The Lake of Dreams - Kim Edwards [64]
“I know. She almost has to have been the model for both windows.”
“And you say she’s an ancestor of yours?”
“I think so. Maybe. As I said, I found some letters in the house. She’s never mentioned in the family stories, Rose Jarrett. But there’s a record of her in the church—a baptismal record. She had a daughter in 1911.” I didn’t tell him the daughter was named Iris; I felt secretive about that discovery, so private and so exciting. I couldn’t imagine sharing it, not yet. “Then she disappeared altogether.”
“Where did you say the church is?”
“St. Luke’s, right downtown in The Lake of Dreams.”
Stuart nodded without commenting. It was always interesting to mention The Lake of Dreams to people from the area because the town had a reputation for being exclusive and rather snooty, for holding itself—the purity of its waters and the beauty of its village—above the other lakes and villages nearby. People either aspired to The Lake of Dreams or resented it. I couldn’t really tell what Stuart thought, but I imagined he’d be among the former.
“I see.” Then he gave a little laugh and sighed. “Well, actually, I don’t see, not at all. I still don’t understand why you think there’s a connection between your relative and the woman in the window in the church.”
“It’s the border along the base of the window,” I said. “Here, have another look. See—all the moons and vines I mentioned earlier? That same motif recurs in a piece of fabric I found in our house. There’s also a note she wrote that was with the fabric.”
“Yes, well. That’s hardly proof.”
I laughed. “I know. This is not proof at all. I’m going on gut instinct, an intuition that says these pieces must fit together. Of course, I could be totally wrong.”
“May I?” He took the phone and scrolled to the Wisdom window again. After a moment, he nodded slowly. “You know, I think you’re probably right, proof or no.”
“I know I’m not supposed to—it says no photos right here—but given the circumstances, I wonder if I could take a picture of the window in the landing?”
Stuart grew clipped again, professional, and handed the phone back to me. “Oh, I’m afraid you can’t. The museum directors—”
“Extenuating circumstances, don’t you think?”
He hesitated, glanced at his watch. “I’ll have to call and ask,” he said. “I was thinking I should call them anyway. They’ll be interested in your photos, your Rose.” He walked around the console and hit a number on the speed dial, keeping his head turned, his voice hushed, as he conferred with whomever answered.
“All right,” Stuart said as he hung up. “That was the chair of the board of directors, who also happens to be a Frank Westrum scholar. He agreed you could take one photo, as long as you leave a copy of the church window photo with us here, and some contact information, too. He’s quite interested, you see. I thought he would be.”
“I’ll e-mail it right now.” I took a business card from its little holder on the granite counter and punched the e-mail address into my phone. “By the way, what’s in those other folders?” I asked.
“Ah, right—not so much, really. Orders for glass in various colors.”
I looked, but Stuart was right. Not much to go on. I copied down the address in New York City so I could check it against Vivian’s other letters once the archivist at Serling College got back to me. I took my single photo of the window, framing it carefully, and gave Stuart my name and phone number before I left.
It was after five o’clock by the time I stepped outside. Low clouds had gathered, and the wind-stirred leaves seemed lurid against the maroon brick across the street, the darkening sky. I paused beneath a trellis covered with wisteria; a butterfly floated past, then drifted to the ground like a leaf.
As I was puzzling over Frank Westrum and Beatrice Mansfield, and how the equally mysterious Rose Jarrett might be connected to them, a shiny black car drove up and parked on the street beyond the gates. A tall man, rather plump and beginning to bald, got out and hurried into