“Well, that’s disappointing. I’d hoped the person who commissioned these might be an ancestor of mine,” I explained, for Stuart was looking very perplexed. “But nothing here has her name, or her handwriting. I found a few letters of hers at my mother’s house—I didn’t bring them, unfortunately. But I’d recognize the handwriting.”
“Well, it’s quite unlikely that your ancestor would have known Frank Westrum,” Stuart observed, a little affronted, taking a page from me and studying the script. “Not unless she lived in New York City before 1920. Or here thereafter.”
“I don’t know where she lived,” I said. “But I do have a feeling she knew him.”
“Ah, feelings,” he said indulgently. “Wonderful, ephemeral things, feelings.”
Annoyed, I pulled the phone from my purse and scrolled again to the image of the Jacob window. “Look at this—look at the woman behind the sack of grain.”
Stuart studied the screen, two spots of color surfacing on his cheeks.
“I see what you mean,” he said quietly, at last. “She’s very familiar, this woman.”
“I know. She almost has to have been the model for both windows.”
“And you say she’s an ancestor of yours?”
“I think so. Maybe. As I said, I found some letters in the house. She’s never mentioned in the family stories, Rose Jarrett. But there’s a record of her in the church—a baptismal record. She had a daughter in 1911.” I didn’t tell him the daughter was named Iris; I felt secretive about that discovery, so private and so exciting. I couldn’t imagine sharing it, not yet. “Then she disappeared altogether.”
“Where did you say the church is?”
“St. Luke’s, right downtown in The Lake of Dreams.”
Stuart nodded without commenting. It was always interesting to mention The Lake of Dreams to people from the area because the town had a reputation for being exclusive and rather snooty, for holding itself—the purity of its waters and the beauty of its village—above the other lakes and villages nearby. People either aspired to The Lake of Dreams or resented it. I couldn’t really tell what Stuart thought, but I imagined he’d be among the former.
“I see.” Then he gave a little laugh and sighed. “Well, actually, I don’t see, not at all. I still don’t understand why you think there’s a connection between your relative and the woman in the window in the church.”
“It’s the border along the base of the window,” I said. “Here, have another look. See—all the moons and vines I mentioned earlier? That same motif recurs in a piece of fabric I found in our house. There’s also a note she wrote that was with the fabric.”
“Yes, well. That’s hardly proof.”
I laughed. “I know. This is not proof at all. I’m going on gut instinct, an intuition that says these pieces must fit together. Of course, I could be totally wrong.”
“May I?” He took the phone and scrolled to the Wisdom window again. After a moment, he nodded slowly. “You know, I think you’re probably right, proof or no.”
“I know I’m not supposed to—it says no photos right here—but given the circumstances, I wonder if I could take a picture of the window in the landing?”
Stuart grew clipped again, professional, and handed the phone back to me. “Oh, I’m afraid you can’t. The museum directors—”
“Extenuating circumstances, don’t you think?”
He hesitated, glanced at his watch. “I’ll have to call and ask,” he said. “I was thinking I should call them anyway. They’ll be interested in your photos, your Rose.” He walked around the console and hit a number on the speed dial, keeping his head turned, his voice hushed, as he conferred with whomever answered.
“All right,” Stuart said as he hung up. “That was the chair of the board of directors, who also happens to be a Frank Westrum scholar. He agreed you could take one photo, as long as you leave a copy of the church window photo with us here, and some contact information, too. He’s quite interested, you see. I thought he would be.”
“I’ll e-mail it right now.” I took a business card from its little holder on the granite counter and punched the e-mail address into my phone. “By the way, what’s in those other folders?” I asked.
“Ah, right—not so much, really. Orders for glass in various colors.”
I looked, but Stuart was right. Not much to go on. I copied down the address in New York City so I could check it against Vivian’s other letters once the archivist at Serling College got back to me. I took my single photo of the window, framing it carefully, and gave Stuart my name and phone number before I left.
It was after five o’clock by the time I stepped outside. Low clouds had gathered, and the wind-stirred leaves seemed lurid against the maroon brick across the street, the darkening sky. I paused beneath a trellis covered with wisteria; a butterfly floated past, then drifted to the ground like a leaf.
As I was puzzling over Frank Westrum and Beatrice Mansfield, and how the equally mysterious Rose Jarrett might be connected to them, a shiny black car drove up and parked on the street beyond the gates. A tall man, rather plump and beginning to bald, got out and hurried into the house, glancing at me with an assessing interest as he passed. He disappeared into the building, but a moment later he was on the steps again, hurrying along the flagstones, the wind catching at his tie.
