The Lake Of Dreams Part 4

"It's like a cruise s.h.i.+p," I said. "It must get about five miles to the gallon."

"Probably. No seat belts, either. He just loved tinkering with it, though. It wasn't ever really about getting from one place to another."

I drove toward town, pa.s.sing the miles of depot land, the rolling fields verdant beyond the silver chain-link fence, b.u.t.terflies and goldfinches darting through the tall gra.s.ses. At the curve before the entrance I slowed, half-expecting more protestors, but it was quiet, the gates closed, no one in sight.

"I see you brought those papers," my mother said, opening the folder on the seat between us. "I was wondering if the historical society could shed some light on them. You could ask Art if he knows anything, too."

"Art doesn't exactly seem like the family history type." We were traveling through the outskirts of the village by then, the houses closer together, the road hugging the lake. "So-what happened? Between Dad and Art, I mean."

"Oh, why does it matter, Lucy?" she asked. "I don't really like thinking about that time, honey. It can't be changed, right? Life goes on."

"Well, of course." Though I could feel her reluctance, I couldn't back away. "But don't you think it matters to remember?"

"I don't know, Lucy. Maybe. Probably. But it doesn't help me, not anymore."

I pushed again; I couldn't leave it.

"I just don't get it. I guess I'm thinking about Blake, Mom. Working for Art at Dream Master-it can't possibly end well with so much history."

"Suddenly the past is so important," my mother observed drily, and I knew she was thinking again of all the years I'd been gone.

"Ah. Why not just tell me? I'm afraid for Blake. I mean, Art's never going to make a real place for him at Dream Master. He'd never displace Joey, not even a little, to do that."

There was a brief silence. I turned onto the main street into town.

"All I really know is that Art didn't go to Vietnam," my mother said, finally. "That's the main thing. There was the draft, and your father's number came up, and Art's didn't. It was a terrible time, when I think back, waiting to hear if you'd been born on a good day or a bad day, all those young men all over the country, connected by a random date. A terrible time, and terrible luck, too. Your father was supposed to have an equal share at Dream Master, that was always the plan, but while he was in Vietnam your grandfather had a stroke, and your grandmother gave power of attorney to Art."

"Why would she do that?"

My mother shrugged. "Maybe she just got nervous. Your father was fighting a war, after all, half a world away. In any case, by the time your father came back, Art owned the controlling share of Dream Master. He'd already started having conversations, quietly, about selling the lock factory and all the patents to a rival company. He never said a word to us, and your father didn't realize what was going on, not for years. He came back and we got married and he went straight to work, just glad to be home. Glad to be alive. When he finally found out what had happened, he was so mad. He thought about selling out and leaving, but then your grandfather died and your grandmother moved into town and gave us the lake house and the acreage. It felt like a consolation prize, but she was shrewd; it was just enough to keep us here."

"That's when everyone stopped speaking to each other?"

"More or less. The beginning of the end, you could say. Your father stayed on at Dream Master for a few years even after the lock business was gone, thinking maybe he and Art could build something new. They hardly spoke, though. The final straw came in 1986. You know, when the comet came back? The local paper ran a big story about your great-grandfather and how he'd come to this country and started Dream Master after the comet of 1910. Art was featured quite prominently in the article. Your father wasn't even mentioned. I remember he threw the paper on the counter, went to work, and came back two hours later with his things in a box. He never went back."

"I remember that."

"Really? You were so young."

"I remember lying in my room and hearing people arguing downstairs. I remember how weird it was when Dad didn't go to work for a long time."

She was quiet for a moment. "We always talked about moving away. Maybe we should have. Instead, we stayed and tried to work it out. That's when I painted the house. Do you remember that? I started with the cupola and never stopped. If we were going to live in that house, I was d.a.m.ned sure going to make it ours."

"You planted gardens," I said softly, feeling terrible.

"Yes, I did, didn't I? Lots of gardens. Beautiful gardens, weren't they? And your father sold his share of Dream Master and bought the marina. We made a good life from a very unfair situation, we really did."

We were entering the village now, driving past the Victorian houses with their expansive lawns, past the lakeside park, through the center of town with its brick-faced buildings, which had once housed the feed store, the grocery, the five-and-dime, and which were now filled with gift shops, florists, and restaurants. The old movie theater had been turned into condos. I parked behind the bank, maneuvering the Impala into the last spot at the very end of the lot, far away from everyone. My mother got out, smoothing her skirt with her good hand and then picking up her briefcase, already s.h.i.+fting into a professional persona I hardly recognized. I got out, too.

"Aren't you going back to the house?" she asked.

"Not yet. I thought I'd get some coffee. Should I pick you up this afternoon?"

She hesitated, smiling a private smile that somehow excluded me from her day. "Sweetheart, thanks, but I've got a ride. Andy's picking me up."

