Bitterroot Lake

by Alicia Beckman

  “This woman certainly was,” Nic said. “Her penmanship is exquisite.” She read out loud.

  Dear Mrs. McCaskill,

  Oh, how I wish you could have seen my children’s faces when they saw the feast delivered to us on Christmas Day. A roast goose and plum pudding! Had it not been for your generosity, our table would have been nearly bare, with not much more than our daily fare of eggs, if the hens are in the mood, rye bread, and boiled potatoes with cabbage. Your Mrs. O’Dell is quite the treasure—

  “See, Holly,” Sarah teased. “She was a treasure.”

  Not only is her cooking superb, she showed me a few tricks to make good use of the extra provisions. My son played with his new spinning top until late in the evening, and my precious little girl fell asleep with her arms around her new doll.

  The men at the mill and their wives have been good to us, knowing as they do the hardships of such work, but there is only so much they can spare, their own paychecks often being stretched to the limit. Your thoughtfulness in including toys for the children and the bottle of rose water is particularly touching, and shows what a truly good and gracious soul you are.

  Nic paused and lifted her head, glasses low on her nose. “I’m guessing her husband was a mill worker killed on the job. Little known fact: Montana had one of the first workers’ comp laws in the country, but it was voluntary and the employers all fought it. It was years before the constitutionality of work comp was upheld and employers were required to participate. But I can easily imagine that in 1927, the benefits for a widow with two children would have been pretty minimal.”

  She read on.

  I have decided that we should return to my late husband’s mother’s home in Denver. Although our relationship has not always been a smooth one, she is very fond of the children, and I will be able to find suitable employment. I hope you will allow the children and me to visit you before our departure.

  Yours with a deeply grateful heart,

  Mrs. Olaf (Olga) Johannsen

  “Olaf and Olga,” Holly said. “I wonder whatever happened to her.”

  “Here’s your answer.” Janine held up a card showing a young girl, in coat and hat, carrying a brightly wrapped package up a snowy hill to a cottage, beneath a full moon and a starry sky. “Postmarked December 10, 1928. It’s a Christmas card.”

  Dear Mrs. McCaskill,

  I think of you often and with gratitude …

  She skimmed ahead.

  You will be pleased to hear that both children are thriving. My mother-in-law has moved to her daughter’s home a few blocks away, leaving the children and me in the house in which their father was raised. Thank goodness the school district permits widows to teach. Although my salary is sufficient, it does not extend to luxuries, but thanks to your gift, there will be joy around our hearth on Christmas morning.

  “First we’ve heard of gifts, not loans, right?”

  “For women with children? Or particularly touching stories.”

  “Or particularly gracious thank you notes.”

  Other letters detailed similar tragedies. Several loans allowed women to leave abusive or alcoholic husbands, as they presumed had been the case with Elizabeth Pennington. Others told stories of depression and isolation, of husbands and suicide. One 1932 letter thanked Caro for sending “young Tom” to replenish the wood pile.

  “You said your grandfather was born in 1916?” Nic asked. “That makes him sixteen. Almost a man back then.”

  “If she was sending Mrs. O’Dell and Grandpa Tom on her errands,” Holly mused, “then Con must have known. Besides that one contribution, was she using her own money, do you think?”

  But that, they couldn’t answer.

  The most heartbreaking note came from a woman who thanked them for helping her take care of her husband after he was kicked in the head by a horse, then finally died.

  “It’s a microcosm of the problems women faced back then. Before Social Security and welfare and other programs from the New Deal took hold,” Nic said.

  “Same kind of problems women face today,” Holly said. “Except for being kicked in the head by a horse.”

