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

was to pretend you didn’t see the woman who pushed her grocery cart between you and the shelf you were scanning for the right kind of mustard or the man next to you studying his phone while you waited for your latte at Starbucks.

And yet, though it all looked so familiar, so friendly, it felt so different from when she’d last visited, a year ago.

No. It was she who was different.

And she whose tummy growled. The few bites of yogurt she’d eaten before giving the bowl to the cat had worn off.

But when she glanced down a side street, a sharp tang swelled in the back of her throat. Between the quilt shop and the locksmith, across from the school playfields, stood a single-story sandstone building with a Kelly green awning, the corrugated metal dented and rusting at the corner.

And blocking the sidewalk, two of those orange rubber traffic control thingies, strung with yellow CRIME SCENE tape.

She’d never liked Lucas, even before he attacked Janine. She’d been ticked at Holly for inviting him to the lodge that weekend, only grasping later that her sister had invited Lucas because she knew he’d bring Jeremy, the sweet, nerdy guy Holly had the hots for. The guy Sarah had chatted with a few times but never seriously considered until that weekend, the guy she married a year later. She’d been prepared for the possibility that Lucas would hear she was in town and seek her out to offer his condolences. She’d been prepared for that, for the awkward conversation.

But she had not been prepared for news of his death. His murder. For yellow tape screaming at the townspeople that no amount of baskets filled with nasturtiums and verbena and sweet potato vines would keep them safe.

No one, no town, is ever prepared for that.

 4

“Sorry, love,” the waitress at the Blue Spruce said as she refilled Sarah’s coffee. Turned out the hipster coffeehouse slash wine bar she remembered, on the ground floor of the old Lake Hotel, had closed. That left the Spruce, the sugar in the same dispensers on the same Formica tables as when her parents had brought them here for waffles after church or they’d crammed too many girls into a booth for Cokes and a shared order of fries on Friday afternoons after school, the same faded color prints of elk and Bighorn sheep staring down at her from the same plastic frames.

“Didn’t mean to keep you waiting,” the woman continued, “but the crime scene crew from Missoula just left. Ate everything in sight. Hope you weren’t wanting any sausage this morning.”

“Uh, no, thanks. Coffee and toast. Whole wheat?”

“Yup. Coupla eggs, bacon? We make the best hash browns in three counties. You could use a few extra calories, you don’t mind me saying.”

How could she mind, put that way? Plus, it was true. “Sure. Over easy. Thanks.” Before Sarah could ask the waitress what she’d heard about the crime, the woman was gone.

“Sarah? Sarah McCaskill? Is that you?”

Sarah set the glossy brown mug on the table. Not who she wanted to see her first day back. They were the same age—did she look that old, too? God knows, some days she felt it.

“Becca. Yes, it’s me.” Sarah slid out of the booth and the two women gave each other a half hug punctuated by air kisses. Then, not because she wanted to but because it was polite, “Join me?”

“No, no.” Becca waved away the invitation with a plump hand. “I tried to slide in there, they’d need the Jaws of Life to pry me out, especially after breakfast. There’s a stool at the counter with my name on it. No, I just spotted you on my way back from the ladies’ and wanted to say hello.”

A silence fell between them.

“Well,” Becca said, her voice breathy, her full face growing blank. “Can’t let my pancakes get cold. Or that coffee of yours. We’ll catch up another time.”

“Yes, let’s,” Sarah said, but the other woman had already turned away.

Seated again, Sarah cradled the warm mug. She’d encountered too many of these uncomfortable silences in the last seventeen days—eighteen, now—to count. People didn’t understand that all you needed was for them to acknowledge your loss. Even if all they said was “I heard about your husband—I’m so sorry,” or “you must be heartbroken.” She’d settle for “I don’t know what to say,” but people didn’t even say that.

She picked up her phone. Started a text to her mother. Put it down, unfinished, and sipped her coffee. What did it say, that it was easier to accept mothering from the waitress she’d never met than from her own mother?

It said that her mother knew what she was going through, and the stranger didn’t. Her mother would ask how she was feeling, was she sleeping, when had she last eaten, and had she talked to the kids? Even though Peggy talked to the kids at least once a week—well, to Abby, anyway. Noah, not so much. It was hard, sometimes, to remember that the questions came from love and concern.

If only she had answers.

“Careful—hot,” the waitress said and Sarah raised her hands. What had she been thinking, ordering so much food? She remembered telling the kids, the kitchen counter covered with muffins and salads people had brought when they heard the news, that they needed to eat. Both had given her that “you’re crazy” look kids learned before they learned their ABCs. But then Noah had said “You, too, Mom,” and his tenderness had nearly crushed her.

Did anything smell as good as bacon and potatoes still sizzling from the grill? She picked up her fork.

Twenty minutes later, Janine slid into the booth and nodded at the empty plate. “I guess the food’s good.” The waitress appeared, coffee pot in one hand, an empty mug in the other. “Desperately, yes. And buttered white toast, please?”

“You got it, doll.”

Janine tugged off her scrunchie, shook her hair loose, then drew it back again, all while glancing around. “Hasn’t