Bitterroot Lake

by Alicia Beckman

  “No, no. Nothing to worry about.”

  A phrase guaranteed to make her worry. But Connor was rock solid. Always had been. She regretted that they weren’t closer, mainly because of the age difference—he’d only been twelve when she left for college.

  “I always felt like I was sleeping in a tree house when we stayed out here,” she said. “That’s the feeling I was after when we built our house. Watch out for falling spiders.” She ran the yellow-headed dust mop around the coving where the walls and ceiling met, then both women picked up dustcloths.

  A few minutes later, Peggy straightened. “So why is Janine here? Neither of you wanted to tell me.”

  And Sarah didn’t want to talk about it now.

  “It has to do with Lucas, doesn’t it?” Peggy continued. “With whatever happened the day of the accident.”

  “You know what happened, Mom. He attacked her.” Sarah started dusting the head of the sleigh bed she’d always loved. She’d searched all over for a king-sized version that didn’t scream “new,” and finally had one custom-made. After Jeremy’s funeral, she’d crawled into it, seeking comfort. Instead, it felt cold and foreign, no longer hers. She’d crept down the hall and slipped into bed with Abby, the two of them holding each other through the long, sleepless night.

  “I always felt terrible that I wasn’t a better friend to Sue,” Peggy said.

  Sarah stopped dusting. “Janine’s mom? You weren’t friends at all. Were you?”

  “I know, everyone thought she deserved what she got. And no denying, she had problems, long before …” Peggy waved her hand, as if to wave away the memory of what Sue Nielsen had done. “But when she was sober, she was nice. And funny.”

  Sarah sat on the edge of the bed. “How did you know her?”

  “Pie, of course.”

  “What?”

  “We bonded over pie. I used to treat myself to a piece now and then, at the Spruce, when I was feeling the need for a little sweetness. Sue was a terrific waitress, and we had some great conversations.”

  This was a side of her mother she’d never seen.

  “You can tell, sometimes,” Peggy continued, “when someone needs a friend. So I stopped by more often.”

  “For pie.”

  “Or just coffee and a chat. To keep an eye on her. You and Holly were off in Missoula, and so was Janine. Connor was in high school, busy with sports and girls and who knows what else.”

  “But then …”

  “But then, we had staffing changes at the school and I picked up more hours. Something had to give.”

  “Pie.”

  “You graduated and moved out to Seattle. And you know what happened.”

  She knew. But why had she never known that Peggy felt guilty over Sue Nielsen’s fall—or plunge—off the wagon and into hell?

  Guilt, the legacy that keeps on giving.

  They finished in silence, then moved to the sewing room. Part of the fun of hide-and-seek games in the lodge had been dashing out the door that opened onto the balcony, then disappearing around the corner and sneaking back in through her grandparents’ bedroom.

  Sarah was dusting the gold-framed pictures on top of the bookcase when they heard a car approach. Peggy went to the window and pushed the lace curtain aside, as Sarah had done this morning when Leo arrived. Had that really just been this morning?

  “Well, that’s a relief. You won’t need to buy a new phone.”

  “I better go talk to her.”

  Downstairs, Janine stood by the windows, arms crossed, staring out at the lake. At the sound of Sarah’s footsteps, she spoke. “I didn’t run off with your phone.”

  “I didn’t think you had. Janine, I know you didn’t kill Lucas. I know you only went to see him because …” Sarah interrupted herself, aware of Peggy coming up behind her.

  “Because of the letter,” Janine said.

  “Letter? What letter?” Peggy asked. “Why did you go see him?”

  “I know,” Sarah said. “Everyone who knows you knows you couldn’t have hurt him. Even though he hurt you. Even though he threatened you.”

  “What are you talking about?” Peggy said. “What letter?”

  “I drove into town.” Janine sank into the nearest chair, a peeled pine armchair, the back a dark cordovan leather, the seat cushion reupholstered with a vintage Pendleton blanket. “Drove down every street we lived on, my mother and I. Past every run-down hovel, though most of them are gone now, replaced with cute little houses. Town is very cute now.”