  Sarah stepped out on the deck, away from the lights of the lodge. Full dark now, though a smattering of stars blinked into view as her eyes adjusted. She’d been the kid who loved hearing the family stories, who’d sat at the big dining table in the lodge long after her sister and brother and cousins had asked to be excused and some of the adults had begun to drift in and out, who’d sat listening to their grandparents tell tales, some tall, some true. Reminiscing about the colorful characters who’d visited the lodge over the years. Which lumber company client shot that one-eyed bull elk who winked down at them from above the fireplace. Which of Grandpa Tom’s war buddies sent the oversized Navaho rug that still lay on the living room floor, a thank-you for a long-overdue vacation with his wife. Which cousin commandeered the baseball autographed by Joe DiMaggio for a pickup game and sent it through the kitchen window. Where was that baseball, anyway? She hadn’t seen it in Grandpa Tom’s office.

  The McCaskill kids had been taught to be proud of their family legacy, how they’d taken care of the woods and provided jobs through the Depression and always supported progress in the tiny town of Deer Park.

  But she had never heard these stories.

  Was it the late night, the wine, or being together with her old gang after the stresses and sorrows of the last few months? Or the romance of a historic lakefront lodge and the discovery of secret letters, that had her thinking the house was talking to her? The house, and Caro.

  And the woman in the dream.

  But what were they saying? What were they telling her to do?

  Back inside, the other three huddled together on the couch, poring over Ellen Lacey’s scrapbook. Sarah perched on the back of the couch and leaned in. As in Caro’s album, the photos and clippings, brittle with age, were mounted on black paper and captioned in white ink. In roughly chronologic order, they started with a shot of the shoreline taken from Bitterroot Lake, aboard the steamer U. S. Grant.

  “There’s the point.” Holly dragged her finger across the photo to the outcropping just east of their property line. “And here’s where they built the lodge. The trees came nearly down to the lake.”

  In the next photo, stumps and piles of logs, some as much as five feet across, dotted the slope above the shore. Every log and post and stick in the place had been cut right here and milled with a portable head rig.

  Another series of photos and a clipping from the Deer Park Dispatch showed blasting and rock removal, by horse-drawn wagons using a series of ropes and pulleys and winches, to create a narrow road.

  “The beginnings of the North Shore Road,” Nic said. “Not that it’s much of a road now, but construction must have been a bear.”

  “It didn’t go all the way around the lake until the late ’30s,” Sarah said. “The WPA finished it. You wanted to get west of here, you had to take the steamer. In Caro’s journal, she says Con spent the week in town during the summer, while the family stayed at the lodge. Town’s minutes away now, but back then, getting there took hours.”

  Ellen Lacey had listed men who’d worked on the project and their wages. She’d pasted in receipts, the paper yellowed. Sarah almost whistled at the cost of the staircase. And seriously? Was the lamp over the game table in the corner, the one some tall McCaskill lad or his friends were always bumping with his head when penny ante poker got antic, a genuine Tiffany?

  Someone—Ellen, she presumed—had added sketches of a bird’s nest found near a felled tree. On other pages, she’d drawn spring grasses and wildflowers—yellow glacier lilies, red paintbrush, bluebells. And a bitterroot, the state flower, for which the lake had been named. Page by page, they watched the lodge take shape—the ridgepole, walls, and windows, until finally, what they saw in the scrapbook matched what they saw around them, give or take a hundred years.

  “The Laceys,” she said at the photo of the co
uple standing on the front steps with their children, the boy beaming at the photographer while pointing a stick at the date 1920 carved in the stone foundation. It was still there.

  What joy for Ellen to see her vision come to life, this stunning retreat on the edge of the lake. To descend the grand staircase, preside over picnics and parties, smile as her children tumbled down the lawn.

  “I wonder what ever happened to them.” Several rolls of heavy paper lay on the table next to the journals and albums. “Are those the pictures from the trunk?”

  Holly set her glass on the end table. “You know, sis, we’re sitting on a mother lode of historical info. The county museum would kill for this stuff.”

  But it was their family history. Another decision to make.

  Holly unrolled the first picture and they all took a look. A black-and-white panoramic view of the lodge, taken from the dock. No cabins yet. A name in white on the lower right indicated the work of a professional photographer, a name familiar from early family portraits. Holly let the picture curl gently back on itself and picked up the next photo. This one had been taken indoors.

