The Lake of Dreams - Kim Edwards [25]
The Green Bean
Eclectic Vegetarian Cuisine
It was bright and open, the high rafters exposed and ceiling fans moving gently. The walls were brick and the windows and doors were trimmed out in pale oak. The last time I’d been here the building was condemned, full of broken windows and abandoned machines. Now a line of people waited on the chic scarred wooden floors, and the display cases held scones and muffins and biscotti, all bathed in a soft gold light. The air was full of rich scents, coffee and eggs, balsamic vinegar and sweet brown rice. Avery was busy behind the counter, slight and deft, moving with swift purpose from one task to another. I went out onto the deck and got a table overlooking the water. A waitress with a bright green cap and apron took my order: a roasted artichoke, green bean, and egg-white omelet. She brought hot coffee in a bright green mug. I sipped this, leafing again through the yellowed papers I’d found, wondering who Iris was and what had ever become of her, while water from the lake flowed by steadily.
My laptop was in my bag; other people were working at their tables, so I took it out and found an Internet connection right away. There were twenty-seven e-mail messages, three from Yoshi. He’d sent one from his phone the night before—having a drink, wish you were here—and I imagined him at one of the noisy after-work places he liked to go for yakitori or noodles and drinks—really, an extension of the corporate day. The other two were brief and businesslike, forwarding queries from potential students. To the last one he’d attached a photo taken from the balcony outside our bedroom, catching the copper roof of the Fujimoro house and the glint of the distant sea. At night I wake to the sound of trains passing. I miss you. I saved that message; I missed him, too.
The waitress brought my order, with a cinnamon roll on the side.
“Compliments of the chef. Avery’s busy, but she says hello.”
“Tell her hello back. Hello and congratulations. This place is terrific.”
And it was, the omelet tender, the roll so rich and buttery it melted in my mouth. I ate slowly, savoring the food and the fresh air and the patterns of the water. I was nearly finished before Art came in with my cousin Joey and took a table across the deck. If Art had come to resemble my father, it was equally true that Joey and Blake could have been brothers; Joey had the same curly hair, though his was darker, and the same striking, long-lashed blue-green eyes.
I didn’t want to see Joey. I didn’t even want to think about him. Though of course I’d seen him at the funeral and the wake and then in passing over the years since, I’d hardly spoken to him since we’d run into each other at the gorge on the night my father died. That night Keegan and I were standing in the curve by the falls, water roaring around us, so we didn’t hear the car doors slamming, or the voices coming closer. It wasn’t until they started gathering on the shore that we saw them, milling on the broken shale, their faces briefly visible in the flare of lighters as they pulled out cigarettes and joints, their laughter cutting through the night air, through the rush of water. There were a dozen or so people from the in crowd that hung together at lunch and downtown after school. They were mostly wealthy, dressed in boat shoes and designer jeans and polo shirts, driving brand-new cars. Keegan and I stood, as quiet as deer, until the beam from a flashlight caught me in the face.
“Oh, it’s just Lucy. Lucy Jarrett and Keegan Fall.”
We had no choice then but to make our way to them.
“Hey, cousin,” Joey said, emerging from the group as he cracked open a beer. Someone had lit a flare and his face was