She sat on a big boulder. Untied her hair and bent over, shaking her head, then straightened and slipped the scrunchie onto her wrist. Sarah sat on the ground a few feet away.
“The problem,” Janine continued, “was where to live. There was nothing I could afford except a cabin by the creek on the edge of town. Practically a twin to the cabins here.” Her face softened.
Sarah waited.
“I stayed in that town way too long because of that cabin. The most comforting place I have ever lived. Or that I’ve ever been, except for here, at Whitetail.”
Janine leaned forward, hands clasped between her knees. “They made that job for me. They didn’t need me. They didn’t know me, they had no reason to trust me or help me, but they did. Customers brought in stuff for Zak—books, toys, clothing their kids had outgrown. The crankiest old lady gave me the most beautiful handwoven blanket—I’ve kept it all these years. No questions. No judgments. Just …” Her voice trailed off.
“They helped me heal. And up on that ladder, looking in at the bunk room where you and Holly and I used to sleep, I realized it was like you and your family. Like coming to the lodge.”
“But—this is where—”
Janine held up a hand and Sarah stopped. “This is where the healing started. Where I started to feel I was worth something. Lucas tried to take that away from me. For a long time, I thought you had, too, by denying my voice. But washing the layers of grime off the old glass, I saw that my shame had built up in layers, too. From my childhood, the attack, Roger’s abuse. I married a man who abandoned me and our son, just like my mother had done. The lodge helped me heal from my childhood, the same way that little nowhere town helped me recover from my broken marriage.”
Sarah began to catch a glimmer of where Janine was going. “So when we found the journal and the letters, and uncovered what Caro and the Ladies’ Aid Society did …”
“Exactly,” Janine said. “I don’t know how or why, since you didn’t know about Caro’s society. But helping women in need is as much a part of the history of this lodge as the steamboat dock or the thirty-six place settings of railroad china.”
“But I stopped you from filing a report against Lucas.”
“And you weren’t wrong. I was thinking, while I was up on the ladder.” She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “What you said about me being fragile. You were right. I was like glass. Hard on the surface, but if I’d been forced to face Lucas Erickson in court, with him sneering at me and denying everything, I would have shattered into a million pieces.”
In and out. Sarah repeated the exercise until she could speak again.
“Are you seriously thinking of moving back up here? I thought you hated Deer Park.”
“I thought so too. Turns out, I hated some of the things that happened to me here, but none of that matters anymore. I’ve got my own experience of Deer Park, and the lodge is a huge part of it.” Janine paused. “Nic said she told you about the clippings. I know they look bad. I was just keeping track of him. I kept a file on the case against my mother too. They were part of my story. But I’m ready to let it all go. Live my own story, not theirs.”
“Oh my gosh. That’s what the dreams are about, aren’t they?” Sarah asked. “We’re supposed to help each other. Help women in danger. Tell the stories that matter and let go of the ones that don’t.” She let out a cackle. “In the business, architects and designers like to say a house talks to them. But I don’t think they mean it quite so literally.”
Then she turned serious. “Ellen Lacey built this house. The first dream came to her.”
“She didn’t listen,” Janine said. “That’s what killed Anja. And it broke Ellen.”
The question hung in the air, unspoken.
What danger was stalking them now?
* * *
The rest of the morning, they washed windows and gathered debris. It amazed Sarah to see Janine work so hard to clean a place that wasn’t hers. To restore the magic.
And to keep from obsessing about Lucas Erickson, shot to death on the floor of his own office?
How was that working, she wondered. Because it wasn’t working for her. No love lost and all that, but still. The man was dead. People had loved him. His mother and sister. His children. People had depended on him, their lives and businesses entwined with his. Renee Harper and his clients. Which included McCaskill Lumber.
Obviously, someone had hated him. Harper had portrayed him as the classic difficult man—demanding, unyielding—though Sarah had detected a subtler, more complicated side to her feelings. Men like that were often quite charming, and financially successful, which only encouraged their bad behavior.
Entitled, to use the modern phrase.
But clearly not a modern phenomenon. H, in Caro’s account of the incident involving the Swedish housemaid, seemed to fit the bill. Who had he been? What had happened to him?
Some got their comeuppance. Others didn’t, at least not publicly. She’d worked her way around the side of the lodge and took a step back, scanning for streaks on the office windows. Justice was like physics. For every action, there was an equal and opposite reaction. Even if you didn’t get to see it.
But a murder? It had a ripple effect beyond the victim. It affected the entire community.
“Oh,” she said out loud. Was that what led to the formation of the Lakeside Ladies’ Aid Society? Had they kept it secret not just to avoid talk that might prevent women from asking for help, but also to avoid scrutiny? If a woman who’d been seduced by a married man sought support from a church society, word would spread like wildfire, but a group acting in secret could protect both the woman and the wife, and the child, if there was one, from rumor and scandal.
She picked up her bucket and moved to the next window, careful not to crush the shrubbery. They’d seen no indication that the Ladies’ Aid Society had done anything to exact revenge on misbehaving men, but she wouldn’t put it past them. Funny that they’d never heard of it until now. Had her father known? She’d have to quiz her mother.
