by Mary Hogan
Lee side-glanced at the pool house. “Yes. I live here.”
“There’s this party.”
She opened her mouth, then closed it, not sure how to respond.
“You probably know about it already,” he said.
“Probably,” she replied, though she hadn’t a clue.
“Maybe you want to come down?” he said. “Like, after ten?”
A rich college boy standing in the vicinity of her bare body was inviting her to a party? Had he decided to invite her when he first came up the hill and saw her naked? Before she covered up with the side of the pool? Did he think she often swam like this, that she was rich, too? Of course he did. No one walking into that scene would ever dream she was the daughter of the help. Lee inhaled. Her exhalation made little ripples on the surface of the water.
“Tonight?” she asked as nonchalantly as possible.
“Yeah. If you want. Down the hill.” He pointed. “The house with the tennis court. Can’t miss it.”
“Maybe,” Lee said, careful not to add, “I have to check with my mom, the maid.”
The boy nodded. A gentleman, not once did he look directly at her. Except, probably, when he first climbed the hill and entered the yard. While she was pretending to be a mermaid dolphin-kicking under water. Lee felt her cheeks flush.
“Again,” he said, “sorry to infringe.” With that, he quietly exited the way he entered: down the hill, into the brush.
Amazingly, Lee didn’t feel dead tired anymore.
CHAPTER 26
Courtesy of the Johnstown Flood Museum Archives, Johnstown Area Heritage Association
SOUTH FORK FISHING AND HUNTING CLUB
Summer 1888
A distinct snorting catches my attention.
“What’s that?” Ivy fearfully shifts her weight to my side of the picnic blanket. Once again, I am agog at her utter lack of common sense. Has the girl never heard the sound of a horse complaining against its snaffle? Has she never noticed the live beings that transport her family’s carriage?
“It’s a—”
“Horse!” Ivy leaps up.
Appearing out of the dark woods, Mr. Eggar strides into our clearing atop a shiny black steed. It is, admittedly, a startling sight. One might easily conclude Mr. Eggar was born an equestrian. His enormous horse seems an extension of his own muscled workingman’s legs. With his perch high and his back straight, Mr. Eggar resembles a medieval knight on his stallion. Albeit one in dungarees on his working animal.
“Shire?” I ask, standing, noting the height of his mare, the white feathering on her feet, and her long, lean head. Though her muscular back is built for work, she is nonetheless a beauty.
Mr. Eggar’s eyebrows peak. “You know your horses.”
“I ride a Haflinger at the stable here.” Quite well, I am tempted to add. Back in Upper St. Clair, I’ve won blue ribbons in several equestrian events. When Father is able to convince Mother to allow me to participate, that is. Feeling the flex of a steed’s back muscles beneath my thighs is a sensation of power unlike any other. I feel fused to the horse’s back, as if we are one. “The club also has a Murgese and a Percheron with the most extraordinary blue-black coat.”
Ivy steps closer to the horse and asks, “May I touch her?” As I open my mouth to caution against it, Mr. Eggar says, “She loves to be stroked on her nose.” Without a hint of trepidation, Ivy marches up to the horse’s mouth and runs the palm of her hand up and down the horse’s long, flat muzzle. Ivy coos, “There, my pet, that feels lovely, no?”
Truly, the girl is a puzzle to me. Terrified at the sound of an approaching horse, yet fearless in the face of a beast that could easily mistake her hand for lunch. Young Miss Tottinger’s brain is a labyrinth.
As I quickly gather our lunch remnants and return them to the basket, Mr. Eggar dismounts with athletic ease. “Mady is as reliable as the sun and the moon.” He lovingly pats her haunches. “She’s fast, too, and surefooted. My girl knows every twist and curve of the mountain. At speed, she can get me down to Johnstown in five minutes.”
Straightening my posture, I frown at the town boy. “Obviously you and your horse climb the mountain regularly.”
Meeting my gaze squarely, he replies with a devilish grin. “This cove is my favorite fishing spot.”
In one elegant motion, Mr. Eggar swoops down and sweeps our picnic blanket into his arms. He steps around Ivy to the shoreline, where he shakes the dirt off the blanket with a determined snap.
“Mady’s eyelashes are simply divine,” says Ivy. “Elizabeth, you must come close and see how long and curled they are.”
