Free The Lake of Dreams by Kim Edwards Page A

already dotted the water, distant and colorful, like butterflies against the whitecapped blue. Blake’s boat, the 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.
    Dream Master Hardware and Locks was the first building on Canal 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 space with benches to the renovated glass 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 muffins 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 apron 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 Yoshi. 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 passing. 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 hello.”
    “Tell her hello back. Hello and congratulations. This place is terrific.”
    And it was, the omelet tender, the roll so rich and buttery 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 passing 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