The Lake of Dreams (40 page)

And now we love each other. I have agreed to go to Rochester when this house is all packed away. But I will not marry him, or anyone. Nor will I live with him. He has bought a house near the center of the city, and I have taken a room in the house of a woman I knew slightly in the days of our splendid parties. Her name is Lydia Langhammer. She is a nurse. I have already begun to write in search of work.

So I will see Frank every day and have that pleasure, and I will always be able to go to my own room and shut the door and delight in my solitude, too.

Dear girl, may you grow in wisdom and in kindness, always.

Love, your mother Rose

1 October 1925

Dearest Iris,

Oh, my dear, I saw you today. I spoke to you. You do not know who I am, you think only that I am a friend of Mrs. Elliot, and her niece Mrs. Stokley. I gave you a false name, Rose Westrum. True enough in heart. Perhaps you found me too intense, perhaps you noticed that our eyes have such a similar look—the same blue, as changeable as water. I found you utterly beautiful, perfect in every way. When another guest remarked on our resemblance, you were not exactly pleased. You are 14, and I am 30, so to you I am old. There is no one save Mrs. Elliot who knows of our connection, even Mrs. Stokley who took you in does not know.

You were glad to leave The Lake of Dreams. I do not blame you, though I wish you had not run away and put yourself in so much danger. I wish also that you did not have to work, but I am glad that the work is good. I am glad you can take classes at the college. I always send money to Mrs. Elliot for little things you might like, and I was so happy to see you wearing the blue cardigan with tiny buttons that she had given you. And I feel glad somehow to know that the famous author who once lived down the street was born and died in the same light beneath which I once stood, dreaming that the world would shift and change, or even end.

Love from Rose, your mother

I walked the few blocks to the car, following the wide purple path that had been painted on the sidewalk, mulling over the letters, the complex arc of Rose’s life, glad she’d found happiness, gladder still that she’d seen Iris again, even if her presence had remained forever secret. Iris had been born in 1911, which meant she could still be alive, though she’d be in her midnineties by now, and of course I had no way to begin to look for her. I slid inside the sun-hot car. When I put my bag with its stolen letters on the floor, I hit the glove compartment door with my elbow, and it swung open. I hadn’t thought to look inside before, and it was empty except for three pencils, never sharpened, their orangeypink erasers intact and hardened with age, the marina logo my father had designed printed on them in blue. He must have left them here one day long ago, when he’d taken the car out for a Sunday drive. I wondered if anyone did that anymore, drove just for pleasure. How odd, for that matter, that this storage space was still called a glove compartment, left from a time when women wore gloves whenever they went out. I wondered where my father had been going, what he’d been thinking about, that day. I snapped the little door shut, and slipped the pencils into my bag next to the letters Rose had written and received. And then I drove back over roads that were becoming so familiar, through the start-stop traffic in the villages, through the verdant fields rippling in the evening breeze. Tomorrow I’d get up and drive back to pick Yoshi up in Rochester. He’d be somewhere over the Arctic Circle just about now, sleeping a restless, interrupted sleep, flying west with the night.

When I reached The Lake of Dreams I parked downtown, on the main street, grabbed my bag, and walked to the pier where Blake’s boat was moored. I hadn’t spoken to him since we’d argued over the boxes of old toys in the living room, and I hadn’t talked to him yet about Avery’s anger over my lapse. I couldn’t blame him for being upset, and the image of him standing on the dock, watching as Keegan and I had driven out into the dusky lake, had lingered. I was full of the letters, too, bursting to talk about Rose and her extraordinary story, which was also ours.

Blake was working on the
Fearful Symmetry,
painting stain onto the wooden trim. It gleamed a clear, glossy brown. He rested the paintbrush across the can and stood up when he saw me coming, wiping his hands on a stained white rag he pulled from his pocket. I stepped over the railing, onto the deck.

“Hey,” I said. “That’s looking good.”

His hair was golden red in the sun. He nodded. “I think so, too.”

“You know, I’m sorry, Blake. Mom said Avery is still mad.”

“Yeah, well, that would be something of an understatement. Is she overreacting a little? Maybe. But she’s really upset, and I can see her point. She wanted to be the one to say something, you know? She wanted to choose the time.”

“I didn’t think clearly,” I said, understanding in that moment how deeply Blake’s allegiances had shifted. He had his own family now. “Would it help if I called her?”

Blake shrugged. “Maybe. She’s really mad at me. She didn’t know I’d told you, Lucy. She didn’t know that anyone else knew, and when she found out—well, you can imagine how she felt.”

My bag with all the letters was hanging from my arm, and though I’d meant to share everything I’d learned with Blake, it suddenly seemed trivial compared to what was unfolding between us.

“I feel terrible. What can I do?”

He looked past me, over the water, and sighed. “Nothing, at this point. I mean, it would be good if you talked to Avery.”

“I will.”

“Okay.” He managed a small smile. “Just don’t expect her to name the baby after you.”

“Okay on that, too.”

We were quiet for a moment, the boat moving slightly on the gentle waves.

“Yoshi’s coming tomorrow,” I said.

“Hey, I’m glad to hear that. You guys are good?”

“I hope so,” I said.

He nodded, no doubt remembering Keegan and me traveling out on the lake the night before. “I was beginning to wonder.”

“Keegan and I were never meant to be.”

“You okay with that?”

“I’m okay. Sad a little. I mean, Keegan is great in a lot of ways. I just got disoriented for a while, so far away from home. So close to all the lost past.”