At that very moment, the sound of an engine coming down the lane broke into her thoughts.
“She’s here,” Sarah told the squirrel who’d been keeping an eye on her. The vehicle passed in and out of view. Not her mother’s red sedan but a larger, white rig. “Oh, the phone company. Cross your paws, Mr. Squirrel.”
But it wasn’t the phone company service truck after all. It was a white SUV, fresh from the car wash.
The one they’d seen near the roadside memorial? Or the one George Hoyt had seen on the lane Sunday afternoon?
Then the SUV made the final turn and she saw two women in the front seat. Her mother, the passenger. And the real estate agent.
Oh, God. Of all the people, of all the agents in Deer Park—and unlike lawyers, you had your pick—why had her mother chosen Becca Smalley?
“Sarah!” Becca said moments later as she crossed the gravel drive, hand extended. Sarah ran her hand up and down her pants leg and held it out apologetically. To her surprise, Becca took it with both hers, warm, soft, and dry.
“I owe you an apology,” Becca said. “The other day, in the Spruce, I was so startled to see you. Sitting there, looking—well, confident and serene, as always. My mother told me about your husband’s death—she heard about it from yours. But I didn’t know you were in town and I didn’t know what to say, so stupidly, I said nothing.”
Serene? That had been the last thing Sarah had felt. And confident? Ha.
“You weren’t the only one who didn’t know I was in town,” she replied. “I was so worried about how it would feel to be back that I didn’t even tell my mother I was coming.”
“Oh, Sarah.” Becca tightened her grip and for half a second, Sarah feared the woman would hug her.
She freed her hand and gestured toward Janine, standing next to Peggy. “You remember Janine Chapman. Janine Nielsen.”
Becca’s mouth fell open and Sarah could almost see her mind
running through everything she knew, or thought she knew, about Janine, before her lips closed and curved upward. “Yes, of course, Janine. Good to see you. You two were always such good friends.”
So that’s how it’s going to be. Did Becca not remember how hateful she’d been to Janine, and by extension to Sarah and Holly, not just in the seventh grade but for years? Had she genuinely become this warmhearted woman? Or had she decided the prospect of a sizable commission was worthy of her very best behavior? Wait and see.
Wait and see.
26
“As I see it,” Becca said after a tour of the main lodge and a quick survey of the grounds, “you have several options. Whitetail Lodge is stunning—you know that. It could easily qualify for the National Register of Historic Places. But …”
They were seated at the dining room table. Janine had made herself scarce.
“But it needs a lot of work,” Sarah finished. “Single-pane windows that leak heat in winter and cool air in summer. Logs that need to be cleaned and oiled and rechinked. The soffits, the moss, the roof. Not to mention the damage to the balcony and the gable on the carriage house. Any prospective buyer will see dollar signs before they cross the threshold.”
“You sound like you’ve been making a list,” Becca said.
Sarah touched the notebook in front of her. “And you sound like you’re going to add to it.”
“Well, yes.” The real estate agent started ticking off items. It took both hands. “And that’s just what you would need to do before listing, if you want to get anything close to its true value. I always caution homeowners to be careful with improvements if they’re planning to sell anytime soon. Most cost more than they add to the value of the house. But others are worth making even if they don’t raise the sales price, because they shorten the time on the market.”
“How do you know which are which?” Peggy asked. “And doesn’t historic listing limit what you can do?”
“Experience. And yes, historic listing imposes some limitations, but it also gives you potential access to funding and tax credits for restoration,” Becca replied. “Now, the real challenge is identifying comps. There’s nothing like it on Bitterroot Lake. We’ll have to consider properties throughout the region—even down on Flathead Lake and in the Swan Valley. Adjust for the size and age of the house, the outbuildings, the acreage.”
Sarah was only half listening as Becca outlined the process of setting a list price and devising a marketing plan. She was thinking about decades of McCaskills racing down the steps, running out the doors, and tumbling down the lawn. Jumping in the cold water and screaming in delight. Sailing, canoeing, riding horses. Sledding. Hiking up the narrow trails and gazing out at the lake and the mountains, ridge after ridge and range after range, stretching farther than the eye could see. She was thinking of all the people with more money than sense, who turned classic buildings into nightmares, and those whose eyes were bigger than their budgets, who left the job half done. She was thinking about Ellen Lacey and Caro and Mary Mac. About the Ladies’ Aid Society and her own friends. Her daughter, her sister, her niece.
“It’s a fabulous place,” Becca said, “but realistically, a tough sell. It’s going to take a buyer with vision, time, and passion, not to mention the money.”
Peggy sighed. “We have some serious thinking to do.”
“Take all the time you need.” Becca glanced at her watch. “I’ve got to get going. I should stop to check on the rental next door, but—”
“Next door?” Sarah interrupted her. “George’s place?”
“He moved into his mother’s house a while back. The little one up near the highway. He put the lakefront house in our rental pool. A woman from San Diego has it for a couple of weeks—she’s very nice. I haven’t had time to hire someone to help manage the rentals, let alone the second homes. I’m meeting Misty and Dan at the law office. She’s ready to sell but I think they’re better off waiting.”
