The Woman in the Photo (10 page)

“Allow me, miss.”

Trundling ahead of me, Nettie clears the path of fallen branches and large stones. She points to shallow puddles and directs me around them. It's warm out, but not too terribly hot for a late summer's afternoon. The earlier sun has softened. We make our way to the clubhouse. As we get closer, I hear laughter and bluster. Teatime is upon us. The boys will have buttoned their sports jackets; the girls will have fluffed the sleeves of their shirtwaists or dusted off their jackets.

A cooling breeze stirs over the lake. By the time I reach the clubhouse's rear entrance, it is half past four. “Perfect timing,” I whisper to myself. Tea will be in full swing. By now, my family and friends will have assumed I'd taken a nap instead of joining them. Perhaps Mother had heard about my foolishness in the foliage. Maybe she's glad I have chosen to stay at the cottage after such a spectacle. Little does she suspect the scene that awaits her now.

“I can manage on my own from here,” I tell Nettie. She nods and stands back with her hands again clasped at her waist and
a worried expression on her face. I take a step toward the open clubhouse door, then quickly wheel around and scamper back to my maid.

“I couldn't have done this without you,” I whisper, throwing my arms around her neck.

“Promise you'll tell me all about it?”

“Every detail.”

Nettie squeezes my shoulders and says, “Good luck.” Inhaling deeply to steady my nerves, I turn to face the clubhouse. Through the open threshold of the back door, I hear a jumble of conversations merging into one.

“. . . archery competition? Wondrous ide—”

“Another round, old sport?”

“. . . as was last year's debu—”

“Will you be sailing to Southampton?”

Extending my neck to its full length, with not even a
hint
of a slouch, I gather my wits and confidently march through the doorway. As expected, all conversation stops short.

“Elizabeth,” I hear Mother sputter. There is also an audible gasp or two. I smile serenely. With my head erect, I slowly walk past the clubhouse bar in the lounge feeling my gown brush against the men's trouser cuffs. Mr. Phipps, Mr. Frick, Father, Mr. Vanderhoff, and several other men hold crystal glasses of amber liquid in their hands. Father seems to be frozen in place. Mother is seated with Mrs. Mellon, across the room near the window. Her porcelain teacup is also perched midair. It's as if time has stopped and turned everyone to stone.

My calm smile remains affixed. My heart beats as fast as a jackrabbit's. Inside my head, I squeal. But my exterior betrays
no such immaturity. Floating through the entire length of the room, making certain
everyone
sees me, I ask a passing server if I might trouble him for tea. “Please forgive my tardiness,” I say.

“Right away, miss.”

He bows awkwardly and backs away from me as if I am royalty. This pleases me enormously, though I don't let it show in my countenance. I continue my sashay about the room with unshakable confidence. It's an attitude befitting my gown. A Charles Frederick Worth original. The fawn lace collar hugs the back of my neck, tumbling down in front to the bodice. The sleeves are long and tight to my wrists, with a spray of lace kissing my gloved fingers. Made from cream-colored satin—imported from Istanbul—the gown reflects all the light in the room. Embroidered rosettes skip down the front and sides in floral vines. Inserted within each satin pleat are more rose embellishments—some a complementary yellow to the violet blossoms in my hair, others a muted bisque. The modern bustle is augmented with a large blush-colored bow; the hem an accordion strip of hand-sewn ribbon just long enough to cover the satin tie on my buttery silk shoes. In such a gown, I surely scandalized Mother with my flushed cheeks and charcoal lashes. Not to mention the shamelessly Parisian addition of my beauty mark. Nettie's inspired touch. In this dress, one cannot help but feel extraordinary.

“You look stunning, my dear,” Mr. Vanderhoff says as I pass him. “Is there a ball tonight on the sand?”

Twitters sprinkle throughout the crowd. I dare not look Mother's way again, though I do spot my sweet brother, Henry, near the dessert table, clapping his hands with delight.

“What could be more special than summer at the club?” I ask with supreme confidence.

“Here, here,” says Mr. Frick, raising his glass, clearly attempting to defuse the awkwardness. One of the more prominent members of the Bosses' Club, Mr. Frick offers his blessing to relax the others. Not that I'm concerned in the slightest. I'm not here for his approval.

