The Lake of Dreams - Kim Edwards [115]
“Me, either,” I said, thinking of the peace I’d always felt in church as a child, and thinking also of a hike I’d taken with Yoshi to a temple in the mountains that was built of dark wood, with a graceful, swooping roof, the sound of running water in the distance.
“Anyway, this is a real treasure. The windows are totally unique. Did you see Oliver? He was practically swooning.”
“I saw him,” I said. “He seemed very excited, very—covetous. I bet he’s planning an addition to the Westrum House already. Does the glass need much repair?”
“A little. Not much. It’s in surprisingly good shape. Here,” he added, taking my hand. “This was finished, so I brought it.”
He pressed something smooth and rounded into my palm, and in the second before I looked at it I remembered my dream again, and the yearning that had filled it; I flushed, as if Keegan might be able to read my thoughts.
The object in my hand was the shape we’d made together in the studio, fires roaring in their furnaces and the molten glass suspended on the end of the blowpipe. Keegan’s lips had been on the rim, his breath forming the glass from within, and then my lips pressed against the metal where his had been, my breath mingling with his in the hot embrace of glass, the sphere blooming, growing. It was curved and heavy, colors sliding over the surface, iridescent, like oil on water.
“I added the curl on top,” he said. “So you could hang it.”
“Thank you.” The curved glass fit perfectly in my palm. “I love holding it. And it’s beautiful, too.”
“You’re welcome.” He gazed across the fields at the lake. “I thought I’d take a walk while we’re here. Want to come?”
“Can we? Wouldn’t it be trespassing?”
He smiled. “When has that ever stopped us in the past, Lucy Jarrett?”
I laughed, and we set off across the field full of wildflowers to the trees.
Once we’d struggled through the underbrush at the transition from field to forest, the space opened up and became gladelike, oaks and maples and chestnuts growing high. The earth was loamy, springy beneath our feet, and carpeted with leaves and pine needles that cushioned our steps, silenced them. We grew quiet, too, walking amid the trees. The wind rustled the leaves high above, but around us the air was still.
“Do you know this place?” I asked Keegan, because he was walking with such an unhurried assurance that I’d simply fallen into step beside him.
“Never been here,” he said. “Still, it feels familiar, doesn’t it?”
“It’s the collective unconscious,” I joked.
“Maybe so.”
The land sloped gently; the distant sound of running water drew us on. Now and then animals scurried invisibly, rattling the low branches; light filtered in through the leaves and made dancing patterns on the forest floor. One bush was alive with tiny brown birds, which took flight and scattered as we passed. I felt I’d entered an enchanted place, a place out of time. We reached the edge of a shallow ravine, a stream running swiftly over the flat rocks below, and followed it, Keegan slipping down the bank so he could wade. My black sandals were crusted with dirt and debris, and I regretted my black dress, but I kept going. The silence of the forest seemed to extend from the silence of the chapel with its glowing windows, as if the whole world were a sacred place, and I wanted to go on, to see where the stream would end. It grew flatter and wider, the water eddying in shallow pools. I slipped off my sandals and stepped into the water. We walked until the trees began to open, until the stream poured itself into the lake and disappeared.
“Lucy,” Keegan said. We were standing up to our calves in the cold water. He turned