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

would be happy to snap it up. Especially if it came with an experienced legal secretary.”

The other woman looked surprised, then appeared to realize Sarah meant her. “Not sure I can wait that long. Better talk to your cousin if you want those client files.”

“No. No.” Sarah held up the framed photo. “This is all I wanted.” A minute later, standing outside the front door, she paused to slip the photo into her bag, and heard the dead bolt snick shut behind her.

Sarah slid into the booth at the Blue Spruce, the same booth where she and Janine had sat that first day back in town.

Monday. That had been Monday. Today was Saturday. Life had seemed so out of order since Jeremy’s death, but the days of the week had a comforting rhythm. If you could remember them.

Holly and Peggy were deep in conversation about Becca’s suggestions for staging the lodge, if they decided to sell, for updating if they didn’t, and the pros and cons of the historic listing. Deb set coffee and a slice of pie in front of her. She smiled at the waitress. Huckleberry-peach. Thank God for pie and bossy women who knew what you needed even when you didn’t.

Sarah took a sip. Not bad, but Holly was right. The Spruce wasn’t everyone’s cuppa. Could they convince Janine to let them help her open her own place in town? A worry for another day. She picked up her fork.

Two bites in, she set it down. “Mom, what do you know about Renee Harper?” And why the woman eyed her with such distrust. Though it wasn’t good to read too much into a short encounter.

“Oh, right—she was Lucas Erickson’s secretary. Is that who you stopped to see?” Peggy reached for her coffee. “Renee Taunton. She was a few years ahead of you. One of those kids with all kinds of potential but without much chance of fulfilling it.”

“I saw her in the grocery store when I ran into Pam Holtz, and Pam mentioned a problem over a scholarship?”

“I remember. She got a perfect score in math on the college entrance exam and was offered a full scholarship to the University. Judith, her mother, wouldn’t let her take it. Thought she should be practical and become a secretary. Your cousin Leo got it instead.”

“That’s horrible,” Holly said. “Not that a good secretary isn’t worth her weight in peach pie.”

“You remember Judith Taunton, Sarah—she worked at Deer Park Floral for ages. You used to love going in there with me or your grandmother.”

Sarah did remember. Her love of the shop and the flowers had been strong enough to overcome her fear of the sour-faced woman who sold them.

“They live in that little gray cottage on Second East, across from where we lived when you kids were born,” Peggy continued. “They’ve had that house forever. Beautiful flower beds in the backyard. You have to drive down the alley to see them.”

The image of an envelope flashed into mind, bearing the name Mrs. B.F. Taunton. And the image of Renee up by the horse barn earlier in the week, claiming to be looking for wildflowers for her mother, on a dusty, dry trail, her hands empty, her shoes clean. As if the flowers were an excuse. Why had she really been there?

“Renee couldn’t wait to get away,” Peggy was saying. “Then her mother’s dementia got worse and she came home to take care of her. After the last incident—”

The door opened and Peggy broke off at the sight of the two older women who entered. After the ritual “Where do you want to sit?” negotiation, they set their bags on chairs at a nearby table before coming over to greet the McCaskills.

“Girls, you remember Grace Smalley and Cheryl Kolsrud.” Peggy touched Holly’s arm, then nodded across the table. “Holly, and Sarah.”

Matt and Becca’s mothers, out for pie and coffee. Did this sort of thing happen in Seattle, where everyone was too busy for their own good? Or had that just been her?

“So sorry to hear about your husband,” Grace Smalley said. “Too young. Such a shame.”

“Good for you, though, getting out and about,” Cheryl said. “When I lost my husband two years ago, the last thing I wanted was to leave the house. Your mother insisted, and I’ve never forgotten that.”

“Step aside, ladies,” Deb called, a heavy tray balanced on one hand as she shook out a folding rack with the other. Burgers and fries for the family crammed in the next booth, the kids in their soccer uniforms. Grace and Cheryl waved and retreated to their own table.

“I hate that phrase,” Peggy said, dropping her voice. “‘Lost my husband.’ It always reminds me of when we were in that shopping center in downtown Spokane—you remember the place.”

“River Park Square,” Holly said.

“That’s it. I came out of Nordstrom’s and your father wasn’t where we were supposed to meet. I waited, and searched, called his cell. No answer. Finally went to the help desk and had them put out a page. And there he was, sitting not ten feet away. I didn’t know whether to kiss him or kill him.”

It was a funny story, even if they had heard it before. JP had fallen asleep in a high-backed chair and in her panic, Peggy hadn’t seen him. Though he was already ill, they’d decided to make the once-a-year Christmas shopping trip anyway. A month later, he was gone.

Gone. Another phrase not to like.

But what struck her was that these older women—the other two had to be past eighty, nearly a decade older than Peggy—were not afraid to acknowledge that Sarah’s husband had died. Unlike the women her own age, all perfectly polite, but on edge. Afraid of the future she represented.

The door burst open and her niece and nephew rushed in, their parents behind them. The women slid over to make room, while Connor grabbed a chair from the nearest table. Olivia appeared no worse for the encounter with the Erickson