The Woman in the Photo Read Free Page B

I secure my hat with its pearl-tipped pin, I feel for my little brother. Surely his outfit suffocates as much as mine, yet he endures without complaint. As does Mother. Once she finishes her fussing, she slides her hands into her gloves, raises her chin, and sits as formidably as the Osterling bell tower. In silence, she waits for the train to stop completely. She lets her rigid spine speak for her. Observe how a lady displays discomfort. Not once have I seen Mother betray the expectations her fortunate union to Father thrust upon her.
    â€œ ’Tis I who married well,” he often says, embarrassing her. Implicit in the loving sentiment is the very real fact that Vera Sinclair married above her class. Her father—my grandfather, Silas—was a custom tailor near Pittsburgh’s East End. Silas Sinclair was known well in the social circles of North Point Breeze and Upper St. Clair. Rare was the dining table that wasn’t populated by men feeling the comfortable containment of a Silas Sinclair waistcoat. Though it was Grandfather’s stunning daughter that kept Father returning for fittings long after his wardrobe was full.
    â€œThe moment I set eyes upon your mother, I could see no other,” Father frequently sang in his baritone pitch.
    Impeccably dressed Vera Sinclair had her pick of several suitors. Yet Dr. Haberlin was the most desirable choice. Grandfather said so often. While Father wasn’t the wealthiest of Mother’s admirers, he occupied an unimpeachable spot on the outskirts of society: a trusted physician whose loyalty was unquestioned. A man who could be counted on to keep secrets.
    Amid the screech of the braking shoes against the locomotive’s wheels, I gaze at my mother and see the woman I will become. Still a beauty, she has nonetheless aged beyond awe. Unlike my own kaleidoscope of inky hues, Mother’s obsidian hair reflects fewer highlights. Faint creases fan out from the outer edges of her blue-green eyes and her hands are lined with delicate tributaries. Strict use of parasols and hats has preserved the paleness of her skin. The only cosmetic she ever uses is beet juice on her cheeks and lips and only sparingly on special occasions.
    â€œFather told me not to play on the dock,” Henry says, bobbing up and down on the seat, “but how else can I see the jumping fish?”
    â€œThey don’t jump until summer,” I say.
    Mother and I exchange smiles. In summer—when all of Pittsburgh society relaxes in our exclusive mountain paradise—the caretaker stocks the lake with so many bass they can’t help but leap over one another. They are so plentiful they often clog the spillway. The placid surface of our lake roils like bathwater forgotten on the stove.
    Ah, summer. Glorious summer at the South Fork Fishingand Hunting Club. My heart flutters at the thought of it. Weeks of fun and leisure. Croquet is my specialty, but water sports are my favorite. The way a line of sailboats slices the surface of Lake Conemaugh is as beautiful a sight as any I’ve ever seen. And when Mother allows me to race in a regatta, well, the thrill of heeling right up to the tipping point is unlike any excitement I’ve experienced in Pittsburgh.
    Plus, last summer, in a clearing between the clubhouse and the South Fork Dam, James Tottinger from Great Britain first made himself known to me. And I to him.
    â€œDo fish get cold, ’Lizb . . . E lizabeth?”
    â€œNo.” I tug at the wrists of my gloves.
    â€œWhy not?” Henry’s baby-blue eyes blink at me.
    â€œHenry, please, ” I say.
    â€œFish don’t get cold because it is not in their nature,” Mother calmly explains. “Biology is destiny, my darling. We all must be whom we are meant to be.”
    A quizzical look flashes into my eyes. Then a tiny grin curls the corners of my lips. Henry jumps up the moment the train stops moving. Mother and I wait for the porter’s