by Mary Hogan
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.)
“No vaping.”
“God, no. Who would want to put germy metal in their mouth?”
Lee couldn’t help but stare at York’s hands. His fingers were long like hers. Only they looked as strong as a basketball center’s. His hands were both smooth and muscled, as well manicured as a girl’s yet not at all prissy. Lee couldn’t believe that a boy with those hands would ever be interested in a girl like her. A girl whose cuticles were usually trimmed with her teeth. Pffft.
“We need a Greek name for our fratority,” he said, his dark eyes flashing. “How about E’na, Di’o, Tri’a?”
Of course he could count in Greek.
“I’m thinking something more accessible,” Lee said. “Like Eeeny, Meeny, Mynee.”
York laughed. A waiter walked past. “Second round, Elizabeth?”
“I’m good.” Her pink drink was still half full. York said, “I could go with Manny, Moe, and Jack.”
“Jacqueline. It’s a fratority, remember?”
Together, they laughed. York’s teeth were flawless. Years of orthodontia, no doubt. Flush with solidarity, Lee said, “I’m not keen on parties either.”
When York grinned, she felt like she was already in love.
Is this how the rich get together? she wondered. No games, no drama? I like you, you like me, let’s banter in a quiet alcove? Or was it just him—George—the Duke of New York?
Lee didn’t care. For that night—one night—she would be Queen Elizabeth from North Beverly Park and everything would be possible. Tomorrow, York would fly home and she’d turn back into Cinderella.
Pink drink in hand, she suggested they sit outside, by the amazing pool, and watch the fake fish.
“If it’s not too chilly,” she said.
They snaked through the crowd to the back door. Outside, it was too chilly. For Lee, anyway. Beneath the stars over the house on the hill, the warm air rising up from the valley had cooled to the midfifties. Lee tried not to shiver as she reclined on a teak chaise facing the pool. She didn’t want the night to end; she didn’t want to go back in the house.
“Here.” Reaching into a fat wicker basket behind the lounges, York pulled out three huge towels. He handed Lee two, then spread the other one over himself. “All the comforts of home,” he said.
Grateful, she unfolded her billowy towels and snuggled under them. Together, side by side, they stared up at the twinkling sky and down at the undulating fish in comfortable silence. From inside the house, the party showed no sign of slowing down.
“How long have you lived up the hill?” York asked, turning his head.
“Feels like forever.”
“Do you go to UCLA? USC?”
She swallowed. “I’m taking a break. Columbia is my dream school.”
“I’m a sophomore at Columbia!”
Of course he was. She quickly buried her jealousy. “What are you studying?”
“Premed. You? When you’re off your break, that is.”
Lee pulled her arm out from under the warm towel and reached down for her pink lady drink. “At the moment I’m into textiles.” She omitted, And as-seen-on-TV junk.
“Are you considering Parsons in the fashion district?”
“No.” She took a dainty sip. Tuition at Parsons School of Design, she happened to know, was $50,000 a year. Which didn’t include an apartment in New York City and enough money for subway fare and ramen noodles from Costco. Not that Columbia was any cheaper. “Honestly, I’m not sure where I’ll end up going.”
“Did either of your parents go to Columbia?” York asked.
Lee stifled a snort. “I can’t imagine them leaving California.”
“My parents are that way about New York. To them, no other city exists. But I’m lucky, I guess, that my dad graduated from Columbia. I got in on a Legacy Admission.”
It didn’t escape Lee’s notice that York assumed her only hurdle would be admission instead of tuition.
“Not that I had a choice,” he mumbled.
“What does that mean?”
“My life has been planned from birth. Trinity, Choate, Columbia, Harvard postgrad. If I don’t cure cancer, my parents will consider me an ignominious failure.”
There he goes with the SAT words, Lee thought. Though she said, “I’m sure that’s not true.”
“It is. Drake and I went to Choate together. He is my parents’ ideal of the perfect son. Totally driven. They send me out here for a couple of weeks every summer hoping he’ll rub off on me.”
“Has he?”
York swivels his head to gaze up at the black sky. “I’ll never be who they want me to be. My dad is obsessed with making money and my mom is obsessed with spending it. Theirs is a match made on Madison Avenue.”
“So, who do you want to be?”
“Still to be determined. Just not that.”
Sighing, Lee said, “I know what you mean. I love my parents, but I don’t want to end up like them.”
“What do they do?”
Lee again sipped her pink drink. “Mom, well, it seems like her whole life has been a mission to help the helpless. And Dad, well, Daddy is a free spirit. He’s currently looking for his muse somewhere in Topanga Canyon.”
Last she heard, anyway. Lee downed the rest of her cocktail. Did she just say “Daddy”?
“My father would disown me if I became a free spirit.”
“Isn’t that what a free spirit is? Someone disowned?”