It took me a minute. "The secret admirer?"

She laughed. "Yes, but for heaven's sake, Lucy, he's just giving me a lift."

My mother kissed my cheek good-bye and crossed the parking lot. I watched her climb the steps and disappear into the bank, trying to sort out my feelings. She was only in her early fifties, attractive, vibrant; there was no reason she shouldn't move on with her life. Maybe, while I was gone, she already had. This was a good thing, at least in theory. So why did it leave me feeling so unsettled? First Blake with a baby on the way, then my mother with a budding romance-it made me feel left behind, as if, despite my constant travels, I'd really been standing in place.

I locked the Impala and walked through town, looking for a coffee shop. Blake was right, there were changes everywhere. The sandwich shop where I'd worked in high school had been replaced by a sus.h.i.+ bar. I paused and looked through the windows, as if I might catch a glimpse of my former self behind the counter, fixing sandwiches and wrapping them in squares of white paper, dreaming of college and freedom. Any minor humiliations, any desire to rage at the general injustice of life-my cousin Joey was among those who regularly came in on the way to a carefree day of swimming or sailing-I'd stored away until Keegan Fall stopped by with his motorbike to pick me up each night at closing time. We flew down the narrow roads around the lake to whatever empty barn or waterfall or field party we could find, the wind rus.h.i.+ng over us, cold and thrilling.

A waitress tapped on the gla.s.s, startling me from my thoughts. I walked on. Some of the empty storefronts had new businesses-a travel agent, a jewelry store with handcrafted items, a real estate agent with a window full of lake properties. Gone were the little cottages that used to dot the sh.o.r.e; instead there was one minor mansion after another. I could hardly stand the thought of selling the family house, and found myself calculating how my savings-half in yen and half in euros-might translate into dollars. Even if I could afford it, though, I'd be so far away most of the time. And the tax rates was sobering, too. My mother never discussed finances, but for the first time I wondered how much of her salary went into the house and the land, and how much more independence she would have if she sold.

The lake breeze was stiff. At the park, several people were sitting on benches, holding their newspapers tightly against the wind. Sailboats already dotted the water, distant and colorful, like b.u.t.terflies against the whitecapped blue. Blake's boat, the Fearful Symmetry, Fearful Symmetry, was moored in the slip he rented at the marina, but when I went on deck and called his name there was no answer, so I walked on. was moored in the slip he rented at the marina, but when I went on deck and called his name there was no answer, so I walked on.

Dream Master Hardware and Locks was the first building on Ca.n.a.l Street. Dark brick, it rose two stories above the high paned windows of its storefront. Its original name, DREAM MASTER LOCKS 1919, was etched in the broad stone lintel above the door. Blake was probably inside, but I couldn't bring myself to go in; if the family history had a shape, it would be this building.

Instead, I followed a group of tourists past a green s.p.a.ce with benches to the renovated gla.s.s insulator factory, which took up much of the block. Abandoned and falling into decay for years, the building had been beautifully restored. The brick had been cleaned and tuck-pointed, the windows replaced, porches and balconies added. Colorful signs listed the businesses that had opened there. I found Avery's right away: 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 m.u.f.fins 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 ap.r.o.n 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 Yos.h.i.+. 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 pa.s.sing. 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 h.e.l.lo."

"Tell her h.e.l.lo back. h.e.l.lo and congratulations. This place is terrific."

And it was, the omelet tender, the roll so rich and b.u.t.tery 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 pa.s.sing 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 sh.o.r.e 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 s.h.i.+rts, 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 strangely shadowed in its flickering light. Since the rift between our fathers we'd pa.s.sed each other in the school halls as if we didn't even know each other, and I didn't trust his sudden friendliness. "How about that? Why'd you cut your hair so short, cuz?"

"Because I wanted to," I said.

He laughed; it wasn't his first beer. "I hear you're heading west."

"That's right."

"I hear you got a big scholars.h.i.+p, too."

"I did," I said; the letter had come just the day before, and the thought of it still made me flush with pleasure.

"That's good. Glad it worked out." And then, before I could say thanks-I was actually about to thank him-he added, "I mean, since you needed it so bad."

"Come on, Lucy," Keegan said softly. His strategy for dealing with fights-his mother was a very vocal member of the Seneca Nation, so he'd had his share of taunts over the years-was always to slip away and disappear, but I stayed where I was, the stream breaking around my ankles.

"What do you mean, Joey? I earned this scholars.h.i.+p."

"Sure," Joey said. He was a shadow on the moonlit sh.o.r.e. "You do what you have to do in life, right? If you have to work, you do." He shrugged and lifted his beer. "I'm glad you'll get to go to college after all, Lucy. Cheers to you." And he drank.