“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 of his gin and tonic before he went on. “Anyway, my great-grandfather did very well for about a decade and a half, creating commissioned windows for the wealthy, but he didn’t change with the times. Art Nouveau flashed hot for a while, but after the war, it definitely went out of favor. Plus, Frank Westrum was irascible, fierce about his own vision, and stubborn in his convictions. He felt opalescent glass defeated the central beauty of stained glass, which gets its power from its translucence, and he held fast to his aesthetics even when history seemed to be passing him by. One has to admire him for that. Nonetheless, he did maintain a small but loyal following, enough to let him earn a living, but he wasn’t well known in his lifetime. This,” he added, leaning forward, “is what makes your find in the church so utterly fascinating. Now tell me about this ancestor of yours.”
“Rose Jarrett. She had a daughter, born in 1911. That’s all I know.”
“Now, don’t be coy,” Oliver said.
I laughed in surprise, glad I hadn’t given Iris’s name. “I’m not sure I know how to be coy. It was my search for information about Rose that brought me here, to the Westrum House. He used a motif that was important to her. A motif she may have designed. I’ll show you.” I found the image on my phone again and pointed it out to Oliver. “I’d love to know more about her, but I don’t have much to go on, just a note she wrote in 1925.”
Studying the motif, Oliver grew thoughtful. “Frank was in Rochester by then,” he said. “He moved here because it was cheaper, you see, after his wife died. Also, maybe, for a fresh start. She had relatives in the area, so he knew about it. And as you may have surmised from his work, he loved the landscape here, and all the water.”
“Beatrice Mansfield.”
“Yes, you know of her? Beatrice. My great-grandmother. My mother was named for her. We—the family, that is—have always speculated that she was the model for the window, actually. It’s possible she was the model for your window, too. It’s even very likely, given how closely they resemble each other. Don’t you agree?”
“I suppose,” I said, reluctant to let go of my image of Rose Jarrett. But I didn’t persist, because I realized what it might mean if Rose had modeled so extensively for Frank Westrum, what sort of intimacy it might imply—an intimacy Oliver Parrott might not wish to entertain. The wind fluttered our napkins, blew one off the table.
“Ah—looks like we’re in for some more weather,” Oliver said, picking up the check, refusing with a smile and a wave of one hand when I offered to pay.
The windy air tasted of rain; a few scattered drops hit my cheek. We stood up and I shook Oliver Parrott’s hand. He gave me a business card and asked me to call him if I found anything else, and mentioned that he planned to visit St. Luke’s quite soon. At this I felt a sudden ripple of panic; I’d been so absorbed in my own questions that I hadn’t even considered the things I might be accidentally setting in motion. Once Oliver saw the Wisdom window and the Joseph window, he’d want them for the Westrum collection, of course; he’d want the windows from the chapel, too, if he found out about those. And though I didn’t know for certain, Oliver Parrott’s polish and his ease with money led me to imagine that the Frank Westrum Preservation Society might have enough money to make the church an offer it would have a hard time refusing. I don’t know why this felt so wrong to me, or why I felt as if I’d inadvertently betrayed something vital and essential with all my blind searching, but it did, and I worried about it all the way back, along the interstate and then the smaller highways, through all the towns with their beautiful storefronts, their tattoo parlors and dollar stores and fast-food joints, the real estate offices and grocery stores and coffee shops and gift shops and old opera houses.
The storm that had been threatening came through with a sudden intensity as I turned down the lake road, the rain pounding down so fiercely that I could hardly see. I made it to one of the scenic overlooks and pulled off. When the rain eased, I got out of the car and walked to the guardrail to look down the length of the lake, which stretched for miles, slate blue and rough with waves, amid the curve of hills. A partial rainbow had formed in the dazzling, water-struck air, the spectrum of color clear but transparent behind the dark trees. It was breathtaking, a wild beauty emerging out of nothing, and it filled me with a powerful nostalgia for a past I hadn’t even known. And why was that, I wondered? There was such force and beauty in the windows, such unsettled sadness in what little I knew of Rose’s life, all her longing, her distance from her daughter. Just knowing she had existed opened new and uneasy possibilities within my understanding of the story I’d always thought I’d known by heart. And I felt responsible, too. Whoever Rose had been, she was gone, unable to speak for herself, fading into the past as surely as these rainy colors were diffusing, even now.
It was late evening by the time I got back, the sun half behind the opposite shore, the west side of the house cast in reddish gold. I found my mother sitting on the patio, glass of wine on the table, the bottle in a silver ice bucket on the floor, in easy reach. She had been reading a novel, and when I came in she put the paperback facedown on the arm of her chair; I glimpsed an ethereal baby dress against a background of black and thought of Iris. My mother was wearing a white T-shirt and chunky silver and turquoise jewelry that looked beautiful with her hair.