For a long time, York said nothing. Then he twisted onto his side and whispered, “You’re not like other girls, are you?”
He had no idea.
“Around you,” she said, softly, “I’m more like me.”
CHAPTER 30
Courtesy of the Johnstown Flood Museum Archives, Johnstown Area Heritage Association
SOUTH FORK FISHING AND HUNTING CLUB
Summer 1888
Like a wasp’s nest hit with a stick, the clubhouse is abuzz with what is quickly dubbed my escapade. As if I spirited away Ivy Tottinger against her will. As if I am some sort of hooligan. Preposterous. Yet chatty Miss Tottinger is suddenly mute. Francine Larkin flits back and forth between the clubhouse and our cottage to apprise me of every last detail.
“They are preparing to leave this very afternoon.” Her cheeks are aflame as she describes the accusatory grumbling of Ivy’s parents and the flurry to muster enough clubhouse staff to pack them quickly. “The poor dear girl cannot speak for the trauma.”
“What trauma?”
“Why, the trauma of nearly drowning, of course.”
Only Francine’s eyes would gleam like polished silver at the mention of another’s distress. Even if it’s a fabricated one. Excitedly, she tells me that the elder Mr. Tottinger was heard by all to shout, “Ready the carriage!” as if he were Napoleon mustering the French cavalry.
“They cannot bear to stay a moment longer,” Francine chirps.
“Was it the fresh air in Miss Tottinger’s lungs?” I ask in mock horror. “Or perhaps the pink kiss of sun on her neck? Shall I have Father summon an ambulance?”
Francine purses her lips in a reprimanding manner. “While you scorn, Elizabeth, that poor dear girl suffers.” She then wheels around and scurries back to the clubhouse for more news.
Poor dear girl? Ivy Tottinger? It’s so utterly ridiculous. I cannot but laugh. Oh, would it be so that Father and Mother felt the same. Both are quite cross with me. As I climb the cottage stairs for a much-needed rest in my room, Mother follows on my heels.
“How it is possible you let a child dictate your common sense?”
I stop and sigh. When I swivel around to face her, I notice that Mother’s lips are pinched into a bone button. Her nostrils flare like a Percheron’s.
“It happened spontaneously,” I say. Once the words leave my throat, I realize how inadequate they sound. “What I mean to say is—”
“And such a delicate child at that?”
“Delicate? Hardly. Sheltered, most assuredl—”
“Did you not once think to offer the poor dear girl a sunbonnet at the very least?”
As I cannot endure those three words again—“poor,” “dear,” and “girl”—I silently wheel around and continue up the stairs to escape them. “Nettie,” I call out. “Could you please help me with my boots?”
“Or a parasol? Heavens, Elizabeth, what were you thinking?”
Mother follows me into my room.
“Nettie!” I yelp even as I hear the rustle of her skirt up the stairs. She enters my room with her head down.
“Right away, miss,” she mutters.
Exhausted, I fall into my vanity chair and extend my muddy boots for my maid to lift into her lap. She pulls a buttonhook out of a front pocket in her apron and sits on a stool before me. Beyond my open window, the warbler’s chirp, chirp harmonizes with the throaty whistle of the meadowlark. It’s as if Mother Nature herself is commiserating with me. She was there; she knows how little choice I had in the unfolding of events. In the increasingly orange light slanting through the cottage windowpanes, I see that sunset is approaching. Abruptly, I feel very sleepy.
“No need to fetch my satins, Nettie. I believe I shall rest before supper.”
“I could fetch your slippers, ’Lizbeth.”
Little Henry hovers near the open door, one foot on top of the other. The button-up side flap of one brown boot is undone. He stares with the frightened eyes of a chital.
“It’s Elizabeth, Henry. How many times must I tell you?”
Mother’s harsh tone startles him to near tears. She alarms me by positioning herself firmly on my corner settee. Far from waning, our conversation appears to be barely ignited. Dear me, it’s nearly impossible to keep my eyelids from drooping shut.
“Certainly you are aware of Mr. Tottinger’s importance.”
Out of nowhere, Father appears. He, too, enters my room, now as crowded as a train station. Nervously, he fingers the curl of his mustache. “It was incumbent upon all of us at the club to put our best foot forward. Mr. Mellon was counting on us. His bank has yet to secure the financing commitment for Mr. Tottinger’s enterprise here in the States.”
“Father, I did nothing wron—”
“Not to mention securing the interest of his son.”
“Mother!” I say, shocked.
Her tight face bears the veneer of impatience. “Your naïveté is unbecoming, Elizabeth,” she says, flatly.
I blush. Nettie glances up at me as she pulls both boots off and quietly carries them downstairs to the anteroom off the kitchen.
“I believe an apology will go a long way to repair the damage.”
