The Lake of Dreams - Kim Edwards [29]
“I’m good, doing well. I’ve got this new place.”
“So I see. Not bad. People are standing five deep outside.”
He nodded. “Yeah, so far so good, anyway. I’ve been here about six months. I’m giving myself three years, but they say the first one is the real make-or-break time. But you never know—a cold summer and all the tourists will stay home; there’s a lot I can’t control.” He grinned. “But then again, I’ve never been terribly afraid of risk.”
“Yes, I seem to remember that about you.”
“And you? I hear you’re a world traveler.”
I told him a little about the places I’d lived and studied, the jobs I’d taken, about my life with Yoshi, in Jakarta and Japan, which suddenly seemed very far away.
“You know,” I said, interrupting myself, overcome with regret suddenly for the way I’d ended things between us. “I’d like to tell you more, and I’d like to hear how you came full circle to end up back here—I know you were traveling, too—but before I say another word I want to apologize.”
“For what?”
“For being such a jerk to you after my father died.”
“Oh, Lucy.” Keegan shook his head, studying his hands, lean and calloused, which were clasped between his knees. “Look, it’s understandable—even if I didn’t understand it at the time. And it’s true, I didn’t. But you were in shock. I know. It’s major, losing a parent, and I shouldn’t have pressed you.”
“No, really, I was awful to shut things down like that. I’ve thought about it off and on for years. I’m sorry.”
He nodded but didn’t speak. I put my hand on his arm and he looked over at me, a question in his smile, and I remembered how we’d pull over in some deserted place, still trembling from the wind and the ride, and pulled my hand away.
“You were leaving at the end of the summer anyway,” Keegan said. “We didn’t ever talk about it, but I knew. So. What do you say we just let the past be the past?”
Could it? I wondered. Could the past ever be just the past? Still, I felt relieved of a burden I hadn’t realized I’d been carrying.
Keegan’s attention had been drawn elsewhere. Back to the furnaces, I thought at first. Or maybe his assistant, her short red hair swinging as she worked, was more to him than an employee. But then I saw that his gaze had gone even beyond the furnaces to the far wall, where a door had opened in the brick. A small boy with curly dark hair stood in the doorway, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, barefoot. A young woman waited behind him, her hands on his shoulders. She pointed in our direction and the boy waved, and Keegan waved back, standing up.
“Damn. I asked Tina not to bring him down here. It’s too dangerous.” Keegan was already swinging one leg over the rail. He called back over his shoulder, “Lucy, if you’ve got another minute, come on and meet Max. Meet my son.”
Most people had gone by then, but a couple had stayed to tend the furnaces, keeping them stoked until the next round of tours. They kept an eye on me as I navigated the edges of the room, careful to stay far from anything that glowed, still trying to get over the shock of hearing Keegan say “my son.”
I caught up with him at the doorway. He was squatting, talking to Max, who looked to be about six or seven years old. He had eyes as dark as Keegan’s and he was holding something in his fist. Slowly, Max opened his fingers and Keegan picked a beetle up from his small palm.
“Very nice,” he said. “Did you bring it for lunch?”
Max laughed, clearly delighted. “That’s silly, Dad.”
“Silly? Why so? Lots of protein in bugs.”
Max dissolved into giggles. “Dad.”
“I told him it was gross,” Tina said, “but he wanted to keep it.”
“This is my old friend Lucy,” Keegan said, handing me the beetle with its shiny brown sides. “Maybe she’ll stay for lunch. Should we invite her? She might like bugs.”
“You know what?” I said. “One time I did eat bugs for lunch. Deep-fried crickets, to be exact.”
Max was wide-eyed. “Did you like them?”
“They were crunchy,” I said, putting the beetle back in Max’s small, damp