  That could have been a compliment or a put-down.

  “Funny, isn’t it?” Janine continued. “When I think of Deer Park, I don’t think of those places. I think of the lodge and the lake. Despite what happened with Lucas. This is a good place.”

  “I am so sorry. When the wreck happened on the highway, we lost each other, too. I hate that.”

  Janine clenched her jaw and nodded. “But would you and Jeremy have gotten together, if it hadn’t been for— everything?”

  “I think so. It would have been different, though. Can we make things different now?”

  “Depends on your cousin, doesn’t it?”

  “Leo?” Peggy said. “Would someone please tell me what’s going on?”

  Sarah had almost forgotten her mother. “Sit,” she said, and her mother sat. Sarah explained about the letter. Their theory that Lucas feared Janine would resurface and derail his campaign for whatever office he’d planned to seek. The gruesome discovery that led her to take refuge at the lodge.

  As Sarah spoke, the cat jumped up next to her, and she stroked the thin back.

  Peggy’s face paled. “But that’s all in the past. Janine, I hate that he never paid for what he did to you, but it was all a long time ago.”

  “What about what he did to the boys?” Sarah demanded. “To Jeremy, and to Michael Brown.”

  “It was an accident,” Peggy said, voice rising, glancing from Sarah to Janine and back.

  Sarah studied her hands, not trusting herself to speak.

  “I get that men with flawed histories can still live decent lives,” Janine said. “Even without deliberately making amends. But what I don’t get, why I came up here, is why threaten me to keep me quiet?”

  “Right,” Sarah said. “Once you try to silence someone, the threat becomes the bigger story. People—voters, donors—would assume the worst, no matter how much he denied the attack or repeated his claim that you let it drop.”

  “Where there’s smoke, there’s fire,” Peggy said.

  “I didn’t let it drop,” Janine protested. “The sheriff—”

  “I know, I know.” No point digging it all up and picking through it all again. Not now. Later, if they had to. If she had to, to clear her own conscience.

  “Now I see why you asked about the cross,” Peggy said after a long moment. And to Janine, “and why you feared being compared to your mother. No one here remembers any of that. It was far too long ago.”

  Janine’s lips parted, her brows dipping slightly. Sarah shared her disbelief. When your mother went to jail for shooting a man, it wouldn’t be hard for people to believe you’d do the same.

  She shifted her gaze to the cold waters outside.

  Why was the past rushing forward now?

  7

  Roots had broken through the forest floor. Snowberry and mahonia, the tiny yellow flowers about to open, had narrowed the path, forcing Sarah to wriggle through the branches while ducking her head and pushing aside maple vines and usnea. Old man’s beard, the gray-green lichen that dangled at exactly the wrong height. She’d followed the path along the lake past the cabins, then up into the woods, where it had become little more than a deer trail.

  There was a metaphor in there, she knew, but she didn’t have the patience to dig for it right now.

  After their conversation about the letter, Peggy had suggested a cup of tea. Earl Grey cures all ills. Not a bad theory, in ordinary times. But things had not been ordinary in a
long time, and they were showing no sign of improving. When Sarah put on her jacket and her white tennis shoes and said she needed a walk, Peggy had said she might as well leave, too. She’d laid a hand on Sarah’s cheek, her eyes moist, and Sarah had felt like an ungrateful child, wallowing in her internal muck. But she hadn’t said “don’t go.”

  The trail widened, opening up as it gained elevation, and she pounded forward, onward, upward, the warmth of the late afternoon sun filtering through the fir and pines, the spruce and birch, releasing the soft scent of spring.

  A good half mile from the lodge, she stopped and bent over, the heels of her hands digging into the tops of her thighs as she worked to catch her breath. Pushing the air out, pulling it in, unable to tell the difference between the physical pain and the emotional.

