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as possible, she backed out of the parking space and drove to the exit in the middle of the shopping center. Luck was with her. The lights were green. She crossed Ventura Boulevard without idling and pulled straight up to the pump. With her last twenty—payday was next week—Lee bought as much gas as she could. Enough, she hoped, to fuel her journey downtown the following day.
    After eighteen years of questions, she was about to get some answers. Nothing was going to stop her now. She would walk if she had to.

CHAPTER 7

    Courtesy of the Johnstown Flood Museum Archives, Johnstown Area Heritage Association
    THE SOUTH FORK DAM
    Memorial Day
    May 30, 1889
    C olonel Unger thoughtfully sent his man from the lake to pick us up at the station. Unfortunately, the large trap carriage is open to the elements in spite of its attached roof. The rain is soft, but steady.
    â€œHere, miss.”
    Nettie hands me one of the cashmere lap robes Colonel Unger has stored in the back of the carriage. Mother has already wrapped Henry in his like a chrysalis. I shiver slightly. Outside, it is unseasonably cool.
    My maid climbs to the open perch beside the driver—not her beau, Floyd, I notice—and eases in with Mother’s maid, Ella. Maggie, the undercook, sits next to me. We will have to make do with a skeleton staff. The clubhouse dining room will be closed and Father flatly refused to part with the family’s butler and primary cook. “Two weeks without Ida’s Nesselrode pie?” he said. “Unthinkable!”
    â€œDid you see me up there, Mama? Did you?” Henry is still excited. Sensing his elation, the horses gnaw on their snaffles.
    â€œSettle in, darling.”
    â€œBut did you see me?”
    â€œI saw you.” At last, Mother smiles. Her fright at Henry’s folly dissolves into the sodden air. Turning to me, she asks the question I have been expecting. “How is it you know a town boy?”
    I long to inform Mother that I have a full and intricate life beyond her reach, but of course, it isn’t true. I reply, “He was helpful last summer with Ivy Tottinger.”
    Mother’s brows press together in a dubious expression. To quiet her doubts, I add a small untruth.
    â€œHe works in the boathouse at the club.”
    Just then, the carriage lurches forward and Henry claps his hands. He clucks his tongue the way he’s heard carriage drivers do. The horses’ ears flicker. Nettie and Ella look back at us andsmile from beneath their umbrella. Little Henry’s exuberance is infectious. My leaden mood has disappeared. Perhaps a few days of solitude will soften the tautness I’ve noticed around my mouth. With so much to plan and think about in Pittsburgh, the tension of my debut has begun to announce itself in my complexion.
    Suddenly a strand of sunlight peers through the wet leaves. The rain lightens to a drizzle as the ominous gray clouds float toward the valley. As we ascend the winding mountain road, the carriage gently sways side to side. The rhythmic clip-clopping of the horses’ hooves makes me sleepy. I snuggle beneath the lap robe and settle in for the ride.
    Pinnate leaves of the ash trees hang over the road like a dancer’s graceful hands. Distant hills are a dusky purple hue. Pops of yellow daffodils delight my eyes. These mountains are magnificent—once one rises above the sooty valley. Even though the air is soggy, it’s impossible not to feel stirrings of joy at the promise of warmth. Last winter was abominable. And the Alleghenies cling to winter longer than Upper St. Clair does. Father said they were completely blanketed in deep snow. This season, Colonel Unger may be able to forgo restocking the lake. Fresh bass from the mountain streams are always better tasting than the imported variety from less pristine waters.
    â€œWhen I’m grown-up, I’m going to drive a train,” says Henry, dreamily. “Trains are . . . are