“Con!” Sarah stretched on tippy-toes to hug her little brother. “My favorite lumberjack!”
He pulled her close, but gingerly. Did he think she would break? Or was it the instinct of a man who towered over nearly everyone else? Connor McCaskill wasn’t fat, not one bit—he was a McCaskill, after all, always on the move. But he was big. Tall. Muscular. And looking far more comfortable in his brown work pants and plaid flannel shirt than in the black suit he’d worn at the funeral. Everyone, everything had looked different that day.
“Good to see you home,” he said.
“Good to be home,” she said automatically. It was, finally, beginning to feel good, being back here. If only … She shook off the memory of the nightmare.
“Sorry I didn’t make it out yesterday. Bad as things are on the north slope, the south shore’s worse. We’re contracted to manage the hillside behind the church camp and the storm practically clear-cut it. That’s where I was when you called, helping the crews scope out the damage and make a plan.”
“Did you get home in time for pizza night?” she asked. “How are the kids?” Olivia was eleven, Aidan nine, and they’d been somber and well-behaved on the visit to Seattle. Most of the time.
“Good. Eager to see you. So is Brooke.”
“Great. We’re in good shape here, mostly. But the roof—” She broke off at the sight of a second white pickup coming down the lane, the familiar logo stenciled on the side—a grove of evergreens encircled by black letters reading MCCASKILL LAND & LUMBER, DEER PARK, MONTANA. Who was at the wheel?
“Matt Kolsrud,” Connor said, answering her unasked question. “We’ll size up the damage, then I’ll put him to work.”
“Matt?” Her date to senior prom. She hadn’t thought of him in years. “He works for you now?”
“Junior,” Connor said, eyebrows raised in amusement.
“Ah. I should have known.” The young man crossing the driveway did look like his father, or like his father had looked when they were teenagers, with the same loping gait and floppy brown hair. Introductions made, Connor suggested they inspect the structures first. “The roof fixes are easy, but if you’re right and that ripped balcony damaged the log work, we might want to hire Matt’s dad. He’s a real craftsman.”
They scouted out the exterior damage, then the two men followed Sarah up the steps to the lodge. Both stooped to untie their work boots and left them outside. Mud-spattered, mouths gaping now that they were empty—you almost could live in one, like the nursery rhyme said.
Young Matt’s mouth gaped, too, when he saw the massive stone fireplace, the tall ceilings, the staircase with its peeled pine balustrade and the knotty newel post as intricate as any hand-carved woodwork. They traipsed upstairs behind Sarah in their stocking feet.
“The only damage I saw was in here.” She led the way into the sewing room, where the men wrangled the bookcase away from the door. She held her breath when Connor inched his torso out onto the balcony, the decking at an awkward angle, Matt’s hand on his belt. Then he wriggled back in and inspected the logs inside. Used the level on his phone, and frowned.
“That what’s bothering you?” Matt pointed at a long horizontal crack a few inches above the floor, and Connor nodded.
“My guess, the way the doorjamb’s tilted, and now this, is that when that spruce hit the balcony, these old logs couldn’t absorb the force of the impact. They settle over time”—Connor directed his words to Sarah—“which adds to the stress on the chinking. In modern log construction, the chinking itself is flexible, so when the logs settle, it doesn’t crack. But with old logs like this …”
“They’ve already settled, so they can’t take another blow,” she said. “They crack.”
“Exactly. We can tuck-point the chinking, repacking it. Some cracks, that run through the joints, a guy might fill.” Connor made a cross with his hands. “But if the log’s split all the way through, then it’s lost its strength. Water can seep in, cause rot. Not to mention bugs.”
“What’s the fix?”
“Worst case …” Connor stood. “Replace the log. And while we’re at it, inspect the entire structure for rot, weak joints, other damage that’s gone unnoticed for decades.”
“Sounds like a major project,” Sarah said.