The flare of anger awakens me. “Certainly, Father, you speak of an apology from Miss Tottinger to me. It is she who—”
“This is no time for impudence, Elizabeth.” Mother’s chin juts forward. “Do as your father says.”
“But—”
“Nettie!” Mother calls down the stairs. “Elizabeth needs freshening. And clean shoes.”
“I’ll go with you, ’Lizb—Elizabeth,” says Henry, looking as if he might soon dissolve into sobs. It’s a rare event when both parents scold me. “I’ll hold your hand.”
My heart softens at my little brother’s kindness. Though it immediately hardens when Father states, “This is something Elizabeth must do by herself. And quickly. The Tottingers will be leaving on the next train out of South Fork.”
“But—”
Mother extends one hand to silence me.
It’s all so unbearably unfair.
In a flurry of activity, Nettie sweeps into my room again. This time, a new pair of freshly polished shoes dangles from her fingertips. Mother stands and steps aside. She loudly sighs her disappointment before making her way to her son, encircling him in the folds of her skirt. She then leads him away from his felonious sister. While Nettie inserts my tired feet into shoes I do not wish to wear, Father stands tall before me and announces, “Additionally, Mother and I have decided to cut summer short this year.”
“What. Why?”
He flashes a piqued expression. “Come Monday morning,” he says, “we will all return to Upper St. Clair on the early-morning train. For the rest of the summer, you will work in the clinic with me.”
My jaw drops. “The clinic? I have no medical experience whatsoever. What will I do?”
Before leaving me alone to refresh my appearance and affix a properly contrite expression on my face, Father simply states: “Whatever needs to be done.” Upon his exit he adds, “Do not tarry, Elizabeth.”
Never have I felt so utterly misaligned and misjudged.
IN THE LIFE of every girl my age and circumstance comes a moment when she realizes propriety and justice are at odds. My such moment occurs on the access road behind the clubhouse. As I approach from the cottage path, my stomach is a swirl of disquiet. Before I see a soul, I hear the murmur of nearly everyone I know coming from the clubhouse’s front veranda. It sounds as if all of Pittsburgh society is milling around outside with overexpressive eyebrows and warming glasses of iced tea that they will nurse to the final drop. No one wants to miss the event of the summer. The Tottingers leaving in a huff as a result of Elizabeth Haberlin’s escapade. What could be more delicious? They will dine on the gossip for weeks.
I inhale deeply into my corset. I fluff the sleeves of my shirtwaist. With my back erect and my neck elongated, I march forward.
Colonel Unger has ordered the stable hands to hitch up the large carriage for the Tottinger family and their tower of traveling trunks. I see that the club’s Percheron and Murgese are already in their breast collars with the driving halters secured to the carriage shaft. Nettie’s friend from the stable is seated in the perch. Ungraciously, I wonder, Will delicate Miss Tottinger march up to these horses’ snouts and plant kisses?
“Poor de
ar Ivy.” From the direction of the populated porch, I hear the unmistakable warble of Francine Larkin. No doubt her cheeks are still flushed with the thrill of my downfall.
As I approach, the last of the trunks is being secured to the back of the carriage. The moment I fully emerge from the shadows of the clubhouse, a thick silence blankets our mountain paradise. Even Francine has swallowed her animated concern. Though I do not dare look, I feel all eyes tracking my every footfall. Just as they had during my sashay along the length of the porch in my Charles Worth gown. The irony of this does not escape me.
“Good afternoon, Colonel,” I say.
“Miss Haberlin,” he replies, nodding hello.
At that very moment, the Tottinger family descends the side clubhouse steps. With dour expressions, they make their way to the waiting carriage. Mrs. Tottinger wears black, from head to toe. As if she is in mourning, for heaven’s sake. Does she travel with bereavement attire? Ready at any moment for disaster? I inhale fully to summon the strength not to groan. Ivy’s French twist has been hastily dismantled; sad ringlets tumble onto her shoulders. Her face is shiny, slathered in a thick cream. The childish bow securing the hair at the crown of her head is even more comically large than it was when I first met her. For a brief moment, she darts her eyes in my direction. In them, I see the mischievous expression of a pixie. As if this is all a game. I look away. She will not have the satisfaction of my pleading—silent or otherwise—for her to honorably reveal the truth. Let her live with the trouble she has wrought.
“Mr. Tottinger, sir,” I say to the elder, stepping forward. “Please accept my sincerest apologies for my lack of sound judgment. Your lovely daughter is so mature I mistook her for a peer.”
Beside him, his obdurate wife looks away and humphs. The club members are still silent on the veranda. It’s a wonder the porch doesn’t collapse under the weight of them. With the focus of an eagle on its prey, I affix my gaze on the Tottinger patriarch. “My family is distraught by my behavior as well, sir. I respectfully ask you not to hold them accountable for my indiscretions. I am old enough to know better.”