The Woman in the Photo Read Online Free Page B

Valerie by sending positive traffic vibes to the multilaned intersection. Just before she got there, the light turned red.
    â€œDrat.” Lights didn’t always turn red on her, but they usually did.
    Did my birth mother have more red lights than green? Is traffic karma inherited? Valerie rarely hit a red light. She didn’t know what it felt like to be constantly kept out of the flow.
    â€œTwenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three . . .” Lee counted the seconds at the red light. Numbers calmed her. They were orderly and predictable. Most Los Angeles intersections, she knew, had up to two full seconds when all traffic was completely stopped. Yellow lights stayed lit for about four seconds, sometimes six, before the light turned red. It was based on some sort of algorithm designed to keep everyone moving. Unless you were late for work. In that case, red lights were endless.
    â€œThirty-six, thirty-seven, thirty-eight . . .”
    The instant the green arrow lit up, Lee surged into the intersection and turned left onto the wide boulevard. As fast as possible, she raced to the parking lot in front of Bed Bath & Beyond. It was ten past nine. Already, the lot was crowded. Her favorite space—the far corner under the tree—was taken. Associates weren’t allowed to park near the door. Lee groaned. By the end of her shift, the car would be an oven.
    Swinging open the door, she leaped out, locked the car, and ran. As the rubber soles of her tennis shoes bounced across the soft asphalt, the irony of it all sprang into her consciousness: today was her birthday as well as Memorial Day. Yet tomorrow was the “birth” day she would never forget.

CHAPTER 5

    Courtesy of the Johnstown Flood Museum Archives, Johnstown Area Heritage Association
    ABOVE JOHNSTOWN, PENNSYLVANIA
    Memorial Day
    May 30, 1889
    I n a flurry of movement, the train doors open and passengers flood the platform. Our porter exits first, and then extends his hand to assist us down the steep steps. One, two, three . Silently, I count my footfalls. A habit from childhood. For some reason, numbers are a comfort. A lullaby of sorts.
    On the platform, the porter holds an open umbrella over our heads though the rain has yet to restart. Mother, Henry, and I are the only first-class passengers to disembark. Who else would come to South Fork off-season? The train station, however, is bustling with travelers. Muscular steelworkers, mostly, and their sturdy wives. The women carry picnic baskets; the men are dressed in their Sunday-best butternut trousers. All are on their way, no doubt, to the festivities one stop down the line.
    â€œHurry now,” Mother says, with a linen handkerchief pressed to her nose. Quite unnecessary, I realize instantly. The distant smokestacks of Johnstown’s nonstop steel mill emit only the faintest puffs of white, unlike a normal summer day in which the entire train station would be enshrouded in a murky blend of smoke and fog, smelling decidedly sulfuric. Today, the bosses at Cambria Iron must have cut the workday short so the men and their families could enjoy the Memorial Day parade.
    I step out from under the umbrella and stand erect in my finery to breathe in the sodden air. Allowing, admittedly, a few moments for the townspeople to admire my dress.
    â€œElizabeth,” Mother says over her shoulder. A carriage is waiting on the uphill road to the club.
    â€œMiss Haberlin?”
    Behind me is a vaguely familiar voice. I turn to see a face I haven’t seen since last summer.
    â€œWhy, Mr. Eggar!”
    He has the same puckish expression, though perhaps a bit paler in complexion since the summer’s sun has yet to tint his skin. His shirtsleeves are unrolled and tight at the cuffs; his broadcloth vest lies flat against his torso. Atop the charcoal curls I remember well sits a shiny black bowler hat. It appears to be freshly brushed for the holiday.
    â€œWhat brings you to South Fork on this gray