As soon as the waiter reappears with my tea, I thank him graciously, take the cup and saucer in my gloved hand, stop, sip it daintily, then set it aside on a table to continue my elegant promenade down the length of the clubhouse dining room. Having all eyes upon me is a thrill beyond measure. In the silence, I fear the whole crowd can hear my pounding heart.

As I make my way outside to the veranda, Roderick Vanderhoff is the first of my friends to speak to me.

“Have you gone batty, Elizabeth?” he asks, overheated in a slightly drunk sort of way.

“If I have, would I know it?” I say, grinning slyly.

The chatter level resumes behind me in the dining room—no doubt spiced with whispers about my scandalous exhibition. On her teeny mouse feet, Francine Larkin totters over. “Whatever are you thinking?” she asks, softly enough to appear as though she is speaking to me in confidence, yet loud enough for all on the porch to hear. With one raised brow, I glance at her girlish pink dress.

“One can feel so very homespun out here in the summer,” I reply. “Don't you agree?”

Without waiting for an answer, I continue my stroll to the far end of the patio, past Lilly and Vivian, past Oscar and Julian.
Past shy Ivy Tottinger, who blushes crimson at the very sight of me and grips her lemonade glass with both hands. There isn't a moment that I don't feel her brother's gaze on me. The heat of James Tottinger's stare has propelled my feet. The entirety of his focus is upon me still.

At the end of the long patio, I gently place my hand on the wide railing. The diamonds in Grandmother's bracelet catch the orange sunlight. With a luxuriant sigh, I take in the beauty of our stunning lake. In the fading sun, the water is the color of mercury. Its soft ripples are folds of fresh bed linen. I can almost feel the undulation of the water in the rise and fall of my breasts. Even the trees on the far shore seem to sway with each inhalation.

“I think I'll rest before dinner,” I say to no one in particular.

Then I swivel on my silk shoes and make my way back through the far end of the parlor lounge. As abruptly as I'd entered, I exit. Without a further word to anyone. On my way out the door, back to the cottage, I have but one thought for the cocky Mr. James Tottinger of Great Britain.

Who is the fisherman now, and who is the fish?

SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA

Present

F
or such a small woman—barely five feet—Clara Barton had a large life. Quickly, Lee realized it was impossible to adequately research her on a petite iPhone screen. Valerie had been right to tell Lee she'd go blind staring at that small screen.

“Can I use the car today?” It was Lee's first full day off since she'd turned eighteen. Unbelievably, she was awake and alert by nine.

“Sure, honey. What's up?” Ready for work, Val was spot-cleaning a smudge on her uniform. Esther Adell hated her maid to look mussed while she cleaned the toilets.

“I want to research more about the Ashkenazi genetics. You know, make sure I know all I need to know, medically. So, I thought I'd go to the library.”

Like any good lie, Lee's story skirted the edges of truth. As a point of fact, the medical genetics of her newly uncovered DNA
barely made a dent in her consciousness. Yeah, she'd feel for lumps in the shower, have her baseline mammogram at forty, a Pap smear at twenty-one. Blah, blah, blah. At
eighteen,
however, another matter was on her mind: Identifying her dead birth mother without upsetting her living mom. And Clara Barton—the woman who founded the American Red Cross—was going to help.

“Library?” Val said. “How retro.”

“I hear they have these rectangular objects inside them? I think they're called
buks
?”

Valerie laughed. “Don't forget to sunscreen the backs of your hands.” She followed Lee out the pool-house door. After seeing the mottled claws of the yellow jackets each time they dabbed linen napkins at the corners of their scrunchie lips, Valerie slathered sunscreen on her hands—and neck and face—365 days a year.

“Already done.” Car keys in hand, Lee waggled her fingers midair. “I'll be home for dinner.”

“Dinner? Good heavens. How much is there to know?”

She had no idea.

“Maybe I'll pick up Baja Fresh?”

Yesterday was payday. Things were looking up.

