by Mary Hogan
He smiles and begins to accept my apology when Mrs. Tottinger intercepts the hand he extends in absolution. “Very well, then,” she says curtly. “We must be getting on.”
With that, she uses the support of her husband’s outstretched hand to hustle herself and her daughter into the open carriage. After settling with an exaggerated display of discomfort, she stares straight ahead. As does Ivy. My blood simmers. On the ground, the elder Mr. Tottinger glances at me with an apologetic look. In his expression I understand it all: Mrs. Tottinger brought the wealth into their union. Probably the land and estates as well. Far from allowing their marriage to blend monetary assets with social graces, she chose to daily remind her husband of his dependence on her. I feel for him. In a flash of compassion, I sympathize with young Ivy as well. As I well know, it’s not easy living with a mother who would prefer you stay a child.
“Safe travels, Mrs. Tottinger,” I call into the carriage. “And to you, poor, dear Ivy.”
Ivy steals a smile at me. Before her mother can contain her hand, she wiggles her fingers in an apologetic good-bye.
“This is a most beautiful retreat,” Mr. Tottinger says before climbing into the seat beside his wife and daughter.
“It is,” I concur. “Your family is always most welcome.”
Behind me, I note the disappointed nodding of several friends. They, too, are annoyed by my decision to take Ivy Tottinger on our lake outing. Because of me, our esteemed guests are taking an early leave. With them departs the fetching son. The arrival of James Tottinger brought a froth of excitement. His early exit flattens the spirits of every eligible woman.
As if summoned by heaven itself, James Tottinger suddenly appears at the back of the carriage. I do not meet his gaze. To see my disgrace reflected in his lovely blue irises is too much to bear. Though my flirting had been fun, it was only amusing when I felt myself in charge of the situati—
“Elizabeth.”
In the shadow of the stack of trunks, he whispers my name. I look up. Quickly, he hands me a folded note, small enough to conceal in my hands.
“Shall we be off?” he then says loudly, leaping around to the carriage step, where he hoists himself onto the seat next to his father.
“To the station!” old Mr. Tottinger shouts, overdramatically.
“Godspeed,” Francine Larkin yells from clubhouse steps.
The Murgese flips his mane as the driver shakes the reins. Off they trot, leaving a wake of dust that settles on my skirt and the folded note tucked secretly into the palm of my hand.
CHAPTER 31
NORTH BEVERLY PARK
Present
Like Cinderella, Lee awoke feeling the shabbiness of her real life. Sunlight blared through the French windows of the pool house. The night before, she hadn’t bothered to tape a towel over the windows. It would have fallen anyway. Valerie, she could hear through the wall, was in the outside shower. Lee ran her fingers lightly across her mouth. She could still feel it. The spiky stubble above his upper lip, the slight give when his mouth met hers. It had been the perfect kiss: intentional, insistent, landing squarely out of the blue.
“Why didn’t I meet you earlier?” York asked as they sat by the pool, his voice barely above a whisper.
“I’m here now,” Lee replied.
In one fluid motion, the boy from New York reached across the chaise to encircle Lee’s neck with his hand. At the same moment, he leaned into her lips. Lee stretched her body toward him. They met in the middle space with their noses at the ideal tilt, their lips mildly moist, their eyelids half fallen. With the softness of a feather bed, his lips landed on hers. No tongue gymnastics. Not at first, anyway. In a playfully sexy way, he planted baby kisses all over her mouth, her cheeks, the tip of her nose, the flat space between her closed eyes. He circled back to her lips, gently parting them with a tongue that explored the inside of her mouth like an angelfish zigzagging through a live coral reef. His breath had the inexplicably delicious scent of beer and wet grass. Lee, unlike any Lee she’d ever been before, relaxed into his touch. Her mind didn’t flash on what might happen next, on whether her breath was sweet, her kiss experienced enough. For once, forever, she felt the present pleasure of York’s mouth on hers. As kisses go, it was epic.
“Morning, sunshine!” Wrapped in a towel, her hair wet, Valerie slapped her bare feet into the pool house. “Nothing like a solid ten hours to revive the mind and spirit!”
