Bitterroot Lake, Alicia Beckman [good books to read for 12 year olds .TXT] 📗

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.”

The 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.

“You faker.” Both food and water bowl were nearly full. “You just wanted attention.” She crouched beside the cat and scratched behind her ears, then rubbed the soft fur beneath her chin.

She uncorked the chardonnay she’d planned to drink last night. A collection of mismatched glasses gathered over the years filled half a kitchen cupboard. “No,” she told the cat. “We’re going to do this right.” Though she hadn’t begun the formal inventory, she knew where her grandmother’s wedding china and glassware were kept, in the built-ins that lined one dining room wall. They’d used the pieces on holidays and special occasions, the gold-rimmed white dishes and the ruby crystal with its delicate gold filigree. Back through the swinging doors they went, she and her feline shadow.

But the glass-front cabinet was empty. Not a wine glass or a dinner plate in sight. No champagne saucers. No decanter or serving bowls.

“Where did it go?” she asked the cat, busy licking a foot.

In the kitchen, Sarah rinsed a glass printed with the Chateau Ste. Michelle logo, a souvenir from a wine tour they’d taken her parents on years ago. Poured and took a sip, the tang of fruit and flowers filling her mouth. Carried the glass outside.

How funny was it, to be five hundred miles from home drinking wine made not ten miles from home?

It was a moment Jeremy would have noticed, acknowledging it with a slight lift of the glass and a wink.

Her therapist had said those moments would hit her hard for a while, but that gradually the pain would ease. Everyone said that—don’t make any drastic changes for a year, don’t dwell on the past, blah blah blah. But remembering and dwelling weren’t the same. She didn’t want to forget Jeremy’s laugh, or the way he always said “look at you” when she came downstairs in the morning. How he took his coffee, with cream and honey, not sugar. Forgetting the details would be like losing him all over again. Besides, those moments were part of her life, too.

She raised her face, eyes closed, and let the spring sun kiss her.

Was she crazy to think she was supposed to be here right now? That the lodge needed her?

She didn’t know what to think anymore.

Lucas. So much promise destroyed by his pride and stupidity. His life upended. Michael dead. Jeremy had not been one for regrets or second-guessing himself—he’d left that to her—but it had always bothered her, that they hadn’t been able to stop Lucas from attacking Janine or from tearing away in the red convertible.

Now they were all gone, those beautiful young men from that beautiful day on these shores, twenty-five years ago.

Leaving her to face the sad, sucky fact that life went on. Kids finished papers, studied for exams, made summer plans. Of course the kids would fledge. That was the point of raising kids. They left the nest. But did it have to be right now?

Sarah heard a sound and cocked her head. Heard Janine calling indistinctly. Letting her know Nic was driving down the lane?

One last swallow, then she headed inside, setting her glass on the walnut table next to her grandmother’s rocker, the table’s barley-twist legs dust-free thanks to Peggy. Now she could hear tires crunching on the gravel and Janine