M
ULHOLLAND
D
RIVE SNAKED
over the Santa Monica Mountains. It squiggled along thirsty brown cliffs and crispy ravines spiked with olive-green succulents. Even with the air conditioner on full blast—Lee had filled the tank—heat baked the windshield and sent waves of warmth onto her chest. She held the steering wheel at its base. On top of it, her hands would
have been fried like two bugs beneath a magnifying glass. Sunscreen or not.

Driving her tatty car past the mottled gray trunks of eucalyptus trees, hills polka-dotted with pine scrub, overgrown hippie houses, and millionaires' curved driveways, Lee deliberately shut her mind off from all thoughts of her friend Shelby, her dad, her brother burrowed into the Idaho woods. It was time to let them go. Especially since they were already gone. Beneath the solar blast of the Southern Californian sun, she focused on the road ahead. Everything else was a sad rearview.

After crossing Sunset Boulevard at the light, Lee steered into a residential neighborhood. Down palm-lined streets. Past old-money Spanish mansions and new-money cubic fortresses of glass and white stucco. Straight through the heart of Beverly Hills. Today, Lee Parker would mingle with the one percent.

The landmark library was gorgeous. Tucked into the historic City Hall complex—with its robin's-egg-blue-and-yellow Castilian tiled dome and Gothic arches—it was everything a research structure should be. Quiet, imposing, illuminated by natural light, and both modern and reeking of history. Merely standing inside it made Lee feel like she could accomplish anything. The very air in Beverly Hills was scented with success. Its sunlight was more golden than the Valley's harsh white-hot glare.

Beneath one of the high arched windows, Lee sat at a vacant computer. Across from her, a middle-aged woman with carp lips smiled fakely.
Why would a woman inject stuff into her lips?
Lee wondered.
Who wants to look like a fish?
Lee had never understood Southern California's obsession with plastic surgery, the
way so many women chose to erase all individuality from their faces. Crazy.

Wearing Levi's and an Old Navy T-shirt, Lee knotted her bushel of hair atop her head. Unlike most girls her age, she steadfastly refused to succumb to fashion's whims. All that fuss over frills. Didn't women know they were
pawns
? Manipulated to change styles each season only to enrich designers and keep money flowing into stores. Wasn't there a better use of funds? Like, what Shelby told her in her last text: “A single pair of Balmain jeans can feed and house a Malawian for more than two years.”

It made you think. Particularly if you didn't have enough money to buy jeans at Target.

Lee's one concession to bling was the vintage Hollycraft bracelet her grandmother gave her before she died. Lee never took it off. Its pastel rhinestones twirled around her wrist in tiny daisies. She loved the way the rock crystals caught the light, flickering freckles of color into the air.

Setting her backpack on the floor at her feet, Lee got busy. She wiggled the mouse to wake the computer and typed “Clara Barton” into the search engine. The screen filled with links. As she had frustratingly attempted on her iPhone, Lee rolled the cursor up to the “images” icon to—hopefully—find the photo from her adoption file. Wasn't
everything
online if you dug deeply enough? Down she scrolled. Down, down, down. Pages of black-and-white portrait photos appeared. Young Clara Barton and old. Round, smooth cheeks and lined eyes. Serene smiles. Crinoline dresses buttoned up the neck. Red Cross brooches. Battlefield illustrations. Images of wounded soldiers. On and
on and on. But no woman with dark hair standing with Clara Barton in rubble.

Bending down, Lee reached into her pack for the thermos of green tea she'd brought with her. A Starbucks Trenta Teavana was more than five bucks! Absurd. After pouring herself a cup of tea and taking a sip, she returned her long fingers to the keyboard and left the images link to launch a Web search. If she couldn't find the photo, she was determined to figure out where it was taken. And when. Even if it took all day, she would unearth what she needed to know about the one person who could lead her to her roots. Clara Barton, the founder of the American Red Cross, had somehow met her great-great-great-grandmother, at some time, in the aftermath of some calamity. Before the day was done, Lee was going to find out what it was.

Again, she fortified herself with a sip of tea and a deep inhalation. Judging by the vast amount of links on the screen before her, digging into Clara Barton's life would be an
excavation
.

“Here we go,” Lee whispered under her breath.

Click
.

Right away, Lee Parker learned that Clara Barton was not only a woman of her time, but one
ahead
of her time, too. Both lonely places for a nineteenth-century woman to be.