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

“That’s what she’s been not telling me? What Mom’s been not telling me? We all see she drinks too much. Is that why she lost it, or the other way around?”

“She applied to be director of the museum. So did one of the curators. The board chose him, and the first thing he did was fire her.”

“Can he do that? Legally, I mean?”

“Apparently, yes.” Janine tilted her head. “But it’s not an easy job to replace.”

Sarah let the last stone fall onto the beach and got to her feet. Holly had worked at museums and art centers for years, most recently as director of operations, more of a business position than an artistic one. Sarah had done time on boards herself, including the board of a children’s art center, and thought Holly would make a great director. She was certainly good at telling people what to do.

“But why didn’t she tell me?”

“I don’t know.” Janine slipped an arm around her and they walked up the slope a few feet and sat on the slate steps that led from the deck to the beach.

“Is she—I hate to ask this, but is she okay for money?”

“I think so. They gave her a good severance package.”

They’d all kept their bad news, their hard times, from her. To keep from bothering her, from upsetting her, while she had so much going on. Didn’t they know that keeping things from her made it worse?

How much of the distance and silence was her own fault?

And how did she fix it, now that she was on her own?

 18

“Con!” Sarah stretched on tippy-toes to hug her little brother. “My favorite lumberjack!”

He pulled her close, but gingerly. Did he think she would break? Or was it the instinct of a man who towered over nearly everyone else? Connor McCaskill wasn’t fat, not one bit—he was a McCaskill, after all, always on the move. But he was big. Tall. Muscular. And looking far more comfortable in his brown work pants and plaid flannel shirt than in the black suit he’d worn at the funeral. Everyone, everything had looked different that day.

“Good to see you home,” he said.

“Good to be home,” she said automatically. It was, finally, beginning to feel good, being back here. If only … She shook off the memory of the nightmare.

“Sorry I didn’t make it out yesterday. Bad as things are on the north slope, the south shore’s worse. We’re contracted to manage the hillside behind the church camp and the storm practically clear-cut it. That’s where I was when you called, helping the crews scope out the damage and make a plan.”

“Did you get home in time for pizza night?” she asked. “How are the kids?” Olivia was eleven, Aidan nine, and they’d been somber and well-behaved on the visit to Seattle. Most of the time.

“Good. Eager to see you. So is Brooke.”

“Great. We’re in good shape here, mostly. But the roof—” She broke off at the sight of a second white pickup coming down the lane, the familiar logo stenciled on the side—a grove of evergreens encircled by black letters reading MCCASKILL LAND & LUMBER, DEER PARK, MONTANA. Who was at the wheel?

“Matt Kolsrud,” Connor said, answering her unasked question. “We’ll size up the damage, then I’ll put him to work.”

“Matt?” Her date to senior prom. She hadn’t thought of him in years. “He works for you now?”

“Junior,” Connor said, eyebrows raised in amusement.

“Ah. I should have known.” The young man crossing the driveway did look like his father, or like his father had looked when they were teenagers, with the same loping gait and floppy brown hair. Introductions made, Connor suggested they inspect the structures first. “The roof fixes are easy, but if you’re right and that ripped balcony damaged the log work, we might want to hire Matt’s dad. He’s a real craftsman.”

They scouted out the exterior damage, then the two men followed Sarah up the steps to the lodge. Both stooped to untie their work boots and left them outside. Mud-spattered, mouths gaping now that they were empty—you almost could live in one, like the nursery rhyme said.

Young Matt’s mouth gaped, too, when he saw the massive stone fireplace, the tall ceilings, the staircase with its peeled pine balustrade and the knotty newel post as intricate as any hand-carved woodwork. They traipsed upstairs behind Sarah in their stocking feet.

“The only damage I saw was in here.” She led the way into the sewing room, where the men wrangled the bookcase away from the door. She held her breath when Connor inched his torso out onto the balcony, the decking at an awkward angle, Matt’s hand on his belt. Then he wriggled back in and inspected the logs inside. Used the level on his phone, and frowned.

“That what’s bothering you?” Matt pointed at a long horizontal crack a few inches above the floor, and Connor nodded.

“My guess, the way the doorjamb’s tilted, and now this, is that when that spruce hit the balcony, these old logs couldn’t absorb the force of the impact. They settle over time”—Connor directed his words to Sarah—“which adds to the stress on the chinking. In modern log construction, the chinking itself is flexible, so when the logs settle, it doesn’t crack. But with old logs like this …”

“They’ve already settled, so they can’t take another blow,” she said. “They crack.”

“Exactly. We can tuck-point the chinking, repacking it. Some cracks, that run through the joints, a guy might fill.” Connor made a cross with his hands. “But if the log’s split all the way through, then it’s lost its strength. Water can seep in, cause rot. Not to mention bugs.”

“What’s the fix?”

“Worst case …” Connor stood. “Replace the log. And while we’re at it, inspect the entire structure for rot, weak joints, other damage that’s gone unnoticed for decades.”

“Sounds like a major project,” Sarah said.

“Matt senior can tell us more and give us a preliminary estimate.” He turned to his employee. “I threw a