Part 8 (2/2)

Wow. I put the pages down on the table as if they were flaming. Well, the librarian had warned me about the tone. Just before she wrote this book, Cornelia Elliot had been voted out of the leaders.h.i.+p of the group she'd helped to form; younger women had bristled at her old-fas.h.i.+oned and sometimes autocratic ways. She'd been swept aside by a wave of history, and she was understandably angry. I scanned through the rest of the pages, looking for dates or events that were relevant to Rose.

I didn't find any. Nor did I find any references to Frank Westrum. Instead, most of the text focused, as she had stated in her introduction, on her involvement with the suffrage movement, particularly the events she had orchestrated after she moved to The Lake of Dreams from New York City. Her husband, a physician, loved the natural beauty of the area, but for Cornelia, who loved the amenities of the city, the experience had been a trial. She had compensated by becoming deeply immersed in her social justice work, and it seemed, in the subtext, that the more her activities had irritated her husband, the better she had liked them.

The suffrage march she had organized in October 1914, inspired by the march in Was.h.i.+ngton the previous year, took up a full chapter and was written about with great vigor and delight. Cornelia Elliot described the marchers, spirited and determined despite the unpredictable and sometimes hostile crowds. She seemed thrilled to have been arrested and thrown in jail, not only for marching but also for distributing information about human physiology and family planning, which was illegal under the Comstock laws at the time.

Distributing information about family planning. I found the note Rose had written when she'd read that simple pamphlet and locked her door to look at herself in a mirror for the first time ever. How shocked she had been by facts that seemed so ubiquitous to me, so basic! Had Rose known Cornelia Elliot then? Had she gotten the pamphlet from her? Had they ever talked about these matters? The note seemed private to me, something Rose had written but never meant to send.

I paused and did an Internet search for Cornelia Elliot, but turned up nothing more than I already knew. Then I tried Vivian Branch, her older sister. This time I found several entries, including one that noted the gift of her collection of papers to Serling College. I wrote a quick e-mail to Special Collections at Serling College, asking if there was any correspondence that might illuminate Cornelia Elliot's life as well as her sister's. Then, because I was starting to feel overwhelmed by all the swirling dates, I took a fresh sheet of paper and wrote down all the names and facts I knew: Westrum, Frank, 1868-1942 Westrum, Frank, 1868-1942 Westrum, Beatrice Mansfield, 1873-1919 Jarrett, Cora, 1887-1958 Jarrett, Joseph, 1894-1972 Jarrett, Rose, 1895-????

Jarrett, Iris, born 1911 Suffrage March in Was.h.i.+ngton, 1913 Suffrage March, The Lake of Dreams, 1914 Dream Master founded, 1919 Womens suffrage granted, 1920 Iris leaving, 1925 My grandfather born, 1925 Windows finished, 1938 Depot built, chapel closed, 1940 Arthur born, 1952 My father born, 1953 I sipped my wine, considering. The air smelled so clean; buoys clanked faintly. Voices floated across the lawn and into the room. I gathered up the papers and put the pile on the liquor cabinet by the stairs, next to my stack of books. Outside, Blake was helping my mother from his boat onto the dock, holding her good hand while she gained her balance. Then he reached to help Avery, who was carrying two canvas bags over her shoulder; she staggered when the boat s.h.i.+fted and caught Blake's arm in both of hers. Light flashed off the smooth surface of the lake, casting them all in silhouette as they crossed the lawn, making it hard to see them in any detail. Still, as they reached the patio I sensed that something was different about my mother. She was wearing a white linen skirt and a light blue knit tunic shot with silver threads, along with silver sandals and silver earrings. At first I thought she was wearing her hair up again. Then I realized she'd cut it short, very short, so it feathered across her scalp, full and lovely.

”Your hair!” I said.

”Like it?” She tilted her head a bit self-consciously. ”I had this moment of inspiration, I guess. Inspiration or pure craziness. I went in just to have it trimmed, but then I found myself telling Josh to take it all off. I love it, I have to say. It's so light. I feel like my head could simply float away.”

”It looks good,” I said as we walked inside, and it did. ”It's just so different.”

”Twelve inches came off. I gave it to Locks of Love. What's all this?” she asked, nodding toward the books and papers stacked on the cabinet. She and Avery were already at the counter, unloading the canvas sacks: containers of tabbouleh and hummus, a roasted pepper salad, a pasta salad, loaves of fresh bread.

”Research, that's all. Is it in the way?”

”No, you're fine. Leave it,” she said, turning to take a plate of sliced watermelon out of the fridge, the line of her neck long and elegant. How strange that something as simple as a haircut could make her look so different. I found myself wondering how Andy saw her, remembering his voice, low and warm, on the answering machine. ”I'm free,” she said, smiling and touching the nape of her neck. ”I feel absolutely free.”