“Matt senior can tell us more and give us a preliminary estimate.” He turned to his employee. “I threw a couple of clean brown tarps in the back of my truck. Would you bring those in? Just drop them inside the front door. And my tool belt. Then set up the big ladder at the corner. I’ll work from inside, you outside, and we’ll get this balcony covered and keep the house dry.”
“You got it, boss.” The young man padded out.
Sarah watched as her brother scrutinized the door.
“This framing is shot,” he said. “The jamb is splintered. You couldn’t close the door because the hinges are bent. There’s a guy in town, blacksmith, who can fix the gnarliest old hardware.”
“We’re going to have to talk about the lodge,” she said. “The four of us. Make a plan.”
He looked chagrined. “Brooke and I thought we had a plan, and Mom approved, but I just don’t have time for anything extra right now. Hey, the kids have soccer games on Saturday. Whitefish against Deer Park, here. Mom’s coming. You and Holly should come, too.”
“Wouldn’t miss it.” She missed cheering on kids—Noah on the soccer field, Abby coming into view on the home stretch of a race. “So what’s this expansion Mom mentioned? Is that what’s taking up all your time? And why you needed more space at the mill?”
They heard the front door open and broke off to haul the tarps upstairs. She waited while Connor and Matt worked, quickly and efficiently, and within minutes, the northeast corner of the lodge was protected by shiny brown tarps, tacked and tied so the wind couldn’t whip them up like sails.
“Good job,” Connor called. “Why don’t you take a break? Leave the ladder out so we can check the carriage house. I’ll be out in a bit.”
They headed for the kitchen. “Employees don’t get to take inside breaks?” Sarah asked.
“I know the kid. He’d rather sit in the truck with his earbuds in. I’ll call his dad, but it might be a few days before he can get out here.”
“Good. Thanks. Oh, by the way, when I was in town yesterday, I stopped by Lucas Erickson’s office and his secretary assumed I was there for the company files.”
No point saying she wished he hadn’t done business with Lucas. Whatever the business was, he’d be finding a new lawyer. She was about to ask if he knew what had their mother worried when the mudroom door opened.
“One cabin clean,” Holly called. “I may have a future as a housekeeper. Lord knows there’s plenty of work here. Connor!”
He had to know about the job loss, Sarah thought as her brother and sister hugged. And Holly had to know Janine had spilled the beans. They were all talking about her. They just weren’t talking to her.
Coffee was poured and cake cut. Though Connor was the youngest—Holly had five years on him, Sarah six—next to the rest of them, he looked like a grownup sitting at the kiddie table for a pretend tea party.
“The edge of the roof is damaged on the middle cabin, and a couple of trees are leaning pretty badly,” Holly said. “There’s a tree down on the fence, though. Is that our responsibility or theirs? And why is there a fence, anyway? It looks new.”
Connor put his fork down and gestured with the big hands that reminded Sarah of their dad’s. “You know the rule. If the fence is on the property line, you find the halfway point. Everything on your right is your responsibility. Everything on their right is theirs.”
“Even if they built the fence and you thought it was a dumb idea?”
“Even if,” he agreed.
“I saw that fence earlier,” Sarah said, “and I meant to ask George about it.”
“When did you see George?” Connor sounded wary.
“Yesterday. He came down to check on the
place while I was out picking up shingles. Helped me drag a few branches off the road, then drove me around to check out the damage.”
“I don’t know what George is up to.” Connor stood. “I need to finish up here, then get back to the mill.”
Meaning they’d have that talk later. But one more thing, before he left.
“While you’re here,” Sarah said, “would you take a look at the phone box? The cell signal down here is totally iffy, so Mom called the phone company to turn the landline back on. I think she did, anyway. She’s kinda spacy right now. But we’re still not getting a signal.”
“Yeah, sure. Though I don’t know that I can help.”
A few minutes later, standing outside the lodge near the mudroom door, she peered over her brother’s shoulder as he crouched in front of the green phone box. Handed her a tiny bird’s nest that sat on top. Slipped a screwdriver blade underneath the door and pried it open.
