The Lake of Dreams - Kim Edwards [111]
“They’re so pretty,” she whispered.
I nodded. “They really are stunning. She’s related to us, you know,” I said, on impulse. “The woman who designed some of these windows. See that pattern along the bottom? That’s hers.”
Zoe didn’t ask me how I knew this, or anything about Rose, not even her name.
“Cool,” she said. “You know, I like to draw. I wonder if maybe I inherited it.”
“Maybe,” I said, feeling possessive about Rose again; I’d already claimed her adventurous spirit for myself.
“What are they all about?”
“I don’t know, exactly. We’ll have to ask.”
As we talked I looked again from window to window, trying to determine if any of the figures resembled the woman in the landing at the Westrum House—that is, if any might be Rose—but none was familiar, nor did they resemble one another.
Keegan turned to me and called softly across the room, “Hey—did you see?”
“You mean the border pattern?”
“Yes, but not just that. Look at their clothes.”
I did then, searching. Each figure was dressed in the usual fluid robes, the green of new grass, a deep lake blue. And then I saw what Keegan meant, what I had not seen before: in each window, at the clasp of a gown, at the edge of a belt, or caught in the hair, was the trademark Westrum flower. Roses were in all of these windows, tiny but vivid, and deep, deep red.
“Oh!” I stood up and went over to the closest window, touched the rose floating on the water of the river.
“What?” Oliver asked.
“The signature flowers. They’re all roses, in every window.”
“Are they?” He stepped back to view them all, thoughtful. A square of purple light fell through the thinning place in his hair.
“All right,” he said, finally. “I guess you’re right—he must have known her. In fact, he must have known her very well. That’s something quite personal, isn’t it? All the little roses. He only did that a handful of times, putting a significant emblem in the glass, like a game he was playing with the people who bought his work. Things that no one else would notice, only the person for whom they were intended; sometimes it was even a private joke. For example, one window we have was commissioned by his neighbor. Frank needed money at the time, but he didn’t like this man, we know from letters we’ve retrieved; he found him pompous and self-satisfied and very irritating. The neighbor’s name was Baum, which means ‘tree’ in German. The window is quite striking, and Mr. Baum was delighted with it. He never noticed all the leafless trees scattered throughout the scene; Frank used their bare branches to divide colors.”
Keegan, who was standing nearby, laughed.
“Yes, but this is different,” I said. “This seems a very beautiful sort of tribute.”
“Oh, I agree. He clearly made these windows with great delicacy and intention. Some of his best work, I would have to say. He must have had a great affection for her.”
“I think so, too.” Remembering Oliver’s reticence in the studio, I decided not to tell him about Rose, that I’d found her letters, that I’d learned so much more. I didn’t want him to know about Iris, either, how she’d been left behind, how all Rose wanted was to earn enough money to come back and claim her daughter.
Zoe and I sat down. Suzi took a seat ahead of us and turned, sliding her elbow over the smooth wooden edge of the pew.
“This Rose Jarrett, who was she? Do you know anything more? Because if I was curious about her before, I’m just consumed with curiosity now.”
“Yeah, me, too,” Zoe said. “Lucy says we’re related, but I’ve never heard of her. And these windows are so beautiful, but I don’t know what they mean. Can you tell us?”
I was glad she had asked so I wouldn’t have to admit my own ignorance. I hadn’t gone to church since I was seventeen.
“I can tell you something about the windows,” Suzi said. “As beautiful as they are, they’re powerful, too. The west wall—it’s a wall of prophets,