  “Oh, wow. It’s like Downton Abbey, in a log house.”

  Sarah recognized the Laceys at the foot of the steps, a boy about six and a girl a year or two older standing in front of their parents. Con and Caro stood on the step behind them.

  “I’d kill for that beaded dress,” Holly said, pointing at Caro.

  “You find it in one of those trunks in the carriage house,” Sarah said, “and it’s yours.”

  Other guests gathered around their hosts or stood on the staircase, the pine garland wrapped around the banister a clue that this had been a holiday gathering. To the left stood the household staff. A housekeeper wearing a formidable expression and a stiff black dress, an older man in a butler’s tuxedo, a younger man, and two young women.

  The back of her neck prickled. That face …

  * * *

  In her yoga pants and sweatshirt, feet bare and a book in hand, Sarah came down the staircase slowly. Riser by riser, tread by tread, craftsmen of a century ago had built it with pride, under Ellen Lacey’s watchful eye.

  The scrapbook lay on the coffee table where they’d left it. If they sold, what would they do with it, and the guest books and other photos and furnishings? The museum was one option, as Holly had said, but they belonged to the place as much as to the family. Would a future buyer appreciate them? Where was the line between responsibility and burden?

  And why was she so drawn to that photo of the holiday party?

  In the kitchen, she found a clean wine glass and a bottle they hadn’t finished. They were going through the wine almost as fast as Bastet was going through her Ocean Whitefish Paté.

  “At that rate, you’re not going to be little for long,” she told the cat, then returned to the main room, giving the lamp another glance. A genuine Tiffany, in the wilds of Montana? She’d give it a closer look in the morning, maybe send a few photos to an antique dealer friend.

  What other treasures had she overlooked through familiarity? That parchment shade on the brass reading lamp? Hand-painted with ferns and pink flowers, while the one in her grandfather’s office was more typically Western, the edges whipstitched with brown leather cord. And what about the chair? She’d always assumed it was a Stickley knockoff, but now she wondered if it wasn’t the real thing. Tomorrow, she’d flip it over and search for identifying marks. Another reason to get reliable Wi-Fi, so she could consult a few websites.

  Everything in the lodge looked different now. History—one more thing to note in her inventory.

  Sarah sipped her wine, the cat in her lap, stroking the soft fur. The jumble of noises in her head began to quiet. It had been hours since she’d reached for her useless phone, irritated over not being able to call or text the kids. But this couldn’t go on. If the phone company didn’t send someone out in the morning, she’d go into town and see if she could find an electrician to fix it. Or wire for splicing. Not that she knew how, but at least she had the pliers.

  She shifted and the cat’s claws dug into her thighs. “Hey, let go.” The chair wasn’t uncomfortable, but her mid-back had been bothering her ever since Jeremy’s death. Nothing a massage or a visit to the chiropractor could fix. It was just a hollow feeling, the place where her sense of loss had decided to settle.

  She picked up her book and switched the lamp up a notch. The bulb sizzled and sparked and went out. She swore softly and set the cat on the floor. In the kitchen, she rummaged in the bulb stash to find the right size. The door swung open, revealing Holly in her long sleep shirt, legs bare, hair mussed.

  Sarah held up the bulb.

  “Figures,” Holly said. “Like every time you move into a new place, or come back from vacation, a light bulb goes out. Usually in the middle of the night, like when you’ve taken a late flight and stumbled home and all you want to do is take off your makeup and crawl into bed, and poof!”

  “One more strike against makeup.”

  “It’s like the house is protesting,” Holly said, padding after her. “I came down to see—well, after last night, I thought you might—I don’t know.”

  Sarah knew. Her sister thought she might be afraid to sleep, afraid of another nightmare. She fumbled in the dark, screwing in the bulb, flinching involuntarily as the light came back on.

  “I’m happy to sleep on the couch again,” Holly added.

  “No, you go up. You need your beauty sleep.”

