Bitterroot Lake by Alicia Beckman (best books for 20 year olds txt) 📗

had a few more miles in him, so he rode out to the cemetery. He’ll be waiting for me on our deck with a cheese plate and a glass of chardonnay. As soon as I get there, with the cheese and wine.” She laughed, then touched her fingertips to Sarah’s arm. “Let’s make time for a real catch-up while you’re here. You and your mother and I can take a nice, long walk.”

“It’s a date,” Sarah said, and leaned in to kiss the air next to her old teacher’s cheek.

Though the entire conversation had lasted three minutes, five tops, Sarah realized as she watched Pam Holtz click-clack her way to the express lane that it was the first time in the two days she’d been back in Deer Park that she’d actually felt welcome here.

They were good for wine, thanks to the case Holly had bought, but Pam Holtz had inspired a cheese binge. Not quite the selection Sarah was used to, but she’d made some tasty finds. Cheese, light bulbs, and cat treats safely stashed in the back seat, she punched in her brother’s cell number.

“Sis!” the deep voice said a moment later. “You’re back in God’s Country.”

“And hoping to see you. I’m in town—can I swing by the mill?”

He made a grunting sound. “I’m still in the woods. I’m gonna miss soccer practice, for sure. Just hope I get home in time for pizza night with the kids.”

Cleaning up storm damage. She should have known. “Oh. Right. Sure. Mom said you wanted to talk to me.”

A heavy silence. “Another time. In person.”

“Okay, sure,” she repeated. What that was about, she couldn’t imagine. “Maybe when you come out to the lodge. Give Brooke and the kids my love.” Call over, she headed out of town, thinking not of Connor but of Pam Holtz. The ride to Granite Chapel and back had to be twenty-two miles. She couldn’t do that at forty-seven, let alone seventy-whatever.

Dang. She should have asked Pam about the roadside memorial. The woman knew everyone and everything going on in Deer Park.

Was Pam right and Peggy was just preoccupied with her art?

Would she ever find something she cared about that much?

She glanced in her rearview mirror. The same white car had been behind her since she’d left town. Was it following her?

“Oh, give up the paranoia, Sarah. The world does not revolve around you.”

The car was close now—close enough to glimpse the driver’s face. The Black woman she’d seen in the Blue Spruce.

She passed a few roads and driveways—the houses were closer together this close to town. The names on the mailboxes were unfamiliar.

As she neared the memorial, she slowed, debating whether to stop. Was it selfish to drive on, promising to stop another day? Her therapist would say no, that she had to take care of herself first. Only then could she take care of anyone else.

She wanted to be home. In Seattle, in the sanctuary she’d created for her family. But the place had felt so big, so empty, after Jeremy’s death. After the visitors left and the kids went back to school. Tragedy affected a house. That made sense. If you could change the mood in a room by swapping a vibrant but faded plum on the walls for a calming sage, by switching out the flooring or the artwork, why wouldn’t death change the place, too? Wasn’t a house meant to hold the full range of a life, to contain and support the people it held? You lived inside the space, you changed it, it changed you.

She wasn’t ready for all this change.

When she slowed to turn onto McCaskill Lane, the white car was no longer behind her. The woman must live out here, but where? Next chance, she’d introduce herself. If she stuck around.

 15

“Oh, shit. You scared me half to death.” Holly stopped short on the threshold of Grandpa Tom’s office. “What are you doing, just standing there?”

“Just—standing here,” Sarah echoed. She’d been listening to the lodge, to the hum of it, the low underlying noises you didn’t notice until they stopped. When she and Janine walked in the other night, the place had been spooky-still, only the old refrigerator muttering to itself. Now, though they’d barely dented the dust that caked every surface, Pam Holtz was right. The lodge was coming back to life.

“Whatever Janine’s making, it smells great.” She held up the grocery bag. “I may not be the cook she is, but I excel at buying cheese to go with your wine.”

“I like how you think, big sister. We will not go thirsty or hungry in this joint.” Then Holly dropped the good cheer. “I was missing Grandpa, so I decided to clean his office.”

This morning, she’d been focused on checking for damage. Now, Sarah gazed at the shelves, grateful that Connor and Brooke hadn’t touched this room. The photos and objects told the history of the logging business in the valley. Scaling tools and calipers. A sepia-toned photo of two men in high-waisted pants and suspenders, feet in heavy work boots planted wide as they worked a crosscut saw. A yellowed newspaper shot of the last three-log load pulling into the mill.

Outside, the lake rippled. “Whenever anyone asked how Grandpa got any work done with a view like this, he got all mock-gruff and said ‘discipline.’”

Holly joined her. “But Grandma always said the only work he got done here was the Sunday crossword.”

They shared a smile. It felt good. The way it was supposed to.

Sarah took a step toward her sister. But before she could say a word, her foot touched something, no doubt a stray stone or a bit of cat food.

But no. In a straight line on the rug lay three bright copper pennies.

What game are you playing, Jeremy? Sarah asked her dead husband. It’s starting to scare me.

She raised her head and met her sister’s gaze. “What were you saying about wine?”

“Did he leave them for you or Holly?” Nic asked. They sat