Inside, in the bottom of the box, lay a bright, shiny copper penny.
* * *
They decided a mouse must have chewed through the wires. No other animal could have worked its way in. Why, what the pea-brain expected it could find to eat inside a plastic box filled with plastic-coated wires and metal switches, they could not imagine. The critter must have been sharp-toothed—the break was awfully neat—and he’d left nothing behind. But no other explanation made sense. Their search, in the carriage house and in the cellar, for wire to make a splice had come up empty. So Connor had gone to check on his young employee one more time, and she’d made the trek up to the highway in search of a phone signal, one more time.
She was getting tired of this.
It was time to go home. Time to get on with life, whatever that meant. She had board meetings and volunteer commitments and a house and friends. And the kids would be home soon. It wouldn’t be the same, of course, but it would be good. She pictured kayaking with them on Lake Washington and wandering the farmers’ market. Morning coffee in the bright kitchen, drinking in the wide-angle views, sleepy teenagers wrapping their arms around her neck, then sliding into the breakfast nook beside her and just hanging. Although Noah wasn’t a teenager anymore.
In the kitchen, she set the tiny nest on the window sill beside the nest she’d picked up on the lawn and the pine cone from the sewing room. Grabbed her keys and strode to the carriage house.
She backed the rig out, then paused at the end of the circular driveway to watch the two men remove a badly leaning fir that might threaten a cabin if the winds turned wrong. Both men wore white hard hats bearing the company logo. Her brother held out a hand to stop her, but she was already stopped. She was a lumberman’s daughter.
Matt made one last cut and Connor used the winch and cable in the back of the truck to land the tree softly without damaging the undergrowth or the soft earth. Then Connor waved her through. She waved back and slipped the rig in gear.
The rain had stopped, but water ran down the ruts in the road. Her tires slipped in the mud, sending the rear end sideways a few inches, and she shifted into low gear. Felt the front tires start to catch, then begin to slide backward. “Don’t let me down now, car,” she urged and the wheels spun, then caught solid ground. She fed the gas slowly and the wheels took hold, gliding forward.
At the top of the road, she stayed on McCaskill Lane but pulled over to the side. First call, her mother. No answer on the house line; voice mail on the cell. Peggy must be painting. She left a message saying Connor had been out and while the damage to the lodge was more extensive than she’d thought, he was sure it could be easily repaired. Not much of an exaggeration—he had been sure, calling Matt Kolsrud the elder a log home magician. Enough time and money, the man could do anything.
Next, the phone company, where a digitized voice told her to touch one for this and two for that and sent her in an endless loop until she finally touched zero and after a long silence in which she was sure the line had gone dead, she was told to wait. A small-town phone company should not need such a cumbersome system. When a human finally came on the line, Sarah gave her mother’s name, remembering that they wouldn’t talk to Holly, and answered the perfectly pleasant service rep’s perfectly reasonable questions: the number, the address, and what could Mrs. McCaskill tell her about the damage? No service call on record, meaning Peggy had forgotten, as Sarah had begun to suspect. They’d try to get someone out Friday, but couldn’t make any promises. Monday, more likely, or possibly Tuesday. Was there anything else she needed?
Oh, yes. There was so much more she needed than a working landline. A cell signal. A sister who didn’t keep secrets. A friend who wasn’t under suspicion for murder. A time turner so she could bring Jeremy back to life, get him to the doctor sooner so they could catch his cancer before it took off like the proverbial bat out of hell. Why were men so stubborn about going to the doctor? Would it have made any difference? The oncologist had been noncommittal on that point, not wanting, she supposed, to give them one more thing to beat themselves up about. Hadn’t they always known the cancer might come back? Yes, but not for years. Decades. Not until they’d spent a good long life together, finished raising their kids, spoiled grandchildren, taken a cruise down the Danube, all those milestones you assumed you’d live to see.
Why were there bats in hell anyway?
“Thank you, no,” she told the faceless woman in the phone company office. “You’ve been a big help.”
