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

in Caro’s arms, as a toddler with her brothers, and in this very dress. The photos had come down years ago, and her mother set a few around the house, rotating the display. But seeing these pictures, in this lovingly detailed baby book, the little girl’s dollhouse close by, broke her heart, because she knew that the rest of the pages—the school record, the list of friends, the markers of a full life—would always be blank.

She closed the book and gently returned it to the tray, refolded the dress, and laid the dried roses on top. The other compartment held two matching sailor outfits in different sizes. These she was sure she’d seen, in a photograph of her grandfather and his brother as young boys.

Beneath the tray were more albums and scrapbooks—leather-bound, cardboard, even handmade with thin wooden covers. Boxes crammed with bundles of letters tied with ribbon, so full the lids no longer fit. She pried a bundle out just far enough to read the handwriting. From Cornelius McCaskill to Miss Caroline Sullivan, Butte, Montana. The envelopes bore postmarks from around the country.

Love letters? The man who would become her great-grandfather, courting her future great-grandmother.

She had never seen any of these. The curse of a packrat family. She set the box back in the trunk, careful of a few rolled-up photos, wondering what else it held.

What was that? She lifted out a Whitman’s Sampler box and removed the lid. Inside lay letters addressed to Mrs. Cornelius McCaskill. A few envelopes had return addresses in Deer Park—Old Mill Road, the Stage Road, Mrs. B. F. Taunton on Second East. They’d lived on Second East, before they moved to the Victorian, but she didn’t remember the house number. The light was too poor to make out the date on the faded postmark.

Beneath the letters was a leather-clad notebook in a lovely golden brown. She set the box and lid aside and stroked the soft, smooth cover.

Caroline Sullivan McCaskill, the signature on the flyleaf read. This had been her great-grandmother’s journal. She squinted at the opening entry, wishing for that flashlight.

Sunday, May 21, 1922

Our first morning at Whitetail Lodge. Con has taken Tom and little Harry out for a walk along the lakeshore while I write at the desk in our bedroom, my darling Sarah Beth asleep in the nursery.

Of course. The sewing room had once been a nursery. Connected to the master bedroom by a pocket door, it was perfect for that.

We wake to marvelous views of the lake and mountains through the French doors, and I opened one a few inches, to let in a cool breeze.

She flipped ahead, pausing at an entry from June 1924.

Mrs. O’Dell made the most wonderful sponge for Con’s birthday, topped with strawberries—a gift from one of the young Society women. (What fun to put it that way!) I told her it was unnecessary, but she insisted—she grew them herself and they were divine.

Mrs. O’Dell. Holly was named Helen O’Dell McCaskill—Holly was a nickname—after a family friend, but Sarah had never heard anything more about the woman. Who was this mysterious “society woman” who grew the strawberries? And when were strawberries ever unnecessary?

She flipped ahead to the last entry, dated 1926, though several empty pages followed. Why had Caro stopped writing? Were there other journals?

She’d take the journal with her and explore it under better light. She returned the box and tray to the trunk, closed it, and stood.

Heard a sound. Held her breath. Were those footsteps? Heavy footsteps, drawing closer. She stared at the door. Who might be coming up here? Why? There was no escape.

“Who’s there?”

No one answered.

Then a shadow filled the doorway. Her heart all but leapt into her throat.

“Sarah?”

“Oh, Connor.” She stepped into the light. “You scared me for a moment. You find more damage? I’m not surprised.” Her breath was returning to normal, but it hadn’t caught up with her voice yet. “I’d like to bring this trunk into the lodge. It’s awfully heavy. I don’t know how you two managed to haul it up the stairs.”

“We didn’t,” he said, his brow furrowed. “That one was already in here. I didn’t open it.”

“It’s filled with old albums and scrapbooks, keepsakes I think belonged to our great-grandmother. Could you and Matt—uh—uhh.” She raised her elbow to her face and sneezed.

“Sure. But—”

“Connor, what is it? What—?” She sneezed again.

A half-smile crept onto his lips. “I’ll get Matt.”

In the lodge, Sarah left the journal and pliers on the kitchen counter, then headed for the bathroom to wash off the dust.

A few minutes later, she heard a clatter outside and rushed to open the front door. “Don’t worry about your boots,” she called. The men lugged the brass and leather trunk through the front hall and set it in Grandpa Tom’s office.

“Why don’t you start limbing those spruce?” Connor asked Matt. Sarah thanked the young man, then turned to her brother.

“What’s up? I can see it on your face.”

“I need to explain. About Lucas.”

She perched on the corner of their grandfather’s desk and crossed her arms. “I just didn’t realize he’d done any work for the company. Or that you knew him. But it’s a small town. And from what Nic says, when it came to lawyers in Deer Park, you didn’t have a lot of choice.”

“I know what happened twenty-five years ago, sis,” Connor said.

No, you don’t. Not all of it. Connor had been a kid then, thrilled to meet an honest-to-goodness, real-life college basketball star. Michael had been kind to the gangly teenager, and Connor had been devastated by his death. As far as he knew, as far as anyone around here knew, the wreck was a terrible accident. And he didn’t know what Lucas had done to Janine. His ignorance was her fault; they’d kept their mouths shut.

But now the man was dead. And maybe she’d held her grudge too long.

She raised both hands. “Hey, it’s okay. You had every right to hire whoever you thought would do the best