottle.

“And pink drinks.” Lee felt suddenly brash. She liked being somebody nobody knew. Someone else entirely.

At that moment, another handsome waiter appeared with a silver tray full of sushi. Lee had never had sushi before. Raw fish at the mall's food court had never seemed like a wise nutritional choice. And she'd once read that cooked rice left at room temperature too long can breed spores of
Bacillus cereus
.

Lee politely declined. York lifted his beer bottle up to his berry-colored lips. Drake leaned in and kissed Lee on the cheek. “Now that you're properly hydrated, I must continue my duties as host. Fabulous meeting you, Elizabeth. Come down anytime to play our Bösendorfer. Or tennis.”

“Will do,” she said, sounding mortifyingly like her mother. Lee brought the pink drink to her lips and took a swig. Instantly, she realized how dangerous the fruity, tart liquid was. It went down much too easily. One gulp too many and she'd be stumbling back up that hill. The only other alcohol she'd ever tasted was beer and she didn't like it. Especially when it came from a germy keg.

No more gulps, girl,
she said silently.
Sip, sip, sip.

With easygoing Drake gone and the distraction of dancing and thumping music off in the distance, awkwardness bubbled up between Lee and York. Suddenly it felt like York was stuck with her whether he wanted to be or not. After all, he did invite her. How could he now cut her loose to roam among strangers?

“I see someone I know,” Lee lied, saving him, pointing her drink at a group of girls gathered in a hallway leading to the mansion's southern wing.

“Oh,” York said. “Okay.” Then he looked so crestfallen Lee changed course. “Know what? Who cares?” she said. “I can see her anytime.”

“No, go ahead. Have a good time.” He swiped a clump of curls off his face and swallowed a gulp of beer from the bottle. “I'm fine.” York looked so vulnerable Lee wanted to gobble back her words and swallow them with a sip of her pink drink. “I've never been keen on parties,” he mumbled.

Keen
. Lee smiled. “Aren't these your friends, too?”

York shook his head. “Most are from Drake's UCLA fraternity and their sister sorority.”

The moment he said it, Lee knew that it was true. They had the
look
. Girls: flat-ironed hair, eyebrows peaked in a professional pluck, salon tans, nail art, jeans that could support a Malawian family. Boys: sockless, deliberately disheveled, shaded with studied stubble, chinos or Brooks Brothers trousers. Smooth, clear, genetically posh skin. No one, Lee noticed, wore a dress. No one let her dark curls tumble down her back.

As if on cue, a Sienna Miller clone walked past and flicked her hair in Lee's direction. She smiled fakely. Lee felt outed. Rich girls could
smell
an interloper in their midst.

“There's only one thing to do,” she said, quickly. “Create our own
fratority
.”

York grinned.

“Eighteen hundred SAT score, or above.”

“Three-point-five GPA.”

“Or above.”

“
Preferably
above.”

Lee laughed and sipped her drink. “No fake nails.”

“No spray tans.”

“No ionic hair irons.” (They were big at BB&B.)