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

on the deck, in the same chairs they’d taken at lunch. A tray of cheese, crackers, and grapes sat in the middle of the table, beside a bottle of something white.

“Sarah, for sure,” Holly said. “I’d just vacuumed.”

“We all know you had a thing for him,” Nic said. “That’s why—”

“Right. It’s all my fault,” Holly snapped. “Blame me for everything bad that’s happened in the last twenty-five years.”

“Hol.” Sarah stretched a hand across the table, though she couldn’t quite reach her sister. “No one’s blaming you.”

“There was never anything between us. You know that, right?” Holly’s voice took on a pleading tone. “It was a silly crush. I admit, when it was obvious, about two minutes after they got here, that Jeremy only had eyes for you, that he only came up here because of you, I was ticked. But I got over it. Especially after the crash. And he was a great brother-in-law.”

“I know,” Sarah said. “I know.”

If they were dredging up the past, there was plenty of blame to go around. If you wanted to play the “what if?” game, all of them had done something to regret that weekend. Except Nic. Who wasn’t a Deer Park girl. Who wasn’t part of the family drama. Who, if she had any sense, was regretting being here right this minute.

Nic had driven halfway across the state to help Janine. But if she was irritated to find herself literally in the middle of a tense conversation between the two sisters, she betrayed no sign, intent on clearing Janine from suspicion.

But the pennies were only one of the mysteries brewing at Whitetail Lodge. What was up with her mother? Pam Holtz had assured Sarah that Peggy wasn’t ill, but what if Peggy had kept the secret from her friends too? What did Connor want to talk about? And what was the deal with the letters, and the ribbons and mementos on the roadside cross?

She meant it when said she didn’t blame Holly. If they were taking responsibility for their own actions, as she’d said of Lucas, then she had to take responsibility for what she’d done. Or not done. For not speaking up about the dream, and then not being there to protect Janine. Not speaking up for her. For going along with the sheriff who said Janine might want to be careful what she said, who she accused, considering whose daughter she was, that it might come back on her and she might not like the outcome.

If only …

She could practically hear Jeremy telling her the dangers of those two little words. The man had made a religion out of refusing to be dogged by regrets. And of all of them, he was the one who’d suffered the most from that weekend. Except for Michael.

“Look at us,” she said, scanning the group. “Grown women, unnerved by pennies. We’re together again, finally, in a place we love. Maybe Jeremy’s just telling us to have fun.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Holly said, raising her glass.

“You’ll drink to anything,” Nic said lightly.

Maybe she’d fooled them, Sarah thought as she lifted her glass. But she didn’t believe her own words. Not for a minute.

“A normal mom would be out here supervising every sweep of the broom,” Holly said when Nic and Janine had gone into the kitchen.

“You wouldn’t want a normal mom,” Sarah said. “If there were such a thing.”

“You do a pretty decent impression of one.” Holly’s smile quickly faded. “She wouldn’t let you see what she’s working on either?”

“Couldn’t slam the studio door fast enough.”

“I’ve got a friend with her own gallery,” Holly said. “In an artsy district, near downtown Minneapolis. She paints in a glass-walled studio in the corner. People watch her all day and she doesn’t mind a bit.”

“Mom never used to mind. Remember when we were kids? She did that series of Blackfeet portraits using the beaded gloves and moccasins Grandpa took in trade and let us play with them while she painted.”

“So what’s changed? What’s different? Her or the painting?”

Sarah swirled her wine glass and didn’t respond. The only answer was “everything.”

Holly plucked a grape off its stem. “I crawled around in the carriage house this afternoon. How did one family ever accumulate so much stuff?”

“One dish at a time,” Sarah replied, “for a hundred years. The first thing to do is make a plan. See what’s here and set some priorities. Though even then … what a mess.” She raised a hand, gesturing to include the carriage house, the attic, the cellar, but what she really meant was the silence and resentment that had crept in between them and become a habit they couldn’t break. And the threat none of them had seen coming.

“Hol,” she started as her sister raised her head and said “Sally …”

“You first,” Holly said. “Age before beauty.”

An old joke between sisters only a year apart who shared a strong resemblance. Though Sarah knew she was thinner now, her cheekbones and jaw more prominent. When she’d ordered the pie to go for her mother, Deb the waitress had insisted on boxing up her mostly uneaten piece, too. She’d forgotten it, on the front seat in her car.

“I don’t want to sound like I’m blaming you,” Sarah said, “but is there some other reason Lucas sent you that letter? Something you haven’t mentioned?”

“No.” Holly shook her head. “I swear, I don’t know anything more than the rest of you do. Well, except …”

“Any sane person would absolve us both of guilt over that.”

“That assumes we’re sane.”

The crack was meant as a joke, but Sarah felt no humor. Only heaviness. The same dark weight she’d felt that night, so long ago. “Most people would have done the same thing. Even if I had spoken up, said I’d dreamed something terrible was going to happen, we didn’t know exactly what it was going to be.”

“Yes,” Holly said, earnestly. “You did. You knew Janine was in danger. It had to be from Lucas. And I told you it