“Shall I pack your blanket inside the basket, Elizabeth?” Mr. Eggar asks. “Or might you want it as a wrap? The lake can get chilly.”
I stop, stunned. “Please forgive me for not properly introducing myself, sir,” I say, swallowing the icy edges of my voice. “I’m Miss Haberlin and my companion is Miss Tottinger.”
Mr. Eggar regards me with amusement before politely doffing his cap.
Still stroking the horse’s snout, Ivy pipes up, “Do call me Ivy, won’t you, Eugene?”
I scarcely know where to look.
In a matter of moments, Mr. Eggar has neatly folded the blanket, stowed it in the picnic basket, and placed the basket in the bow of the skiff. He then secures Mady to the trunk of a dogwood tree, where she instantly stretches her neck up to reach the tastiest leaves.
“Shall we?” he says, one foot firmly on shore, the other even more firmly stabilizing the boat.
“How I would love to stay here longer and explore the woods on Mady’s back.” Ivy leans languorously against Mady’s satiny coat as the horse lazily chomps the sweet dogwood leaves.
“But you cannot.”
After I secure my sunbonnet, I take a firm step in the direction of our skiff and allow Mr. Eggar’s strong hand to completely encircle my upper arm. In his grip, as he guides me into the boat, I feel not one bit wobbly.
“Miss Haberlin,” he says with the merest glimmer of a smile.
“Mr. Eggar,” I reply, nodding my appreciation as any lady of breeding would. Once inside the rowboat, I position myself in the center of the farthest plank and smooth my skirt. I tighten my bonnet satins and sigh with relief that my dignity has remained intact. Ivy, I’m afraid, does not follow my lead. As I watch, helpless, she allows her youth to overtake propriety. When Mr. Egger attempts to guide her into the boat in the same manner he escorted me, Ivy Tottinger yelps and executes a tiny hop into the air, flinging both arms about his neck. Poor Mr. Eggar is forced to grip her entire body in one arm while he maintains his balance as well as the boat’s. Quite stunningly, he does just that. Without complaint or obvious effort, he effectively carries her—one-armed—into the boat. It is a feat of astounding strength on his part, and unimaginable hubris on hers. I am rendered speechless by both.
“Where shall Mady sit?” Ivy asks in a silly, flirty voice. Her nose, I now see clearly, is freckled from nostril to bridge. As are the apples of both cheeks. Someone will have hell to pay. Right then and there, I decide it will not be me.
“Mady will happily wait for my return on foot,” Mr. Eggar says. With that, he steps into the center of the skiff, steadies himself, then grabs an oar and pushes us off the sand. Ivy squeals the moment we are afloat.
“How long to the other side, sir?” I ask.
Grinning, he replies, “There is only one proper answer to that. As long as it takes.”
CHAPTER 27
NORTH BEVERLY PARK
Present
The moon was nearly full, sufficiently bright to highlight a pathway down the hill, yet not penetrating enough to illuminate the underbrush. In the clear black sky, the stars were out in force, winking overhead. What possessed her, she hadn’t a clue. Lee knew there were skunks and God knows what burrowed beneath the scrub, yet she tiptoed out of the pool house after ten wearing sandals, bare legs, and a flared ModCloth minidress she’d bought used on eBay. What’s mo
re, Lee had decided not to mention the party to her mom. Exhausted from an entire afternoon with the yellow jackets, Valerie had arrived home late with the weary pronouncement: “If I never smell Chanel No. 5 again, I’ll die happy.” Then she headed straight for the shower and to bed early. Why stress her further with worry that their cover would be blown? Lee knew how to keep her mouth shut. Besides, she was eighteen. Too old to need a mother’s permission.
“Here we go.” Lee crept to the edge of the yard where the Adells’ infinity pool dropped out of sight. Then she began her descent.
California’s chronic drought, interrupted by blasts of rain, had left the ground on the hill rock hard and dusted by a fine layer of slippery dirt. Lee stepped carefully, hearing the crunch of dead needles beneath the thin soles of her sandals. Her bare toes would be filthy by the time she made her way to the party. But she had a plan.
