Bitterroot Lake by Alicia Beckman (i read a book .TXT) 📕

need to check behind the downspout for the spare key. Instead, she circled around the house, passing under the old rose arbor, the canes beginning to turn green, to the back yard. Cones and branches littered the grass and deck, along with tiny yellow blossoms from the forsythia and pink petals from the neighbor’s flowering crab. Considering last night’s wind, it was good that her mother hadn’t gotten out the deck furniture yet, or filled the huge terra cotta pots stacked under the eave.

She didn’t bother knocking. Inside, she set her bag and the pie on the kitchen counter, next to a used coffee cup. Her mother had never been one of those artists who lost track of time or forgot to eat, likely because she’d snuck painting between work and family for so long. It hadn’t become her focus until she retired from teaching. After JP’s death, she’d stopped painting for a while, brushing off her kids’ concern. Now, Sarah understood. If her mother had found the spark again, good, even if that kept her from paying attention to other things.

One foot on the bottom step, Sarah glanced into the living room with its high ceilings and tall windows, the decor a quirky mix of new and old, her father’s bronze urn on the fireplace mantel. What was that line from the poem, about arriving home and recognizing the place for the first time? This hadn’t been her home, the place where she lived, for a long time, and neither had the lodge, long her second home, but her heart would always recognize them both.

She started up the staircase. The wall had been covered with family portraits when she was growing up, but now held only one painting, a large oil Peggy had done of Bitterroot Lake. At the landing, where the staircase turned, she called out. “Hey, Mom, it’s me.” The smell of paint mingled with the raw odor of brush cleaner.

“Sarah!” came her mother’s voice from the studio. A rustling sound. A door closed and footsteps followed. Then Peggy stood at the top of the stairs, eyes bright, cheeks flushed.

“I didn’t hear you come in.” She smiled broadly, almost breathless.

“Caught up in your painting. Show me.” Sarah took another step.

“Oh, no.” Peggy wrapped her hand around the newel post. “No. It’s—they’re not in any shape for eyes other than mine.”

“Oh. Okay. When you’re ready.” That was new; her mother had never hesitated to show work in progress, even soliciting opinions. She started back down, Peggy behind her. “I stopped at the Spruce. Brought you pie.”

“Huckleberry-peach? Perfect—I’ll have it for dinner.”

One of the many secrets of adult living was that you actually could eat pie for dinner, or breakfast, contrary to what your parents had told you when you were growing up. Contrary to what you’d told your own children.

In the kitchen, Sarah opened the fridge to tuck the pie box inside. Cream, a jar of strawberry jam, and a jar of pickles. Two bottles of mustard, a bag of sliced salami, and half a loaf of cinnamon-raisin bread.

“Come out to the lodge for dinner. No cleaning, I promise. I’ll run you back into town later. You can help Holly and me make a plan.” She filled the pot with water and poured it into the coffee maker. Not that she needed any more caffeine. She needed the ritual. “There’s so much to do in the lodge, and the carriage house is worse. Where do you keep your coffee?”

“Hmm? Umm. Freezer.” Peggy was sitting on a stool at the kitchen counter, chin resting on the back of her hand.

“Earth to Mom,” Sarah said as she opened the freezer and took out a bag of ground beans. “You’re a million miles away.”

“Nooo. I’m right here.” Peggy blinked. “What were you saying?”

“I was saying, we need to make a plan. I’m not sure how long either of us can stay, so we need to identify the most important projects and get as much done as we can.” Sarah scooped coffee into the filter basket, slid it into place, and pushed the button.

“Oh, honey. Tonight? I wish I could but—the painting. I’m—I’m at a delicate spot, and I need to get it right.” She gestured with both hands, fingers close together, not quite touching.

“Okay. Sure. Tomorrow, then. I’m not going to stand in the way of art.”

What wasn’t her mother telling her? Was it about her health? The lodge, or Holly? She opened her mouth to ask, then closed it. Took two mugs from the cabinet—at least they were where she expected them to be. Nothing else was as she expected.

Deep calming breaths, she could hear her therapist say. Was it nuts to hear the voice of a woman five hundred miles away in her head? Only if she listened, she told herself.

In, out. In, out. In, ouuut. You don’t know if there’s a problem. You don’t know if she’s sick. And you’ve dealt with worse.

Ohhh god, oh god oh god. In, out.

She got the cream and found a spoon. Poured the coffee and carried the cups around to the other side of the counter. “Finish the painting, or at least, this delicate spot. Then come out tomorrow and spend the day with us.”

“Thank you, dear,” Peggy said, though whether for the coffee or the reprieve, Sarah couldn’t tell.

“By the way, George Hoyt stopped by this morning.”

Peggy raised her eyes quickly. “What did he want?”

“Nothing. Just making sure we were okay after the storm. I’d already walked part of the property, but we drove up and down most of the logging roads. Holly called Connor and he’ll send someone out to clear them and throw some tarps up.” She filled in the sketchy picture that was all Holly had had time to give their mother.

“Your father always called major windstorms a lumberman’s dream and nightmare, rolled into one.”

“Speaking of Dad, he’d be shocked to see all the junk in the carriage house. There’s barely enough room for two cars.”

Peggy lowered her