The Lake of Dreams - Kim Edwards [157]
“Anyway, all I can tell you is that he had something on his mind. He was preoccupied. Not worried so much as distracted. It was like he was listening to music I couldn’t hear. Sometimes I’d have to ask him a question three or four times to get an answer. He was finishing the kitchen renovation, and he kept having problems with the subcontractors. I didn’t want to add to his stress. I figured he’d tell me eventually, once he’d had time to work it out, whatever it was.”
She stared at the table, then looked up and spoke again. Her eyes were dry, but her words were rough with emotion.
“Does it matter, Lucy? Because I think we’re still in different places with all this. In the beginning I kept searching for reasons, too. I tortured myself with the idea that I might have changed the outcome. If I’d only done this, or said that, a different set of events would have followed. Maybe so. But this is what happened, and nothing changes that. It was an accident, and over the years it’s become a comfort for me to think of it that way.”
We’d never spoken so directly of my father’s death before; we’d driven grief underground, like water pressed beneath shale, threatening to emerge without warning. I didn’t want to cause her any further pain, but I put the will, those angry pages, on the table. I explained what it was and how I’d found it. I told her what it said.
She sat back in the chair, then picked up the papers and shuffled through them, though it was too dark to see.
“Really? He left half of everything to Iris?”
“He did. If he meant for this will to be seen, that is. He might have put it in the wall himself. Changed his mind, sealed it away instead of burning it.”
She nodded slowly. “Either that, or someone else did. Your grandfather or grandmother. It’s hard for me to imagine it was your grandfather, though. Do you remember him at all?”
“Not really, no.”
“He was genial, he liked the good life and was happy to float along on what his father had accomplished. Art’s a lot like that, when you get down to it. He feels entitled to everything, somehow. He was the sort of person who went along to get along—though, who knows, he might have bottled up enough anger to do this. Your grandmother, though—especially after your grandfather had that stroke—was very protective of her boys, especially of Arthur. I can see her doing this. Of course, I never knew your great-grandfather, so I can’t really say what he might have done.”
“Well, someone didn’t want it to be found.”
“Yes.”
“That seems awfully mercenary, if it was all about the money.”
“It might have been money. Or it might have been anger or embarrassment. They were very proper, both of your grandparents. Very concerned with appearances, with the family name. It’s a small town, and word would have gotten around. It might have been a sense of shame as much as anything, if either one of them did this.
“That’s your father’s handwriting,” she said, picking up the first page and reading it again. Found in kitchen, west wall. “He must have come across it during the renovation that last spring.” She sighed. “He never mentioned it. He wouldn’t have, though. Still, I knew something was off.”
“So maybe this was what was on his mind.”
“Yes,” she said slowly. “I can see that. It might have been.”
“If it’s true, it could change everything.”
In the silence we listened to the soft voice of the lake, whispering and whispering to the stony shore where they had pulled my father from the water.
“Well, not everything,” she said.
She stood up and slid the papers back across the table. The radiant happiness that had surrounded her when she’d come in had disappeared.
“Let’s just think about this,” she said. “Let’s not mention it to anyone. We can talk to lawyers and so forth, but for the time being, I don’t see the need to discuss it with others.”
“It’s been such a strange day,”