The Mediterranean-style mansion midway down the hill was enormous. It was the type of house that needed intercoms. Thumping music vibrated from the inky interior of the ground floor while Creamsicle-colored light spewed from every arched window above. Red clay tiles rippled down the multi-angled roof, swirly wrought-iron railings contained the mini balconies beyond each window, slate tiles lay in a stone pattern around the lagoon-inspired pool. It was a picture straight out of Architectural Digest.
Lee’s heartbeat soon fell in sync with the whomp, whomp of the audible bass. Her sandals slid backward as she zigzagged around the low bushes, focusing only on the dirt path beneath her feet. Why invite trouble by scanning the hill for movement? Let the rodents hear her and hide themselves. “A rat is only a squirrel with a bald tail,” she said, brightly, attempting to calm herself. “A skunk will only spray if you scare it.”
More than once she asked herself, “What the hell am I doing?” Sneaking out to a rich boy’s party wasn’t like her at all. Then again, everything that was like her—college; her best friend, Shelby; a future—had been snatched away. Maybe it was time to reinvent.
Not surprisingly, the only enclosure around the backside of the Mediterranean estate was a squat retaining wall around the pool area and a chain-link fence around the tennis court. The rest of the yard was wide open. An access peculiarity of the wealthy. While it was most certainly gated from the front—as was the Adells’ home—the back of this gazillion-dollar mansion was open to its neighbors. The hill connected everyone who lived on it. Outsiders were forbidden in. But if you were already in, admission was free. If you braved the hill, that is. Which, of course, no one with other options would even consider after dark.
Lee’s other options—driving the old Toyota around to the front or walking around on the sidewalk—were out of the question. Either way was a dead giveaway that she didn’t belong at that party. Nobody in L.A. walked anywhere unless her car was broken down. And nobody invited to an Architectural Digest sort of house would have a car on its last legs. Plus, Lee never did get the name of the boy who had invited her, and he didn’t know hers. What could be more humiliating than standing before a gate speaker sputtering, “Um, he had dark hair? And, um, neon Nikes?” No way would they buzz her through. Her only choice was to enter the party the way the boy had entered the Adells’ yard. If she didn’t slip on her ass or encounter a critter that sent her screaming down the hill. A stealthy entrance to the pool was critical.
The temperature had fallen, as it always did after dark. It was a breezy fifty degrees. Still, Lee knew everyone at the party would be wearing summery outfits—as she was—the memory of the hot day still fresh in their minds. It was the Southern California way. A minisweater over a stretch cami was the most girls were willing to surrender to the chill. And the only way to tell if a Californian boy was cold was to note how deeply his hands were shoved into his front pockets. At least, that’s how it was in the Valley. Up here, in North Beverly Park, the rules could be completely different. God, she thought, I hope no one wears fur.
Feeling a rush of bravery, Lee quickened her step. Her dangly earrings kissed her neck, the coconut essence in her shampoo brought to mind a tropical beach. (Not that she’d ever been to Hawaii, or even Santa Barbara.) It excited her to think that no one at the party would know who she was. Lee Parker could be anybody she wanted. She could adopt a British accent. Cheers, gov! Or claim that her parents were expatriates from a “stan.” Turkmenistan, perhaps? Or the one that starts with a UZ? If the boy with the curly dark hair wondered why she’d had no accent earlier when they met at the Adells’ pool, she could simply state that she’d been faking an American accent then. Actors did it all the time.
For one night, Lee wanted to forget that her father squandered her college money and ran off, her brother was also gone with the wind, her best friend had moved on without her, her parents had split up, and her mother worked as a maid. Tonight, she would be anyone but a broke girl who secretly lived in a pool house. With germs all over her toothbrush.
“What’s the worst that could happen?” She chuckled to herself.
At that moment, as if ferried on a surge of adrenaline, a panic list shot through her mind. What’s the worst that could happen? Hundreds of bad things could happen! The son of a Turkmenistan diplomat could be there. What language did they speak there, anyway? Certainly not Turkish. Was it Russian? Would she insult him if she answered “nyet” to every question? The girl who sold her dress on eBay could be there. She could march up to Lee and coyly say, “Love the dress. Where did you get it?” When Lee lied (of course), the girl would move in for the kill. “Funny, I had a dress just like it. There was the tiniest raspberry stain on the hem. Oh. There it is.” Lee knew girls like her; she had avoided their wrath all through high school. There was no stopping a girl like her.