  Finally, she straightened. In the spring, when she was a kid, her father and uncle had sharpened the saws and clippers and cleared fallen trees from the trails around the lodge. This overlook had gotten extra attention, a special place. A sense of elation spread through her as the warmth returned to her skin. Around her were more shades of green than she could name, new growth at the tips of the boughs, sunlight dappling the forest floor. Across Bitterroot Lake, though, the forests grew so thick and dark that the hillsides appeared nearly black. It was a matter of perspective, another metaphor she chose to ignore. Roofs clustered in small clearings, closer and more dense as they neared town. The church camp across from Whitetail Lodge was still in use, unlike many of the small camps that had once dotted western Montana’s lakeshores, and in a few weeks, the sounds of children would drift across the water and campfires would dot the shoreline in the evening.

  Above her, a birch bough waved in the wind. When she and Jeremy were first married, they’d driven over every summer for two or three weeks. Then the children came, Noah, and two years later Abby, and she’d relished the days at the lodge with them and the rest of the family. But Jeremy’s business began to take more of his time, and though she and the kids sometimes stayed when he went back to Seattle, she hadn’t liked being apart. As the kids got older, their summers filled with soccer camp and music camp and time with their friends. They’d been lucky to squeeze in a week in Montana, and to visit every other Christmas. The kids hadn’t been here since her father died three years ago; last summer, she’d come alone. Her cousins didn’t use the place much. Holly stayed in town when she visited. That left Connor, too busy to use the place much.

  Maybe it was time.

  She sat on the giant rock outcropping, too spent to cry.

  The landscape where you grew up shaped you. Maybe you didn’t need to own it, or visit often. Maybe it always lived inside you.

  She had a friend in Seattle, the mother of one of Abby’s besties, whose dad had been in the army. Every two or three years, they’d moved. She’d lived in Seattle for twenty years, half of it in the same house, but still felt she didn’t truly belong anywhere. Because she wasn’t from anywhere.

  Sarah dearly loved their house in Seattle. Their dream house, near Lake Washington, roomy but not crazy-big. She’d been careful to make sure it reflected Jeremy as much as her, with plenty of light and calming spaces. It was a true home, and she belonged to it as much as it belonged to them. Or to her, now.

  But at the moment, she was like her friend. She belonged nowhere.

  Get over yourself, girl. So your husband died. It’s not the end of the world. Even though it feels that way.

  The world was still out there, spinning on its merry way. People were still going to work, to school, to lunch. Going about their daily lives.

  Sending threatening letters and getting killed.

  This endless rumination wasn’t getting her anywhere. Although that was the point of wandering in the woods, wasn’t it?

  She pushed herself off the rock and continued up the trail. Soon it would fork, one branch heading toward the old horse barns, the other leading up to McCaskill Lane and the highway.

  A few feet later, she stopped. Was someone watching her?

  Ugh. Seeing things again. The woods were empty except for a handful of chattering squirrels and one young doe who’d sprinted away.

  And a raven, who cawed. She raised her head, shielding her eyes as she searched, finally spotting the big black bird high in a lodgepole pine. “I suppose you’ve got an opinion, too. Everyone else does.”

  He said nothing.

  At the fork, she angled toward the highway, pulling her phone out of her pocket to check the signal. Two bars, bouncing up and down. Texts and voice mails landed in her inbox as she walked, their pings and chimes merging with the whiz of traffic, the sounds of so-called civilization.

  Any other time, she might enjoy being unreachable, but not right now. She needed to be able to check on the kids. To respond to her friends. Call her therapist.

  The trail dipped, then climbed back up. At the fork, she stopped, out of breath, her legs shaking. Was she that out of shape? She’d given up walking with the neighborhood women a couple of months ago, not wanting to leave Jeremy alone, though the home health aide would happily have adjusted her schedule to allow Sarah to get out. Mainly, she hadn’t wanted to answer questions about him every time she left the house. And she’d lost her ability to chat about insignificant things. Her walking buddies had all come to the service and reception, but she hadn’t tied on her walking shoes and rejoined them.

  The white walking shoes that now bore dark smudges. What had she been thinking?