  Holly stuck out her tongue and headed for the stairs.

  “Hol,” Sarah called. “Thanks.”

  Without turning, Holly raised a hand in acknowledgment.

  Sarah picked up the cat and sat. Instead of the novel she hadn’t been able to get into, she opened Caro’s journal.

  June 17, 1922

  Con has taken the steamer back to town, leaving me alone with the children, and dear Fanny and Mrs. O’D. I know he is worried about us out here on our own—three women and three small children. But it was ever thus, was it not? Women have been left home while the men have gone off to work and war since time began. Why else was Eve sitting alone under the apple tree, if not because Adam was out hunting for the wooly mammoth or some other of God’s wild creatures? I do not fear temptations of the sort she faced, although I well know that loneliness can lead a woman—or a man—into foolish choices. I shall not be lonely, even without the bustle of Deer Park or my women’s club.

  I do have the Model T safely stored in the carriage house, if necessary, and I am an excellent driver—Con brags about me to his friends, who doubt their wives could manage—but the road is challenging at best, and treacherous more often than not. There is talk about the lumber company deeding the land to the state for an official highway, as the blasting and grading needed to extend it in a fashion suitable for automobiles would be terribly expensive. Many in Deer Park advocate for this, but Con urges caution—we must be prepared for the changes a year-round road would bring.

  Sarah’s eyes sped over the rest of the entry, as Caro described the family’s plans for the summer, including the high-walled tents Con had found for the guests they hoped would join them for two weeks in July, although naturally her sister and her family would stay in the lodge.

  But what caught her eye was the reference to her women’s club. The society?

  She took another sip of wine—Holly had made some good finds in Deer Park’s state liquor store. One more benefit of the changes in town. That reminded her of Holly’s idea that Janine reopen the vacant restaurant space. Though the building hadn’t been a hotel for decades, the location was ideal for tourist traffic, by car, foot, or boat.

  Then, in midsummer 1922, this.

  Over sherry after dinner, we spoke of H. He’s laid out his demands to complete the deal. Con is reluctant; he is convinced that long-term success depends on holding the land and managing the timber. But it has taken this long to force the man to relinquish his interest, and if this is what
it takes …

  The H of the early entry, whose “beastly” behavior had triggered the Laceys’ departure? And what deal was Caro referring to?

  Mysterious, but delicious, to eavesdrop on her great-grandmother’s most personal thoughts.

  “Oh,” she said out loud. “What if she wrote about …” She flipped forward, turning pages until she found the date she was searching for, two weeks before the earliest thank-you note, in February 1924.

  Well, we have done it. We have made our first loan, to the Norwegian woman whose home and most of her belongings were destroyed by fire. I know there are some in town who say she deserved her fate, being willing to live with a man to whom she was not married. That is for God to judge, not us. I only wish the sheriff had been willing to arrest the man, but he said it is not arson to destroy one’s own property, even if it is also the home of another, and that the woman had no legal right to the structure, in truth little more than a shack. Who owns the property now that that wicked man has left town, I cannot say, but we could not let the woman starve or go without a roof over her head.

  I do not know whether we will be repaid. The possibility does not worry me—the amount was small. My biggest concern is that word spread only to those in genuine need, women of good character but unfortunate circumstances, and not become general knowledge. There will be men who oppose us, who criticize us for being too modern, and I fear such talk would keep women from seeking our help. That’s why it’s so important that Fanny, Mrs. O’D, and Mrs. Burke are part of our efforts; too many women in need would never dare speak to someone they view as above them, but would speak freely to a housekeeper or another woman who works to support herself.

  Holly had wondered how much Con knew about the loans. “What do you think?” Sarah asked Bastet. “Even if she used her own money, they seem to have been quite close.” And from her comments in that first journal entry about his refusal to tolerate “beastly” behavior by another man to a young servant, and that he trusted his wife with the Model T, it seemed clear that Cornelius McCaskill had shared his wife’s “modern” views.