“I’m curious . . . how does it feel to wear someone’s old clothes? I was shocked when it sold. You did wash it, right? God, I hope so. That dress and I went to a lot of wild parties. I’d hate to have it scanned with a UV light. Ha ha. Of course, that was ages ago. Who would ever want to wear my old dress now? Oops. Sorry. You.”
Truth be told, Lee hadn’t washed the dress. It looked—and smelled—perfectly clean. She’d never even considered a forensic examination. Suddenly her legs felt like two tree trunks lumbering down the hill. She stopped to catch her breath while her mind continued to race.
What if the cute boy from the pool didn’t recognize her?
“You’re who? From where?”
What if someone recognized her from Bed Bath & Beyond?
“Hey, didn’t I see you yesterday? You helped me find that pillow? You know, the one that doesn’t get hot?”
The nearest BB&B was at the Beverly Center, on San Vicente. Technically, it was closer than the Encino branch, but everyone knew that San Vicente Boulevard was a traffic nightmare. It had taken Lee forty minutes just to get to the Beverly Center on the day she applied for a job there; parking in that sperm whale of a mall, plus finding the store entrance from within the garage maze, took another fifteen. When she was hired to work down the hill in Encino, she was glad. The Encino store had a parking lot right in front. If you got there early enough, there were spots in the shade. From Mulholland Drive, it was a winding road directly into the Valley. A short hop on Ventura Boulevard. Who wouldn’t shop at the Encino branch?
Despite the chill of the night, Lee felt her armpits go damp. Her stomach felt leaden. “What the hell am I doing?” she asked herself out loud.
Grandchildren of the gossipy yellow jackets would most certainly be at the party. Didn’t the rich hang out in cliques? Hadn’t everyone known each other from birth? They went to the same boarding schools. They shared the same private tutor. How simple would it be for word to get back to the Adells that Lee had been swimming in their pool, naked, when a neighbor’s friend spotted her? Such a juicy tidbit would be the first topic of conversation at a supper prepared by their private chefs.
Lee took a few more tentative steps. Again, she stopped.
With sickening clarity, she realized that
—far from her secrets being safe—her cover could be blown easily. Worse, she risked endangering her mother. One breach of their contract and they were both out on the street.
Nearly down the hill—close enough to spot a boy and two girls chatting by the tennis court—Lee listened to her breathing. A whoosh of oxygen filled both lungs, a rush of carbon dioxide exited both nostrils. The boy held a brown beer bottle by its neck; the girls flipped their sheets of creamy-blond hair. He mumbled something; they overlaughed. Dust settled around Lee’s bare toes. The vibrating, glowing villa suddenly looked as forbidding as Buckingham Palace. Tears rose to her eyes. Her heart sank. She knew.
I can’t go.
She shrank into herself. The cute boy she’d met earlier had said he was from New York, right? He’d be going home soon, right? If she never saw him again, he’d forget all about her. Even if he told his friends, they would soon dismiss it. “You met a naked girl in a pool? Yeah, right. A mermaid?”
If Lee turned around that very minute, it would soon feel as if nothing had happened at all. Her old life could resume. Work. Home. Repeat.
Crushed, she swiveled on her dusty sandals and made her way back up the hill. A prickled stem in the scrub nicked the skin on her calf. She cursed her father for ruining her life. She could be at Columbia right now. Summer prep courses. Or in Malawi with Shelby. Instead—
In the darkness between two mansions, Lee saw the trajectory of her life. Community college, a job in health care—nursing informatics? MRI technician?—married to a balding man in middle management who fell into his recliner the moment he got home from work. Budweiser in hand, he burped luxuriantly and griped about his lazy boss during every commercial. He dreamed of entering an Ironman competition, though it had been years since his last push-up. With their entire savings, they bought a foreclosed ranch-style house in Tarzana. The lawn was dirt and the dishwasher didn’t work. Neither was ever replaced or revived. She brought McDonald’s home from work. “Use the paper as a plate.” Of their two kids, one hated school, the other rarely attended. His baggy clothes always smelled of weed. God, Mom, stop sniffing me.
