The Lake of Dreams - Kim Edwards [65]
“Pardon me, are you Lucy Jarrett?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Pleasure,” he said, extending his hand. “I’m Oliver. Oliver Westrum Parrott.” He grimaced slightly when I smiled and said, “I know it’s a ridiculous surname, but what can you do? I’m chief of the board of directors. I am also Frank Westrum’s great-grandson. Stuart called me just now, and I was able to dash over straightaway. I wonder, could I see the photo of the window you’ve found? If it’s truly a Westrum window, there will be great interest, you see.”
“I sent an e-mail copy,” I said. “But yes, here, it’s on my phone. Have a look.” I pulled up the image, surprised at how possessive I felt about this information suddenly, about Rose. “The quality isn’t great, I’m afraid.” I handed him the phone; he stepped back beneath the shadows of the wisteria to see more clearly. For a moment he didn’t speak, but a muscle started twitching in his cheek.
“I see,” he breathed, finally. “Yes, this is very exciting, I’d say.” He looked up then, his eyes dark brown and avid. “Lucy. Pardon me, Ms. Jarrett, could I call you Lucy? Could I buy you a drink? I think perhaps it would help us both if we were to exchange stories.”
I glanced at my watch. “I don’t know—I have an hour’s drive.”
“I won’t keep you long, I promise. Plus, I know more about Frank Westrum than anyone else in the world.”
I nodded, intrigued. “All right.”
I followed Oliver Parrott and his black car for several blocks to an old section of the city that had been revitalized, the brick storefronts full of restaurants and shops. He parked, and so did I; we met outside a little café with big plate-glass windows. Oliver held the door open for me, then threaded his way through the after-work drinkers to the back, which opened onto a little patio overlooking the water. Due to the breezy weather, several tables were free. We took one with an umbrella and ordered—gin and tonic for Oliver, sparkling water for me.
“So, please—tell me about Frank Westrum,” I said as the waitress left. “I have to confess I’ve never heard of him until a few days ago.”
Oliver nodded, settling back in his chair. “He was a fascinating character. I’m biased, of course; it’s fair to say his legacy shaped my life, something my wife and children will attest to, with some frustration, I’m afraid. Not that I’m an artist,” he added, waving one hand as if to dismiss any aspirations he might once have had. “I’ve dabbled, but it became quickly apparent to me that I didn’t have the talent. Or the interest, really—it’s not an easy life. I went to law school, thinking I would work for arts organizations, and that’s what I’ve done. When there was an opening on the Westrum House board, I took the post gladly. My great-grandfather has been an avocation, really.
“He was an immigrant to this country from Germany, one of a great wave of artisans. He arrived in 1885 when he was seventeen, and started working in a glass factory outside of New York City, where several master glassworkers were reviving the art of stained glass, which had been virtually forgotten. They set about trying to re-create formulas for glass as it had been made in medieval times. Frank Westrum worked for one of these men, and in that way he started to come into contact with Art Nouveau. The style suited my great-grandfather, who loved the fluid, sensuous lines of the natural world, and who was a romantic at heart.”
“I have a friend who makes glass from old formulas—Keegan Fall.”
Oliver’s face brightened. “Yes, of course—I know Keegan Fall. He does wonderful work. He’s doing well? I certainly hope he makes a go of that studio. I suppose if you can make that sort of thing work anywhere, it would be in The Lake of Dreams, with all its charm and tourists.”
“So far, he seems to be doing okay.”
“Delighted to hear it. I’ve used his glass now and again for restoration work.” He took a long swallow