“Who would want it?” Peggy asked. “After what happened.”
“And to think I ran into his secretary right when it was happening,” Becca continued. “At the post office. She was in a gabby mood. Hard to get away, but I didn’t have time to talk.”
Since when did Becca let that stop her? Though Sarah was beginning to find her chattiness endearing. Still, it was hard to imagine Renee Harper going gabby, and her description of the encounter was just the opposite of Becca’s.
“I’ll leave you with our brochure and a sample listing agreement.” Becca slid a folder toward Peggy, who slid it over to Sarah, and they all stood. “By the way, I hear you met my son.”
Sarah tilted her head, puzzled.
“Matt,” Becca said with a smile. “Looks just like his father, doesn’t he?”
Sarah’s gaze flicked to Becca’s left hand. Sure enough, a slim gold wedding band. Not that she knew who every high school classmate had married—the reunions had never come at a good time, and she only kept up with a few girlfriends—but Becca and Matt, one of the nicest men she’d ever met? Or had she just never noticed Becca’s good side?
“Good job, Becca,” she replied. “Good job.”
“What do you think?” Peggy asked as Becca drove away.
“I think we have a lot to think about.” She held the front door for her mother. Inside, Peggy ducked into the powder room.
Everything Becca had said—and she could hardly believe this, but it was true—made perfect sense. The lodge needed serious help. Serious capital. Serious commitment.
It was crazy. Nuts. What would Jeremy think?
She glanced at the coffee table where the scrapbook and albums lay next to the box of letters. When she remembered Caro’s words, she knew Whitetail Lodge belonged in the hands of a woman. Her hands. Though the lodge had come to her mother through JP, it had been Ellen Lacey’s vision and Caro’s passion. Mary Mac’s domain. She, Sarah McCaskill Carter, could not be the one who let it go. How she was going to manage, how convince her mother, and her brother and sister, she had no idea.
She didn’t care. It was what Caro would have wanted. It was what she wanted.
An empty wine glass sat on the side table, left over from last night. She picked it up and caught a glimpse of something shiny. Caught her breath as she stared, open-mouthed, at the penny that lay on the Navaho rug.
And knew in a flash what Jeremy thought.
* * *
“Mom,” Sarah said as she, Peggy, and Janine admired the windows Janine had shined to a sparkle. “What do you know about our great-grandmother, Caroline? Caro?”
Peggy’s brows arched well above her zebra-striped glasses frames. Specks of green paint dotted the gray-blond hair at her temple. She ran a hand through her hair, remnants of more green paint in her cuticles and under her nails. Funny that she hadn’t minded Becca seeing the paint. More likely, she hadn’t noticed. She’d ridden out with the real estate agent, planning to take Sarah up on yesterday’s invitation to stay for dinner and get a ride back into town.
“Caro is the reason I married your father,” Peggy said. “I was crazy in love with him, of course. But when I met her, I knew I wanted to be part of this family. Years later, Mary Mac told me she’d had a similar feeling when she married Tom. Her mother died when she was seven and her father didn’t have a clue how to raise a girl. She always said Caro taught her what it meant to be a woman, and to tend to a family. When we told Caro your name, she cried. She died a month later.”
“I’m so sorry I never knew her.”
“Now you’ll dismiss this as woo-woo,” Peggy said. “You kids all like to be practical. But I think that once she met you, she was ready to go.”
“Mom. You can’t mean that.”
“Peggy, seriously?” Janine said. “Like Sarah was her daughter come back to life?”
“Well, I wouldn’t go that far. More like she knew that with a great-grandson, Leo, and now a great-granddaughter, Sarah, the family legacy was in good hands.”
F
rom the kitchen, they heard the oven beep, and Janine excused herself.
“Does the name Lakeside Ladies’ Aid Society mean anything to you?”
“Sarah, what is this? Where are all these questions coming from?”
She showed her mother the box of letters.
Peggy took the top envelope from the stack and read the address. “‘Mrs. Cornelius McCaskill, Whitetail Lodge, Deer Park, Montana.’ Back when that was enough to get your mail to you. They still name houses in England.”
Sarah flashed on the letters sent by owl to Mr. H. Potter, the Cupboard Under the Stairs, 4 Privet Drive, informing him of his acceptance to Hogwarts. Letter after letter, owl after owl, until Uncle Vernon screwed the mail slot shut, and the owls began shooting letters down the chimney. Her eyes darted involuntarily to the stone chimney, thirty feet high.
And she sometimes thought her mother was a bubble off plumb.
H. Caro’s journal mentioned H, but there was little chance they’d ever know who H had been.
“We named Connor for him, you know,” Peggy was saying. “For Con. The McCaskills love naming themselves after themselves, but I could not call my child Cornelius.”
Sarah smiled, then told her mother about the trunk. About Caro’s journal and how they’d pieced it all together. “The letters in the Whitman’s Sampler box are mostly thank-you notes for loans the Society made to women in need. Women who’d been abandoned, or who wanted to leave an abusive marriage. Small loans, from what we can tell, repaid promptly. No interest, so it was clearly a benevolent undertaking.”
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