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

an eye on her. The vehicle passed in and out of view. Not her mother’s red sedan but a larger, white rig. “Oh, the phone company. Cross your paws, Mr. Squirrel.”

But it wasn’t the phone company service truck after all. It was a white SUV, fresh from the car wash.

The one they’d seen near the roadside memorial? Or the one George Hoyt had seen on the lane Sunday afternoon?

Then the SUV made the final turn and she saw two women in the front seat. Her mother, the passenger. And the real estate agent.

Oh, God. Of all the people, of all the agents in Deer Park—and unlike lawyers, you had your pick—why had her mother chosen Becca Smalley?

“Sarah!” Becca said moments later as she crossed the gravel drive, hand extended. Sarah ran her hand up and down her pants leg and held it out apologetically. To her surprise, Becca took it with both hers, warm, soft, and dry.

“I owe you an apology,” Becca said. “The other day, in the Spruce, I was so startled to see you. Sitting there, looking—well, confident and serene, as always. My mother told me about your husband’s death—she heard about it from yours. But I didn’t know you were in town and I didn’t know what to say, so stupidly, I said nothing.”

Serene? That had been the last thing Sarah had felt. And confident? Ha.

“You weren’t the only one who didn’t know I was in town,” she replied. “I was so worried about how it would feel to be back that I didn’t even tell my mother I was coming.”

“Oh, Sarah.” Becca tightened her grip and for half a second, Sarah feared the woman would hug her.

She freed her hand and gestured toward Janine, standing next to Peggy. “You remember Janine Chapman. Janine Nielsen.”

Becca’s mouth fell open and Sarah could almost see her mind running through everything she knew, or thought she knew, about Janine, before her lips closed and curved upward. “Yes, of course, Janine. Good to see you. You two were always such good friends.”

So that’s how it’s going to be. Did Becca not remember how hateful she’d been to Janine, and by extension to Sarah and Holly, not just in the seventh grade but for years? Had she genuinely become this warmhearted woman? Or had she decided the prospect of a sizable commission was worthy of her very best behavior? Wait and see.

Wait and see.

 26

“As I see it,” Becca said after a tour of the main lodge and a quick survey of the grounds, “you have several options. Whitetail Lodge is stunning—you know that. It could easily qualify for the National Register of Historic Places. But …”

They were seated at the dining room table. Janine had made herself scarce.

“But it needs a lot of work,” Sarah finished. “Single-pane windows that leak heat in winter and cool air in summer. Logs that need to be cleaned and oiled and rechinked. The soffits, the moss, the roof. Not to mention the damage to the balcony and the gable on the carriage house. Any prospective buyer will see dollar signs before they cross the threshold.”

“You sound like you’ve been making a list,” Becca said.

Sarah touched the notebook in front of her. “And you sound like you’re going to add to it.”

“Well, yes.” The real estate agent started ticking off items. It took both hands. “And that’s just what you would need to do before listing, if you want to get anything close to its true value. I always caution homeowners to be careful with improvements if they’re planning to sell anytime soon. Most cost more than they add to the value of the house. But others are worth making even if they don’t raise the sales price, because they shorten the time on the market.”

“How do you know which are which?” Peggy asked. “And doesn’t historic listing limit what you can do?”

“Experience. And yes, historic listing imposes some limitations, but it also gives you potential access to funding and tax credits for restoration,” Becca replied. “Now, the real challenge is identifying comps. There’s nothing like it on Bitterroot Lake. We’ll have to consider properties throughout the region—even down on Flathead Lake and in the Swan Valley. Adjust for the size and age of the house, the outbuildings, the acreage.”

Sarah was only half listening as Becca outlined the process of setting a list price and devising a marketing plan. She was thinking about decades of McCaskills racing down the steps, running out the doors, and tumbling down the lawn. Jumping in the cold water and screaming in delight. Sailing, canoeing, riding horses. Sledding. Hiking up the narrow trails and gazing out at the lake and the mountains, ridge after ridge and range after range, stretching farther than the eye could see. She was thinking of all the people with more money than sense, who turned classic buildings into nightmares, and those whose eyes were bigger than their budgets, who left the job half done. She was thinking about Ellen Lacey and Caro and Mary Mac. About the Ladies’ Aid Society and her own friends. Her daughter, her sister, her niece.

“It’s a fabulous place,” Becca said, “but realistically, a tough sell. It’s going to take a buyer with vision, time, and passion, not to mention the money.”

Peggy sighed. “We have some serious thinking to do.”

“Take all the time you need.” Becca glanced at her watch. “I’ve got to get going. I should stop to check on the rental next door, but—”

“Next door?” Sarah interrupted her. “George’s place?”

“He moved into his mother’s house a while back. The little one up near the highway. He put the lakefront house in our rental pool. A woman from San Diego has it for a couple of weeks—she’s very nice. I haven’t had time to hire someone to help manage the rentals, let alone the second homes. I’m meeting Misty and Dan at the law office. She’s ready to sell but I think they’re better off waiting.”

“Who would want it?” Peggy asked. “After