Blake smiled. “Yeah, I get that. Well, look—we’re doing a July Fourth party on Tuesday,” he said, gesturing to the half-stained railing. “Here on the boat. That’s what I’m doing, getting ready. I’m inviting everyone, Art, Joey and Zoe, Austen, Mom, a few friends, some people from the restaurant, too. Mom promised not to tell anyone else about the baby, and we’re going to formally announce it then. The baby and the wedding, by the way. I’m not telling when we’re getting married.” He smiled. “You’ll have to wait like everyone else. You’re invited, by the way.”

“Well, thank you. And congratulations.” I hugged him, the bag catching between us as he put his arm briefly around my shoulders.

Then I left, walking down the dock and through the village to the Impala, driving up the lake road until the house came into view. The sun was setting by then, and light flashed off the cupola windows in spectacular shades of gold and fuchsia and orange. I parked on the lawn and walked straight to the shore, shedding my shoes as I went, and dived off the end of the dock into the cold clear water of the lake.

Chapter 16

YOSHI’S FLIGHT WAS DUE TO ARRIVE EARLY, SO I WAS UP AT dawn, rough clouds scattering to the east and muting the sunrise, the sky flaring red and gold, as if on fire. My mother had been spending a lot of time upstairs, going through the closets and packing up my father’s things. Quietly, without saying anything about it, she had started sleeping there again. Her door was ajar, her breathing soft and even, so I moved quietly, down the stairs, the kitchen tiles cold on my bare feet as I made toast and tea.

Breakfast over, I got into the Impala and took the highway. There was little traffic so I got to the airport with an hour to spare, taking a seat in one of the black Naugahyde-and-metal chairs to wait. At this early hour the regional airport was almost empty. I’d brought my computer to catch up on e-mail. My account was so full it almost shut down, so I spent the first few minutes deleting spam and chain messages. Neil and Julie had sent photos from their recent snorkeling trip, so the screen was suddenly full of a tropical paradise, with Yoshi sitting on the white sand beach, leaning back on his elbows and smiling, his legs crossed at the ankles and his jet-black hair cut very short, looking so relaxed it was hard to believe he’d just quit a job and didn’t have another.

I found myself smiling back. I thought of the rain, and I remembered how happy we had been.

While I was working through the inbox, a message popped up from Oliver, of all people, labeled “point of interest.” I clicked it open, thinking he’d probably just put me on a mailing list for the Westrum House, but in fact it was a real message from Oliver himself.

Dear Lucy,

First, allow me to apologize for being so terse with you during the visit you and your mother made to the Westrum House. I hope you can understand my concerns about thoroughly investigating any claims regarding Frank Westrum. One cannot be too careful, I find, in this high-tech era. I would not wish for any misinformation to go viral, as they say. Yet I am aware of my own tendency to be a bit overprotective of his legacy, and a recent conversation I had with your Reverend Suzi helped me reach the conclusion that perhaps I had been too abrupt, even rude, when we last met.

So let me apologize. And let me also inform you of a recent discovery I made while going through the studio more thoroughly. I found a piece of paper, shoved in the back of the drawer marked 1938, with a penciled note. It said only this: Iris Jarrett Wyndham Stone. I would not have noted this before, but now of course I assume she is your Iris. I send this news with my best wishes to you and to your family.

Iris Jarrett Wyndham Stone. The note from Oliver was so generous, so unexpected. I read her married name over and over again, and whispered it out loud. I remembered finding her baptismal certificate and that the name Wyndham had meant nothing to me then. Now the sad and complicated history radiated from every letter. I did a quick Internet search but came back with nothing except Wyndham Stone Turf near Batavia and Stone Jar Antiques in Oswego. If Iris was alive, and she could be, she could be anywhere at all.

When I’d worked my way halfway down the screen, I found a message from Serling University, which housed the Vivian Branch archives in its history collection, and had been working all this time on my request. I’d forgotten all about this. I opened it to find a note from the archivist saying she had come across two letters of interest, both written by Frank Westrum to Vivian Branch and her sister Cornelia. She had scanned the documents into PDF files and these were attached. I clicked on the first.

9 September 1938

My dearest Vivian and Cornelia,

I write to let you know the windows are complete.

Last evening I left Rose resting in the parlor of the sanatorium, feeling better. I hope so, at least. I stood outside for a very long time in the dusk. The light was on, I saw her shadow move behind the curtains. She was able to see all the windows but the final one before her health deteriorated, but I hope she will rally enough to come home before I must ship them off to you. They have meant so much to her. I would like her to see them all together, just once. People passed me on the street, talking, and some glanced at me lingering at the bottom of the steps, but I stayed until she went upstairs to her room and put the lamp out and slept. I hope she slept. Increasingly, she coughs so much that it is hard for her to rest. This is such a cruel disease, and I am so helpless in the face of it. I walked for a long time by the river. It was dawn before I turned home and fell into a restless sleep myself.

There is no need for me to go on; I know my suffering will only bring you grief. But I write to let you know that all the windows are done. I believe they are beautiful. They hang against the windows in my studio, and I think you would be pleased to see them, all the women gathered, their feet resting gently on the border Rose designed. She took it, as you may know, from an image she saw as a child, a pattern she sketched and remembered for its beauty. Though I followed your instructions about the women you wished to depict, I consulted Rose about the images and design and the choice of colors, as I’m sure you wished me to do. Truly, we were partners in this creation, and so I think of these as being her windows in some true sense, born of your generosity and vision, yes, and of my work, true, but born also of my conversations with Rose, who is a sister to you in your concerns. You will understand that I made these windows with her in mind, thought of her with every piece of glass I cut, and I put them all together as if I could assemble our lives in such a beautiful and accurate way. Which of course, I cannot.