The Lake of Dreams - Kim Edwards [24]
“Aren’t you going back to the house?” she asked.
“Not yet. I thought I’d get some coffee. Should I pick you up this afternoon?”
She hesitated, smiling a private smile that somehow excluded me from her day. “Sweetheart, thanks, but I’ve got a ride. Andy’s picking me up.”
It took me a minute. “The secret admirer?”
She laughed. “Yes, but for heaven’s sake, Lucy, he’s just giving me a lift.”
My mother kissed my cheek good-bye and crossed the parking lot. I watched her climb the steps and disappear into the bank, trying to sort out my feelings. She was only in her early fifties, attractive, vibrant; there was no reason she shouldn’t move on with her life. Maybe, while I was gone, she already had. This was a good thing, at least in theory. So why did it leave me feeling so unsettled? First Blake with a baby on the way, then my mother with a budding romance—it made me feel left behind, as if, despite my constant travels, I’d really been standing in place.
I locked the Impala and walked through town, looking for a coffee shop. Blake was right, there were changes everywhere. The sandwich shop where I’d worked in high school had been replaced by a sushi bar. I paused and looked through the windows, as if I might catch a glimpse of my former self behind the counter, fixing sandwiches and wrapping them in squares of white paper, dreaming of college and freedom. Any minor humiliations, any desire to rage at the general injustice of life—my cousin Joey was among those who regularly came in on the way to a carefree day of swimming or sailing—I’d stored away until Keegan Fall stopped by with his motorbike to pick me up each night at closing time. We flew down the narrow roads around the lake to whatever empty barn or waterfall or field party we could find, the wind rushing over us, cold and thrilling.
A waitress tapped on the glass, startling me from my thoughts. I walked on. Some of the empty storefronts had new businesses—a travel agent, a jewelry store with handcrafted items, a real estate agent with a window full of lake properties. Gone were the little cottages that used to dot the shore; instead there was one minor mansion after another. I could hardly stand the thought of selling the family house, and found myself calculating how my savings—half in yen and half in euros—might translate into dollars. Even if I could afford it, though, I’d be so far away most of the time. And the tax rates was sobering, too. My mother never discussed finances, but for the first time I wondered how much of her salary went into the house and the land, and how much more independence she would have if she sold.
The lake breeze was stiff. At the park, several people were sitting on benches, holding their newspapers tightly against the wind. Sailboats already dotted the water, distant and colorful, like butterflies against the whitecapped blue. Blake’s boat, the Fearful Symmetry, was moored in the slip he rented at the marina, but when I went on deck and called his name there was no answer, so I walked on.
Dream Master Hardware and Locks was the first building on Canal Street. Dark brick, it rose two stories above the high paned windows of its storefront. Its original name, DREAM MASTER LOCKS 1919, was etched in the broad stone lintel above the door. Blake was probably inside, but I couldn’t bring myself to go in; if the family history had a shape, it would be this building.
Instead, I followed a group of tourists past