Lee rolled over and groaned. With her face tucked beneath the blanket, she licked both lips to taste York one last time.
It was past eight thirty.
His plane was on its way back to the East Coast. Her castle was a pool house again. Her life was in a pumpkin carriage going nowhere. Though they had exchanged cell numbers, Lee knew it was over. If he texted her, she wouldn’t respond. One night was flirty pretending; any longer was outright lying. How could she lie to a boy like York? He didn’t deserve it. Best to cut it off cleanly before her feelings flowered into expectations of something real. Like a rosebud on Valentine’s Day. Flawless and contained. But, in reality, already dead.
Lee sighed. Whom was she kidding? Real life was nowhere near a fairy tale. If York lived in North Beverly Park, he’d quickly discover her true Cinderella status. He’d roll his eyes when she said, “Technically, I didn’t lie to you. Like, when you asked if I lived at the Adells’? My eyes darted to the pool house when I said I did.”
Now Lee rolled her eyes. Even to herself she sounded like a loser.
He was a rich boy, she was a poor girl. Their fantasy night was just that: a fantasy. Time to wake up.
“What time does your shift start?” Val skittered into the kitchenette to make tea.
Words still jumbled inside her sleepy head, Lee muffled, “Mofftay.”
“Come again?”
She rubbed the blood into her face. “I’m off today.”
“Lucky you. I’ll be up at the house helping Mrs. Adell clean out her closets. She wants to donate to Dress for Success for the tax deduction, but who else but a yellow jacket could fit into those tiny clothes?”
“So I can use the car?”
Valerie nodded. “Exciting plans?”
Lee dragged herself into a sitting position on the sofa bed. In the corner of the room, draped over a kitchenette stool, she spotted her party dress. On the floor beside it lay her sparkly sandals coated in brown mountain dirt. For a brief moment she felt so hollow she slumped into herself like a crushed toilet paper roll. The electric kettle shot steam into the air. Valerie unplugged it and filled two mugs with boiling water. Lee commanded her lungs to expand and contract. Repeat. She willed herself into the new day.
Now that she knew her great-great-great-grandmother was with Clara Barton in Johnstown, Pennsylvania, in 1889, Lee had an idea.
“Same old, same old,” she fibbed, padding into the bathroom and shutting the door.
CHAPTER 32
Courtesy of the Johnstown Flood Museum Archives, Johnstown Area Heritage Association
SOUTH FORK FISHING AND HUNTING CLUB
Summer 1888
Now the cottage is in a tizzy. After Father’s announcement that I must return to Pittsburgh with him on Monday morning’s train, Nettie is scurrying about packing my things and readying herself for the journey home. Though she won’t say it directly, I sense that she is cross with me. As is everyone else. Nettie’s dalliance with one of the club’s stable hands appeared to be in its initial flush when I came upon them in the woods. She probably believed she had all summer to enjoy his companionship. But is it my fault that Father is being so unfair?
“I’ll set out the pleated plaid for the train,” Nettie says to me, gruffly.
I silently nod my approval and swallow an apology. “It’s Nettie’s job to do as you ask,” Mother says whenever she hears me apologize to my maid. “Never forget you are a Haberlin.”
Sighing loudly, I once again feel the pinch of my family’s circumstances. While Nettie packs me, I fall f
acedown onto my bed. Ivy Tottinger has ruined everything.
SUNLIGHT WAKES ME the following morning. It’s Sunday. When I pad over to the cottage window, my heart sinks. Of course, it’s the most stunning day of the whole summer. Lake Conemaugh is a jewel. Already, sailboats are slicing through the turquoise water. The Tottingers left yesterday. We will be leaving tomorrow morning. It’s so terribly unfair. The rest of my summer will be filled with Father’s hypochondriac patients and the snotty noses of their children.
James Tottinger is but a memory. And, of course, a note.
It pains me to admit it, but a flash of electricity surged through my forearm when he placed that note in my hand. In the shadow of the carriage, the touch of his fingertips felt like a forbidden kiss. At first, I was too startled to do anything but feel my cheeks flush. After Mr. Tottinger leaped onto the carriage and the horses clip-clopped toward the dam crossing, I stood like a tree stump.
