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

it out, though she’d seen the reminder yesterday? She sort of had, preoccupied with her brother’s visit and the damage to the lodge.

Face-to-face, she wouldn’t dare lie. Not that the woman would ever call BS or even flick an eyebrow in disappointment. But in-person contact kept her honest, if for no other reason than the unspoken question: what is going on that you feel the need to lie to me?

She punched CALL. Apologized. Told the therapist about the nightmare. The fear that the face of the mysterious woman was her own. The strange discoveries.

“It’s not unreasonable to fear that your life is falling apart. It just did.”

“And the pennies?”

“It’s common. There is no rational explanation.”

“Meaning it’s all in my head.”

“Good Lord, no. The pennies are real,” the woman said, the delay in the signal giving her voice an other-worldly sound. “That we can’t explain how they got there just means there are limits in our understanding.”

“Ha. That’s my life right now.”

“People have gotten all kinds of reminders or signs from their loved ones who’ve passed on. Butterflies or dragonflies. Certain smells—perfume or aftershave. One client had a sister who was murdered by her husband. She sent clouds in the shape of angels.”

“I don’t think I could handle that.”

“Me neither, but she found them reassuring. I have another client whose husband sends her the number eleven.”

“Why? His lucky number for roulette? They were married on November eleventh, eleven years ago?”

“She has absolutely no idea.”

Great. Just great. “Jeremy didn’t have a thing for pennies. He didn’t save them in a big jar and buy himself a present when he cashed them in. He didn’t habitually find them on the street and consider them lucky. Pennies didn’t mean anything to him.”

“Do they mean something to you?”

Did they? Not that she knew.

“What if,” the woman continued, “they’re simply an indication that he’s thinking of you? Hold that in your heart, see how it feels. Ask your dreams for an interpretation if you’d like.”

She would not like. She would not like to dream again, not if it meant risking another sight of the terror on the young woman’s face, or a midnight tumble down the grand staircase in her rush to catch the specter, to find out who she was. To save her.

“Hey, I’m sorry. I hate to cut things short, but we got started late and I can hear the grief support group arriving. Same time next week, by phone if you’re still in Montana? Though you know you can call me any time. Any time. And think about joining the support group when you get home.”

Not until they’d broken the connection did Sarah realize she hadn’t told her therapist the scariest part. It wasn’t the pennies from her dead husband. Pennies were nothing, compared to letters from a dead man she’d hated.

 19

Back in the carriage house, she scanned the workbench. Stuck a needle-nose pliers, slightly rusty, in her pocket. You never knew when you’d need one, or where to find it when you did.

An old oil drum sat on the floor, full of detritus likely meant for the hide and steel company’s next community recycling day. She glanced in a wooden tool box and a glint of brass caught her eye. A key? Yes! She hadn’t been imagining things after all. Not this thing, anyway. She dug out a ring of keys in all shapes and finishes, even a black skeleton key. Several small keys could be the right size for a padlock or a trunk.

At the bottom of the steps, she pulled on the cord. Shoot. She’d forgotten to bring out a new bulb, or the flashlight.

No matter. She made her way up the stairs and into the apartment. They had a virtual antique store in here. Fingers crossed that Brooke remembered which box held the china and stemware.

In the bedroom, she gave the dollhouse a fond look, then turned her attention to the trunk. In, out, in, out. Yoga breathing had its uses in all kinds of situations. Her fingers shook as she fiddled for one of the smaller keys. She took another calming breath and bent close.

For the first time, she noticed a monogram on the brass plate beneath the lock. CSE in an elaborate script, the S larger than the initials of the first and middle names. This had been her great-grandmother’s trunk before her marriage.

She tried the first key. Nothing. Found a second, the same size. No luck.

On the third try, something gave inside the mechanism. She waggled the key gently until she heard another movement. Lifted the latch. The lid was hinged, and she held her breath as she used both hands to raise it.

The scents of rose and cedar greeted her, along with the smell of old paper—slightly sweet, with a hint of must. And dust. She turned and sneezed into her elbow.

A cedar-lined tray rested on a narrow ledge. On the top of one compartment, cradled in tissue paper, lay three white roses tied together with sprigs of baby’s breath by a pink ribbon. She set the paper aside gently, then lifted out a white satin dress with a lace collar. A child’s dress.

Sarah Beth’s.

The loss of her husband at forty-seven was killing her, but to lose a child …

Beneath the dress lay a small book, the edges of its white cardboard cover darkened with age, and in the center, the drawing of a baby, draped in a garland of flowers. Baby’s Days, it read. Sarah laid the dress carefully across her lap and reached for the book. The first page showed a sleeping baby beneath the words “Record of Birth,” and below, the particulars of Sarah Beth’s arrival into this world. She turned the pages slowly, noting each milestone Caro had recorded—first steps, first words, first laugh. A height and weight chart. Black paper corners held small black-and-white photos onto the pages and Sarah squinted for a closer look. She’d seen photos of Sarah Beth on the gallery wall in the Victorian—as a baby