  She leaned against a tree, grateful to see four bars on her phone. Grateful to see texts from both kids. Abby, on the way back to the dorm after turning in the paper that had been due the day of Jeremy’s funeral, the deadline extended. His exams are easy—I should get an A, the text read. Brownie sundae tonight!

  The family tradition to celebrate wrapping up a big project.

  Good job! Sarah replied. You’ve earned a treat! The reply was almost instant. Wish I could tell Dad. Miss you—love you! She choked back a sob, then thumbed Me, too. XO3. Love and kisses, to the power of three, another family tradition.

  She scrolled past texts from friends and paused on one from her therapist. A single word: Breathe.

  In, out, her breath uneven, gradually becoming steadier. Her head cleared, the dizziness lifting. The technique didn’t always work, but often enough to try.

  Next, a text from Noah, with a quick update on a favorite class. His grades were as good as his sister’s, but he didn’t express the anxiety over them that she did. Then he wrote, Good to be home.

  “Home,” she said out loud. “You went home? But I’m here. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  And it hit her. He didn’t mean their house in Seattle. He meant school, on the other side of the country.

  Had she lost him too?

  * * *

  Sarah had almost talked herself out of detouring down the trail to the horse barns and the old homestead when the glint of sunlight on metal caught her eye. The road, such as it was, ran only between the cluster of old buildings at the top of the Hoyt property and McCaskill Lane. No one should be up here.

  She ducked into the woods, inside the tree line. A short distance ahead, she spotted a small blue car, an older model, parked just this side of the horse stalls, the driver’s door open. A thin, red-haired woman held a pair of binoculars to her eyes. Sarah glanced in the direction the woman was looking, expecting to see an owl or a pileated woodpecker. Nothing.

  She took a step onto the road. “Are you lost? Can I help you find something?”

  The woman jerked her head toward Sarah, dropping her hands, obviously startled. “Oh, gosh, no. I didn’t see you.”

  That was obvious.

  “I just—I was driving by on the highway, and I thought I’d pop down here and see if I could find some wildflowers for my mother. She’s been in the hospital, in Deer Park, and she’s always loved spring wildflowers—”

  “I’m sorry,” Sarah said. “I hope she’s okay.”

  T
he woman’s eyes widened and she exhaled. “More or less. But thanks.”

  “It’s early, but if you head back that way”—Sarah gestured—“past the horse barns and the old ice house, you might find some pussy willows around the ponds.” She turned back to the woman in time to see her toss the binoculars onto the passenger seat and reach one foot into the car. Her shoes were clean; she’d obviously just begun her hunt and gotten distracted by something in the trees.

  “Good luck,” Sarah called and raised a hand as the woman settled into the driver’s seat and closed her door. “I hope your mother gets well soon.”

  She watched as the woman turned the car around and drove off, a soft billow of dust in her wake.

  Strange, she thought. But then, strange things happened in the woods.

  * * *

  The first thing that struck her when she walked through the front door of the lodge was the smell. Clean. Not Lemon Pledge or Windex, chemical imitations of fresh air, but the real thing. The mildly astringent scent of wood that had been scrubbed, of vinegar spray, and a hint of lavender.

  Then she spotted the cat, sitting a few feet away. The cat blinked but didn’t make a sound.

  “Dinner in minutes, I promise.” She toed off her shoes, pushing them to the wall with one foot, and hung her jacket on a wrought-iron coat hook. Worked her fingers over her mid-back and the sensation, not quite an ache, that had never left her for more than a few hours the last few weeks.

  Someone—Peggy or Janine—had cleaned the tiny half-bath under the stairs. She stood at the white pedestal sink and splashed cold water on her face. Ran her fingers through her hair to work out the tangles. The built-in mirror was original to the house, the silvering lightly foxed in one corner. She couldn’t blame her splotchy skin or the shadows under her hazel eyes on the glass, darn it.

  Out in the hall, the cat hadn’t moved a whisker.

  “Come on, then.” She headed for the swinging doors that led to the kitchen, each with a small window servants could peer through to check whether the family was ready for the next course. Silently, on little cat feet, as the poet said of fog, the cat followed, then scooted past her.