The Woman in the Photo by Mary Hogan Page B

stretching to the emerald horizon on the far shore, it’s easy to imagine we are the only souls on earth. Our very own Garden of Eden. In the afternoon sunlight, the diamonds in my bracelet reflect the twinkle of the lake. Long ago, Mother insisted that I remove my bracelet for day wear. But, just as long ago, I refused. No matter what I am wearing, I never take this bracelet off. It was a gift from my late grandmother.
    â€œDid you hear?” Francine says. Her voice is like a tic in my ear.
    Always one for gossip, Addie wheels around. “Hear what?”
    â€œFather took tea with Mr. Carnegie in the city last week and they spoke of the Tottingers.”
    â€œThat’s news?” Admittedly, my tone is as sharp as a shard of broken china. Like nearly everyone at the club, I’ve known Francine Larkin all my life. From the start, I’ve found her as shallow as the stream at Graesers Run. My hope at the moment is that she will drop her “news” like a sparrow drops a worm and flit back inside before the Tottingers arrive.
    Instead, tiptoeing up to the porch railing, Francine rests her diminutive hand on the balustrade and turns, forcing us all to face her. “Well,” she begins, obviously settling in to entrap us for a lengthy period. “Father told me that Mr. Carnegie told the elder Mr. Tottinger that summer weeks at the lake were intended for pleasure and sport. However, since they’d come so far to discuss business, he proposed that the men enjoy weekends only at the lake, returning to Pittsburgh on the Monday-morning train.”
    â€œSo?” I say.
    â€œSo—” Her gaze meets mine with brows peaked, a sliver of superiority on her lips. “Supposedly, the elder Mr. Tottinger summoned his son into the grand parlor of their home in London. His son being the eminently eligible gentleman, James Tottinger, a relative of Countess Augusta Reus—”
    â€œWe know who he is, Francine.” Even mild-tempered Julia found Francine irksome at times.
    â€œYes. Of course. Back to my news .” She darts a glance at me. “The elder Mr. Tottinger told his son that he—James—would not be returning to Pittsburgh on the Monday-morning train with the other men. He was to remain here for the full two weeks. Which, I heard, distressed him greatly. According to Father, James Tottinger said, ‘Stay in the woods with a bunch of women and children?’ Then he asked his father if he’d gone mad.”
    In spite of myself, I laugh.
    â€œYou see,” Francine continues, “Mr. Carnegie told the elder Mr. Tottinger that South Fork was more than a club for fishing bass . He told him that Pittsburgh’s most prominent young ladies summer here and there was no better place for his son to cast his line.”
    â€œThat’s absurd.” Swiveling away from Francine, I mentally will her off the veranda and into the lake. “Mr. Carnegie would never say something so crass.”
    â€œHe would and he did. I trust Father completely.”
    Addie asks, “How did James Tottinger respond?” Out of the corner of my eye, I see her fuss with the silk flowers atop her hat. Then she presses a handkerchief against the beads of sweat on her upper lip.
    â€œHe was pleased.”
    â€œPleased?” Addie echoes.
    â€œPleased?” I feel my heart increase its beating.
    Pausing for dramatic effect, Francine Larkin takes one tiny step closer, leans in on her baby feet, and whispers, “He grinned devilishly and said he’d always been an expert angler . Clearly, the thought of having unfettered access to us all excited him no end.”
    My dark eyes grow black. “Is this true?”
    â€œAs I said, I trust Father completely.” Francine lifts her pointed chin in the air with absolute confidence.
    I don’t need to hear more. Such impudence. Being compared to a fish ? Paraded about for a foreigner’s selection? Not me.