By the time I changed into my only dress and came back downstairs, Blake had fired up the grill and Avery was carrying bowls of food out to the patio. My mother had invited friends from work as well as family and neighbors. People began to arrive, parking on the gra.s.s near the road and carrying bottles of wine or plates of food across the lawn to the house. The balloons we'd inflated that morning floated like small suns and moons in the trees, and the tiny lights sparkled like emerging stars.

It was a lovely party, the sort of pleasant evening where the conversation drifted from one topic to another, settling lightly here, then there, laughter floating out over the water. I moved between groups, hugging people who remembered me. Mr. Hardesty from next door patted my back, and I was struck by how thin he'd gotten in the years since my father died, since I'd seen him last, holding on to my mother and Blake that terrible morning as if they might fly away if he let go. He had retired from being a weatherman, he informed me, and no longer looked at weather reports at all, preferring to carry umbrellas and boots in his car and let each day surprise him however it would. Georgia from across the street, however, had hardly aged. She was still making pottery-the wind chimes on her porch and the porches of the neighbors all sounded faintly, even at this distance-and she was excited about Keegan's Gla.s.sworks, but she told me she'd started teaching art at the community college, too, for the steady income and the health insurance, now that their son was in college. At this she scanned the party and called out to Jack, whom I remembered as a wiry boy, full of energy, darting across the fields with his friends in games of hide-and-seek, and who was now a junior at NYU, studying acting, his hair pulled back in a ponytail: young, and supremely confident, in a way I never remembered being.

”You know, I invited Keegan,” my mother said, pausing on her way to the patio, a gla.s.s of wine in her good hand. ”He was at the bank today and I thought, why not?”

She smiled, and I thought of the place where Keegan's hair tapered to his neck beneath the ponytail, the heat of his arm against mine as we'd studied the windows.

”Is he coming?”

”He said he'd try to make it. He asked if you'd be here,” she added. ”I think he was really glad to see you.”

I nodded, trying not to reveal the charge I'd felt, knowing he might stop by. Not on his motorcycle, I reminded myself, and maybe with Max, but that only made the idea more attractive. ”Keegan's changed a lot,” I said. ”He's so calm, and so accomplished.”

”He probably says the same about you.”

Someone I didn't know touched my mother's arm before I could reply and she turned to her guests. Talk and laughter floated. I poured drinks and offered Avery's delicate spinach and goat cheese appetizers. Art arrived with Joey, his voice a notch deeper and louder than the other voices, so I always seemed to know where he was-in the kitchen, greeting my mother on the patio, putting an arm around Lawson, Georgia's husband, who'd come here straight from work, his s.h.i.+ny shoes looking odd against the gra.s.s. Joey got a beer and stood by the sh.o.r.e with Blake, talking quietly, while Zoe, with the mercurial moodiness of teenagers, planted herself in the hammock with a book, looking up now and then to gaze at the water. I couldn't tell if she wanted to be left alone or simply to look like a tragic nineteenth-century heroine to the audience of a.s.sembled guests.

”Oh, don't give her the satisfaction,” her mother said when I asked if she thought Zoe might like some company. Auburn-haired and very thin, Austen had started selling real estate in recent years, and looked glossy to me, burnished. She waved her drink in exasperation at Zoe's moody presence. ”She's driving me absolutely crazy these days. I suppose that's her job, right, at this age? But everything's such high drama. From the way she storms around the house you'd think we locked her in a cupboard every night. We ruin ruin her life. She has her life. She has nothing nothing that her friends have. Et cetera. Lucy, if you ever want a visitor over there in j.a.pan, I'd be happy to send her to you for a few weeks. Oh, well,” she added when I didn't respond, taking a long swallow of wine. ”I lived through Joey, who was no saint, so I suppose I'll live through this, too.” that her friends have. Et cetera. Lucy, if you ever want a visitor over there in j.a.pan, I'd be happy to send her to you for a few weeks. Oh, well,” she added when I didn't respond, taking a long swallow of wine. ”I lived through Joey, who was no saint, so I suppose I'll live through this, too.”

I glanced at Joey, remembering our high school days, his careless disregard, his clothes hanging from the branches where I'd thrown them.

We ate, and opened more wine, and the evening deepened into twilight, stars emerging. As darkness fell, the moon, nearly full, rose over the horizon. I thought of Rose, the beautiful border of pale interwoven spheres in the blanket and the windows. Avery started bringing out slices of cake, and my mother put bowls of whipped cream and strawberries on the gla.s.s-topped table. I stepped into the shadows, watching the party as if it were taking place on a stage, feeling a strange sense of distance, knowing that this sort of gathering happened all the time and would carry on once I was gone again, as well. I slipped my phone from my pocket to check the time. Almost ten already. If Keegan hadn't come by now, he probably wouldn't; he, too, was in the midst of a life that had gone on quite well without me. I walked down to the dock and kicked off my shoes, sitting on the end with my feet dangling in the water, and dialed Yos.h.i.+. He picked up on the second ring, the pulse and murmur of his office in the background.