The car windows had begun to fog, so she punched buttons on the dashboard. The vents opened and cold air smacked her in the face. She pushed more buttons, until the air began to warm and the fog to recede. Her mother refused to get a new car because the new models were more like mobile computers than cars. She’d rolled her eyes, but now she had to agree. Why was life so stinking complicated?
She cracked the window open. In the distance, she heard Matt’s chainsaw. Glanced at the time. Her kids would be in class. Don’t call. Don’t become a stalker-mom. Texting was a godsend. Abby’s first few weeks at school, she’d texted at least once every day, and the hour before bed had often been a text-fest, with pictures and sometimes a call. Then Jeremy’s diagnosis had come and they hadn’t told the kids, but when it became apparent that this time the cancer wasn’t going to go away quietly like it had before, they’d shared the news. After that, both kids called and texted daily. The phone had been the glue that held her heart together.
And now? Now she was in the middle of the woods in the middle of nowhere with the bars on her screen flat as the proverbial pancakes.
But she’d talked to Abby this morning, so she sent both kids a quick text saying Uncle Connor was here checking on the storm damage, but everything was under control and he sent his love. The second she hit send, on a rare upward bounce of the signal, she wished she hadn’t been so breezy. Been more caring, asking how they were doing, yadda yadda.
As if anybody, let alone a teenager or just-recently-former teenager, ever responded to mush like that.
Truth was, she didn’t know how to take care of herself in this terrible time, let alone her kids.
Just be there, her therapist would say.
Easy to say, and hard to do. Where exactly was “there”?
Her phone buzzed with a flood of texts. Including a reminder of the call with her therapist at nine thirty. It was nine fifty-three.
Oops.
Could she claim she hadn’t been able to get a line, which was half true? Pretend she’d spaced it out, though she’d seen the reminder yesterday? She sort of had, preoccupied with her brother’s visit and the damage to the lodge.
Face-to-face, she wouldn’t dare lie. Not that the woman would ever call BS or even flick an eyebrow in disappointment. But in-person contact kept her honest, if for no other reason than the unspoken question: what is going on that you feel the need to lie to me?
She punched CALL. Apologized. Told the therapist about the nightmare. The fear that the face of the mysterious woman was her own. The strange discoveries.
“It’s not unreasonable to fear that your life is falling apart. It just did.”
“And the pennies?”
“It’s common. There is no rational explanation.”
“Meaning it’s all in my head.”
“Good Lord, no. The pennies are real,” the woman said, the delay in the signal giving her voice an other-worldly sound. “That we can’t explain how they got there just means there are limits in our understanding.”
“Ha. That’s my life right now.”
“People have gotten all kinds of reminders or signs from their loved ones who’ve passed on. Butterflies or dragonflies. Certain smells—perfume or aftershave. One client had a sister who was murdered by her husband. She sent clouds in the shape of angels.”
“I don’t think I could handle that.”
“Me neither, but she found them reassuring. I have another client whose husband sends her the number eleven.”
“Why? His lucky number for roulette? They were married on November eleventh, eleven years ago?”
“She has absolutely no idea.”
Great. Just great. “Jeremy didn’t have a thing for pennies. He didn’t save them in a big jar and buy himself a present when he cashed them in. He didn’t habitually find them on the street and consider them lucky. Pennies didn’t mean anything to him.”
“Do they mean something to you?”
Did they? Not that she knew.
“What if,” the woman continued, “they’re simply an indication that he’s thinking of you? Hold that in your heart, see how it feels. Ask your dreams for an interpretation if you’d like.”
She would not like. She would not like to dream again, not if it meant risking another sight of the terror on the young woman’s face, or a midnight tumble down the grand staircase in her rush to catch the specter, to find out who she was. To save her.
“Hey, I’m sorry. I hate to cut things short, but we got started late and I can hear the grief support group arriving. Same time next week, by phone if you’re still in Montana? Though you know you can call me any time. Any time. And think about joining the support group when you get home.”
Bitterroot Lake Page 14
