The Lake of Dreams - Kim Edwards [71]
When the story was done, Keegan closed the book and stood up, stretching.
“Read another one, Dad,” Max said. “I didn’t get enough stories.”
Keegan laughed. “Not enough stories? You never have enough stories, Max. I could read to you all day and all night and you’d still want more.”
Max laughed and shouted, “More!”
“How about you watch cartoons for fifteen minutes while I talk to Lucy?”
Max cast a level and assessing gaze at me before he reached for the remote. Keegan came over and kissed me on the cheek, a friendly kiss, nothing more, but one that took me back in time anyway. I felt the warm press of his lips, smelled his familiar scents of soap and sweat and now of fire.
“Nice sweatshirt,” he said.
“Thanks. I found it at the bottom of a drawer. We missed you at the solstice party,” I added, remembering how the night had been woven with the glittering possibility that he might come. Did I sound too disappointed? I touched my cheek where he had kissed me.
“Your mother was just being nice,” he said. “Besides, it got busy here at the end of the day. A special order, place settings for a bridal shower.”
“She likes you,” I said. “She wasn’t just being nice. It was a good party.”
“I’m sure it was. Well, maybe next year. Need some more coffee?” he asked, nodding at my cup as he walked toward the kitchen.
“Love some.” I followed him to the counter—he moved so fluidly, with the same athletic grace he had while working the glass—and sat down, pulled the plastic lid off the cup so he could fill it. “My mother said you left a message?”
“I did, actually. Good news. I got permission to take you to the chapel. Not until Wednesday, unfortunately, but they’ll have the boards off the rest of the windows by then. I’m eager to see what they’ve got there, and I thought you would be, too.”
“That’s fantastic. I didn’t get to tell you the details, but I found out who made the windows, and I think I found the connection with my family, too. I have this ancestor I’ve never heard of before. Her name is Rose. She had a daughter, too, born in 1911. And then she seems to have disappeared. They both did. Though I think I found some clues,” I added, remembering the woman with her arms full of irises.
Keegan looked surprised. “That’s really amazing, isn’t it? I mean, the way your family is, all interwoven and clannish, it’s hard to imagine there’s a forgotten ancestor.”
“Really? Are we like that?”
“Kind of, yeah. No offense or anything.”
“It’s okay. But am I like that?”
Keegan shrugged, amused and perplexed. “I don’t know, Lucy. It’s been a long time. But sure, you used to be pretty focused on all those complicated Jarrett dynamics.”
I nodded. It was probably true. When I came back I always felt as if I were standing on the edge of a river, watching the swirling currents of the family interactions from a safe distance. Now I wondered if I’d slipped into the midst of them again.
“The thing is, Keegan, I don’t think Rose was forgotten. I think she was covered up. Obscured. I think she was an early feminist—interesting and maybe scandalous. By the way, have you ever heard of Frank Westrum?”
“Westrum? Sure. Are they Westrum windows, then?” Keegan put down his coffee, his voice threaded with excitement. “They are, aren’t they? It crossed my mind, actually—it would make perfect sense—the style and the era are right. The church had records?”
“They