Keegan caught my arm. "Let's go," he whispered. I let him pull me away, but we didn't leave the gorge. I couldn't let it go. I knew even then that I was caught up in something beyond this moment of foolish insult, some dark dynamic I'd inherited as surely as I'd gotten the Jarrett eyes, the gift of listening to locks. Keegan and I crouched a few feet away in the dense green summer foliage; I waited until Joey and his friends shed their clothes and waded out to the falls so they could dart beneath the pounding water or linger in the pools it had formed in the rock over time. When I was sure they wouldn't see us, I scrambled to the sh.o.r.e, grabbed Joey's clothes and keys, and ran. "Is this a good idea?" Keegan asked, but I didn't hesitate. I flung his clothes to the highest branches. His red s.h.i.+rt was a distant flag, his trendy jeans flopped over an unreachable branch, his keys sailed far into the darkness, rustling dense brush as they landed. At that moment I didn't care if Joey walked home naked. He could search for his clothes all night; he could climb to the top of the falls and crash to the bottom for all I cared.

My cousin still dressed well, in parachute-cloth pants and a dark blue cotton s.h.i.+rt. When he smiled up at the waitress, his eyes crinkled at the corners, charming and flirtatious. Her answering laughter floated over the deck. Some things didn't change, after all. I closed my folder with its dusty discoveries from the past, packed up my computer, and paid my bill, trying to slip out amid the crowded tables before they realized I was there. It was too late, though. Art saw me, called my name, and waved me over. To my surprise, Joey stood up when I reached the table and swung one arm around my shoulders. I wondered if he even remembered what had happened at the falls.

"Home for a while?" he asked.

"Couple of weeks. How about you?" The last I'd heard, Joey had been unemployed, b.u.mming around L.A. studying filmmaking, which had made me feel quite satisfied, sitting in my sleek Jakarta office as I read the family news in my mother's letter.

"I've roped him into working here for the summer," Art interjected. "I'm trying to start a dynasty. Why not? Between Joey and your brother, the business could have a pretty bright future. You're not interested, are you, Lucy? Because there's always a place for you, if you ever want."

I smiled politely, wondering what Joey thought of Art's sudden magnanimity, deciding not to point out how he'd been quite happy to slam the door on the idea of a dynasty when my father was alive. "Thanks. I'll keep it in mind. Big project?" I asked, nodding at the rolls of drafting paper on the table.

"Oh, that." Art waved his hand. "Just some ideas we're working out. Always dreaming something up, you know. Staying on the cutting edge."

Joey had been scanning the deck, which was full now, and he didn't look at us as he spoke, taking in the crowded tables. "That's right. Trying to stay one step ahead of the curve. Speaking of which, Avery's sure got a gold mine here," he added. Then he looked up and winked at me. "I may just have to give Blake a run for his money with her, what do you think?"

A joke, I told myself, just a joke. But I remembered in that moment why I'd been so happy to steal Joey's clothes and hide his keys. I remembered my distaste and anger.

"I think you two look busy," I said, forcing a smile, moving away. "Guess I'll see you around."

Chapter 4.

"I HEAR HE'S FABULOUS," THE WOMAN SAID, SO ENGROSSED IN her conversation that she nearly ran into me as I left the restaurant. She was carrying an outsized patchwork bag over her shoulder and I stepped back into the doorway to let her pa.s.s.

"Oh, he's very good," another woman said. "I was here last spring, when he first opened. They'll let you try it, you know. It's really an experience. They walk you right through it. You hardly have to use any air at all. It's not like blowing up a balloon or anything. I made a gla.s.s egg."

"Did you? I want to do that."

"I'm sure you can."

"He really must be good."

"Oh, he is, he's won awards."

They were past me then, walking through the midmorning sunlight to the other end of the renovated factory. I knew they were talking about Keegan, and I followed them as they sang his praises.

It wasn't hard to find the entrance to Keegan's studio; a group had collected five deep outside the tall gla.s.s windows at the corner of the building, waiting for the next tour to begin. A sign hung from the doorway with a single word engraved in colorful script: GLa.s.sWORKS GLa.s.sWORKS. When I looked more closely I saw it was a mosaic made of tiny gla.s.s chips fused together. I couldn't see much over the gathered heads, just trees and water reflected in the window, the distant glow of fire beyond. Those in the front rows appeared spellbound, emitting sighs of appreciation. There were many well-heeled women like the two who had pa.s.sed me, but there were also several young people dressed in plenty of black, and two groups of teens that looked like they'd come on a field trip.

It was frustrating not to be able to see, and I was just about to leave when a tour leader finally pushed open the double gla.s.s doors, inviting us to enter. The group s.h.i.+fted and began to flow inside; I went with the current. A rush of heat poured over us as we filed into the vast room and took our places behind the observation railing. In the open s.p.a.ce, several figures moved in a slow dance with fire. The guide raised her voice, but I could hardly make out what she was saying over the roar of the venting hood, the flames.