”Hey there,” I said.

”Ah, Lucy.”

”I'm at a party,” I told him, lying back on the dock. ”I'm looking at a sky full of stars. It's the longest night of the year, you know.”

”Not here, unfortunately.” His voice was soft. ”Look, I can't talk right now. Can you Skype this evening? That would be what-tomorrow morning your time?”

”Sure. Is everything okay?”

He sighed. ”Yes. Yes and no. The trip to Indonesia is getting complicated, that's all. I can't really talk about it now. You okay?”

”It's a beautiful night,” I told him, searching for the Big Dipper. In Indonesia we'd had a screened balcony off our bedroom where we used to sleep on the hottest nights, under these same stars. ”I miss you.”

”Believe me, I wish I was there.”

”Soon.”

”Yes, soon.”

He was gone then. I closed the phone but didn't stand up right away, gazing at the night sky, wondering what office politics had distressed Yos.h.i.+; he was usually so calm.

By the time I started back to the patio, people had begun to drift away. From a distance it was such a happy scene: candles glowed, and the tables were strewn with paper plates and crumpled napkins. Georgia bustled around picking up before she left, too; Austen took Zoe home to study for a final exam. I lingered in the wild remains of my mother's moon garden, where a few roses straggled out of the greenery, fragrant and pale. A few moonflowers, too; the sprawling lavender released its piney scent when I pa.s.sed it. I was thinking of my father and our last conversation here, when the garden was still orderly in its wildness, wondering what he would have made of this party, this night, the direction my life had taken. Stilled by sadness, I paused amid the fragrant ruins. The group dwindled until it was only Art and Joey, along with my mother, Blake, and Avery, gathered on the patio around the fire pit, where the embers still glowed. The conversation meandered. Blake had discovered a photo of the founding of Dream Master in an old filing cabinet at the store, our great-grandfather digging a shovel into the earth by the outlet in a groundbreaking ceremony, and they talked about that for a while, pa.s.sing the photo around. My mother excused herself and went inside, the screen door slapping shut behind her. The answering machine beeped and voices murmured faintly as she paused in the dark house to listen to her messages. I thought of Andy's voice, and imagined her smiling to hear it. On the patio, the conversation stalled. Then Art raised his gla.s.s and made a toast.

”To the new venture,” he said. ”To The Landing.”

I'd been about to join them, now that I'd composed myself, but I paused at his words, watching as Joey and Blake and Avery raised their gla.s.ses and clinked them together. I thought of the rolled papers between Art and Joey on the table at The Green Bean, and the easel full of drawings for their development in the corner of Art's office. Plans, I'd imagined, plans in their early stages, but this sounded like more, and I waited.

”Isn't it too early to celebrate?” Blake asked, sounding a little self-conscious and ingratiating; I felt a surge of anger that he was trying so hard to be a part of this. ”Plenty of things could still fall through.”

”No, now that we've got the initial land and the financing is set up, it's just a matter of time,” Art said. ”Of course, we'll have to navigate the obstacle course of those injunctions, but they'll never hold. As for stage two, I feel quite sure your mother will want to sell eventually, Blake. We've had several conversations.”

”Really? I'm not so sure,” Avery said. ”Not about Blake's mom, but the rest.” She repeated the story she'd told me on the boat about the various conservation groups meeting over lunch. ”There's that meeting tomorrow. And Keegan Fall has been really active doing gra.s.sroots work.”

Blake made a dismissive sound. ”No one wants the land to go back to the Iroquois,” he said. ”That's a political dead end. His business may be thriving, but he doesn't have a lot of clout.”

”New businesses come and go in this town,” Joey noted from his place deep in the low chair. ”We'll see if Keegan Fall has what it takes.”

”He's doing himself no favors,” Art noted. ”Lining up with the tree huggers and the land grab. He's going to end up on the wrong side of history if he doesn't watch out. People here have long memories.”

”He's already on the wrong side of history,” Joey observed, taking a long drink from his beer. ”He's just choosing to stay there.”

Stung, I touched the lavender again, its fresh scent rising. Keegan was a year older than I was but ended up in my grade because his mother took him away and traveled for a year. When Keegan came back to fifth grade the next fall, thinner, his jeans a bit too short, he sat by himself near the window. He got teased on the playground, mostly by my cousin Joey, who was tall and strong but lacked kindness. He taunted Keegan every day, calling him a dirty Indian and asking him why he had only two s.h.i.+rts to wear. Keegan didn't respond, just kept his distance, his face like a mask, even his dark eyes veiled and far away.

One day I sat on the swing next to his, digging my toes into the scuffed-hard dirt. We'd been to a museum in Syracuse where we'd seen the wide round stones the Iroquois had once used for crus.h.i.+ng corn. I told Keegan I thought this was interesting and asked him if he really was an Iroquois.

<script>