“Anyone feel like rowing me across the lake?” Roderick said, loudly, from the clubhouse porch. Francine’s shrill laughter rose above everyone else’s. I returned to my senses. Without even looking at my friends, I marched with my head up to the access road behind the clubhouse to make my way home. I pressed my thumb into the note to secure it in my palm. I didn’t dare read it before I was safely in my room at the cottage with the door closed. Already I was fodder for tongue-waggers. Why give them more ammunition?
At the cottage, while Nettie and Ella packed supplies in the kitchen, I tiptoed up the stairs and closed myself in my bedroom. I stood away from the window. By now, the note had absorbed my body temperature. My hand tingled with the feel of it. First, I felt the thick paper with my fingertips. Then I lifted the folded note to my face and inhaled. It smelled as sweet as fresh cream, though there was also the faintest hint of horse. Blood pulsed into my chest. I tried to moisten my lips but my tongue was as dry as the endpiece of last night’s roast tossed into the woods for the raccoons. Holding the note between my fingers, I opened the first fold, then the second. Then I unfurled it completely and held it up to my eyes.
“I must see you again.”
James Tottinger’s words were simple—five in all—yet his intent was clear. He did not say how or when, but it scarcely mattered. In his five words I fully read his desire. I knew he would make the trip across the Atlantic again with the sole purpose of seeing me. If not sooner, then definitely for my debutante ball. A man like James Tottinger would never allow another suitor to usurp him. I smiled. The choice was now mine. Mother would be pleased.
Refolding the note into a tight square, I walked over to my wardrobe and opened its door. Lifting out the satin shoes I’d worn with my Charles Worth gown, I slipped the note far into the tip of one of the toes. No one would find it there. Which is exactly what I wanted. In the aftermath of Mother’s reprimand for doing nothing but attempting to satisfy the mercurial wishes of an indulged Ivy Tottinger, I decided not to share the note with her. It was my note, after all, and it would be my secret to have and to hold for as long as I wanted.
Now, this Sunday morning as I stand at the cottage window, I have a thought. I realize what I must do. Something important and overlooked.
“Nettie!”
She doesn’t answer. I open my bedroom door and call her again. More insistently this time. Finally, she trudges up the stair and stands in my doorway with her eyes cast down. Still upset with me, she refuses to make eye contact.
“I need your assistance and discretion.”
My maid inhales into the snug fit of her work skirt. Normally, the suggestion of a clandestine escapade would ignite a mischievous light in her eyes. At this moment, she barely covers her ire. I ask, “Have you packed all the Sunday outfits?”
“I set out the pleated pla—”
“For you, I mean.”
“Me?”
“We are going to church.”
“Church?” Nettie’s eyes now register surprise. At last, she looks at me. Very nearly, she scoffs. Though my family attends Father’s church in the city—Pittsburgh’s finest Presbyterian—summer at the club is a time to reflect in nature. Such is Father’s decree. There’s no church on the club grounds, of course. Not even a chapel. And no one would dream of venturing downtown. A few of the more devout members leave early on Sunday to make it home in time for the late service, but most agree that God would grant them the dispensation of two weeks to pray under his powder-blue sky. Certainly, it’s a bit scandalous that the Haberlin family spends all summer here without attending an official church, but Mother silences naysayers by stating matter-of-factly, “Where is God if not in the glory of trees?”
Mother attends Father’s church for appearance’s sake, anyway. It’s an ill-kept secret that Mother refused to formally abandon her own faith in exchange for Father’s. She agreed to attend Sunday service. That’s all. Within the privacy of our home, Friday night’s Sabbath is sacred. And Mother often spends Saturday morning at her synagogue.
Also, Father treats the entire clergy of our church in Pittsburgh without compensation. Everything from gout to influenza. No one would dare proclaim that we are not the holiest of families.
“Leave the rest of the packing until later,” I tell Nettie. “Get yourself dressed in the best you’ve brought with you.”