Against the far wall, three ovens glowed with a deep red-orange fire. A man wearing goggles, his dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, crossed the room and eased open a door on the gla.s.s furnace, revealing an interior of deep golden orange. Heat s.h.i.+mmered in a veil between his figure and the fire. He selected a pipe from a nearby vat of water and plunged it into the furnace, turning it slowly several times before he pulled it out, the gla.s.s on the end molten, glowing.

Subtly, as thick as caramel, the gla.s.s s.h.i.+fted shape as he carried it to a long metal table and began to roll it, smoothing and elongating the soft gla.s.s against the steel. The color slowly faded, the gla.s.s growing clearer with every movement, until it was completely transparent. He sat, still turning the pipe very slowly, then lifted it, pressed the tip to his lips, and began to blow.

It happened very gradually, almost imperceptibly, that the molten gla.s.s began to swell, growing round like a soap bubble, the surface thinning and becoming faintly iridescent, as large as a k.u.mquat, then as large as an apple. Twice the gla.s.sblower checked his progress and went back to plunge the growing shape into the furnace, softening the gla.s.s, our guide explained, before returning to the table to shape it further with his breath. The a.s.sistant came up with a wooden paddle dripping wet and pressed it to the base, steam rising in a cloud as the wood began to smolder. She pulled the paddle away, leaving the gla.s.s flattened slightly at the base. This process was repeated several times, and slowly the rough shape of a vase evolved. The gla.s.sblower transferred the gla.s.s to another pipe, using metal tools to widen the opening, while the a.s.sistant turned. The vase was released with one swift tap, and the a.s.sistant, ready with gloves, whisked it into the annealer to cool.

This process was mesmerizing to watch, and was going on in various stages all through the room. The tour guide announced that there would be time for questions in a few minutes, and that afterward we'd be given a chance to blow gla.s.s, if we wished.

It was only then, when he plunged the blowpipe back into a vat of water, his motions fluid and precise amid the sudden burst of steam, that I realized the person breathing shape into the gla.s.s was Keegan. Yes, there was the triangular scar above his elbow, and those were his hands, emerging now from the heat-resistant gloves, steady and strong; hands that had curved around the handles of the motorcycle, hands that had slipped beneath my jacket on cold spring nights and traveled across my skin.

Keegan had been a tense and disaffected teenager, attractive in a brooding way, but now he moved with an easy sureness, comfortable with the ongoing dance of the workers and raging fires, calling out directions to the apprentices. The rebel with his leather jacket and his silence and his sweet, crooked smile was gone, it seemed, but the feelings I'd had for him all those years ago surged up as if I'd never left, never gone to college and graduate school and traveled the world.

Keegan took off his goggles and approached our group. His arms were muscled from all the work with gla.s.s. He was leaner than I remembered, and he seemed taller, too. I watched, fascinated, as he gestured to the furnaces and equipment, answering questions, but I wasn't really paying attention to anything he said. Instead, I was remembering how it always was with us, Keegan waiting in the shadows of the parking lot while I locked the sandwich shop and stripped off the plastic gloves, the orange and brown polyester uniform. While I scrubbed away the smell of ham, the grease and salt of chips, while I shook my hair free from the hairnet and slipped into my jeans, a tank top, my black leather jacket. I crossed the parking lot and straddled the motorcycle, pressing the length of me against the length of him as we took off into the night.

People started lining up to take their turn at gla.s.sblowing, but I held back, watching. One by one, Keegan helped them each create an iridescent sphere. These were set aside to cool, and then the tourists were guided out through the gift shop. Finally, I was sitting alone. The a.s.sistant, a young woman dressed in a rust-colored coverall, her dark red hair cut short and her cheeks flushed from the heat, came over.

"Sorry, but we're about to take a lunch break," she said. "The gift shop stays open, though. You might want to check it out. There's some great stuff."

"Actually, I was hoping to say h.e.l.lo to Keegan. He's an old friend. I haven't seen him in years. If he has a minute?"

She studied me for a second before she nodded and turned, her gestures nimble and precise, stepping between the equipment to where Keegan stood by the furnace. When she pointed in my direction he looked up, nodded, wiped his hands on a cloth he'd pulled from his back pocket. I could tell he hadn't recognized me, and I wondered if I'd changed that much. A few feet from the railing he paused and really took me in, his brown eyes crinkling at the corners.

"Lucy?" he said, his smile deepening. "Lucy Jarrett. Wow. What a surprise. What's it been-a million years?"

"Hey there," I said. So much time had pa.s.sed that it was a shock as well as a pleasure to hear his voice. I felt it straight through my body, head to toe. "How are you, Keegan? How have you been?"

He stepped over the railing and sat down next to me, smelling faintly of heat and sweat, and looked at me intently, pleased and amused.

"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 Yos.h.i.+, in Jakarta and j.a.pan, 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?"