The Woman in the Photo by Mary Hogan

Julian steps out from the crowd, his chest thrust forward. “My father is a Harvard man.”
    Roderick scoffs. “Yale is the better team.”
    Suddenly feminine sounds flicker through the air. My friends—and others—giggle behind their hands. Descending the side clubhouse steps like a flock of geese, they venture intothe clearing, feigning a need to stroll off the curried eggs they’d just eaten. Creeping closer to a prickly hedge at the base of the birch coppice, I burrow ever lower. A thorn nicks my cheek.
    â€œAch,” I gasp, slapping my hand over my mouth. Thankfully, James Tottinger is too busy enjoying the sound of his own voice to notice mine. In his throaty tone, he says to Julian, “You, my good man, are now captain of Team Blue. I shall front Team Red.”
    Julian beams. Standing like Big Ben in the center of the clearing, James Tottinger divides the boys into teams while the girls pretend not to watch.
    â€œCan anyone spot me a soccer ball?”
    Captain Julian dispatches Edmond to the sports closet in the clubhouse. “Quickly,” Julian says, as if the commanding Mr. Tottinger might tire of the whole business and leave them flat-footed. In an outbreak of activity, the remaining boys scatter to toss errant bits of lake debris back into the water. They scoop up dead leaves with their bare hands. They remove their jackets and hats and tug at the pointed edges of their vests. Huddling ever deeper into the brush, I stare, unblinking, as the magnificent Mr. Tottinger unbuttons the jacket of his linen sack suit.
    â€œMight I impose upon one of you lovely ladies to keep my jacket out of the dirt?” he says, turning to the flock.
    Francine Larkin immediately steps forward with her clapper claw hands fluttering in the air.
    â€œWith pleasure, sir,” she says in that sparrow voice of hers. Within my leafy cover, I roll my eyes. Had I not been a lady in hiding, I would have groaned audibly. With Francine clutching James’s jacket to her breast, the arrival of the soccer ball, the peacocking of the man from England, and his accent making every word sound more exotic and important than it is, I finally come to my senses and decide I’ve seen enough. I’ve had my glimpse. Though my heart is pumping warm blood through my entire being, the absurdity of my position suddenly strikes me. Standing in shrubbery to watch grown men scamper through the grass like children? Particularly one man who so clearly believes he’s the desire of everyone? Well, if my inquisitiveness had not gotten the better of me, this is not a position into which I would ever lower myself. James Tottinger may be handsome, he may be the most superb specimen of a man I’ve ever set eyes upon, but he’s not for me. I prefer men with real confidence. Like Mr. Carnegie, who doesn’t need pleasing features to gain respect.
    Sweeping the unruly hair out of my eyes, no doubt smearing a bit of blood across my cheek in the process, I quietly gather my skirt and lift my muddy feet out of the soil, one by one. As I pull them from the muck, each boot makes a smacking sound. The noise of a mother’s lips on her baby’s cheeks. Kiss. Kiss. Still crouched low—rotating ever so slowly—I tiptoe in the direction of the tree trunk where my bicycle sits. Already I can feel the heavenly sensation of the hot bath I’ll ask Nettie to draw as soon as she returns from her picnic. I do hope she hasn’t thought I meant she could take the entire day off.
    â€œA forest nymph!”
    Midstep, I freeze.
    â€œYou there. In the bushes. Real or mythical?”
    I don’t need to turn around to know that James Tottinger hasspotted me. Besides his melting accent, the raucous laughter of my so-called friends is confirmation.
    â€œElizabeth Haberlin ? Is that possibly you ?”
    One brow shoots up. I recognize the voice instantly. It’s Francine’s. Of course it is. Her