“But, why—?”
“No questions,” I say brusquely. I am a Haberlin. No need to explain to the maid. “We’re heading to the stable to arrange for a ride into town.”
At the mention of the club’s stable and—no doubt—thoughts of seeing her paramour one more time, Nettie at last looks excited. Though she doesn’t know it, her expression befits the adventure upon which we are about to embark. As does mine. My eyes sparkle like two firecrackers.
“Right away, miss!” she says. And off she scampers down the stairs.
THE SUN IS high and white. Wearing my very favorite day dress and matching hat, I descend the cottage stairs to the front parlor. The cerulean shade of my subtly ruffled underskirt is the perfect complement to the lighter-hued bodice, its three-quarter sleeves allowing full view of grandmother’s diamond bracelet. The silk African violets lining the rim on my bonnet offset my pale skin. If I may be so brazen as to think such a thought, I am a vision.
Nettie joins me at the door. She has refashioned her hair to tame the rust-colored curls that tend to pop out like old bedsprings. Her work apron is off; she wears her very best black cotton. Poor soul, it’s not her station to wear vibrant color. A practical advantage, I should think, since dyed silks are so difficult to keep clean.
“Wherever are you going?” Mother asks, alarmed, when she spots us in the foyer.
I am prepared.
“Oh, Mother.” I attempt to summon a glistening in my eyes. “This morning as I dressed, Nettie and I discussed how very awful we both feel at my folly on the lake.”
Nettie quickly glances at me. With no change in my contrite expression, I push on. “For me, at least,” I say, “I suspect my head has been filled with the trifles of summer instead of my duty to set a proper example for poor, dear girls like Ivy Tottinger.”
Noting a trace of suspicion creep into Mother’s facial expression, I hurriedly add, “So I have asked Nettie to pray with me.”
“Pray?”
“We both feel in need of divine guidance.”
Mother cocks her head.
“Nettie tells me of a church service in town that is most inspirational. She came across it several days ago when I gave her the afternoon off.”
“Town?” Mother’s eyes become as round as tea tarts.
Johnstown is a murky mystery to us at the club. With the exception of the late Mr. Morrell, who actually lived there, South Fork club members typically regard the town below us as a smoky working-class enclave that we pass by with little thought on our way up the hill from the train station. Johnstown has nothing to do with our way of life. Some of its citizens are employed in service to the club, of course, but our interaction with them is b
arely more than a nod and a polite “thank you” when they serve our meals or tether our skiffs. We have all we need at the club. Who wants to venture off our beautiful mountain into a choking shantytown built around a belching steel mill?
“If there were any house of God here, of course, we would not need to venture elsewhere.”
With a visible lift of her brow, Mother darts a look in my direction. Though she would never admit it in front of my maid—or to anyone at the club—I know that our lack of formal worship all summer irks her. In spite of her public protests to the contrary.
“What about packing for our departure tomorrow?” she asks.
“Nettie has finished,” I lie.
“How do you propose to get downtown?”
“One of the stable boys will escort us down the mountain in a carriage and wait for us in front of the church,” I say. “We will be gone for two hours at most.”
Sensing an oncoming challenge, I augment my statement with: “Time enough for me to repent and properly reflect upon my carelessness.”
Standing behind me, Nettie nods ruefully. Her hands are clasped in a penitent manner just above her waist. Admittedly, I am impressed.
“Mother, please. I am no longer a child. Am I not free to commune with my own God?”
The alarm on her face is clear. Why, it seems as if that very moment she notes that I have grown into a woman. It is a struggle to contain my exhilaration. Yet, I do. For I am a woman now.
“You’ll be back by supper?” Mother’s hand rests lightly on her throat.
“Of course.”
She pauses, then relents. How could she say no to God himself?
“Take care of yourselves,” she says, before turning to join Father in the front parlor. He has no patients today. His examining room at the back of the cottage has already been locked up. Nettie and I don’t wait for Mother to rethink her permission. Together, we hurry outside to the boardwalk leading to the club’s stable. As soon as we are beyond overhearing, Nettie asks, “Why are we really going to church?”