Bitterroot Lake

No one, no town, is ever prepared for that.

4

“Sorry, love,” the waitress at the Blue Spruce said as she refilled Sarah’s coffee. Turned out the hipster coffeehouse slash wine bar she remembered, on the ground floor of the old Lake Hotel, had closed. That left the Spruce, the sugar in the same dispensers on the same Formica tables as when her parents had brought them here for waffles after church or they’d crammed too many girls into a booth for Cokes and a shared order of fries on Friday afternoons after school, the same faded color prints of elk and Bighorn sheep staring down at her from the same plastic frames.

“Didn’t mean to keep you waiting,” the woman continued, “but the crime scene crew from Missoula just left. Ate everything in sight. Hope you weren’t wanting any sausage this morning.”

“Uh, no, thanks. Coffee and toast. Whole wheat?”

“Yup. Coupla eggs, bacon? We make the best hash browns in three counties. You could use a few extra calories, you don’t mind me saying.”

How could she mind, put that way? Plus, it was true. “Sure. Over easy. Thanks.” Before Sarah could ask the waitress what she’d heard about the crime, the woman was gone.

“Sarah? Sarah McCaskill? Is that you?”

Sarah set the glossy brown mug on the table. Not who she wanted to see her first day back. They were the same age—did she look that old, too? God knows, some days she felt it.

“Becca. Yes, it’s me.” Sarah slid out of the booth and the two women gave each other a half hug punctuated by air kisses. Then, not because she wanted to but because it was polite, “Join me?”

“No, no.” Becca waved away the invitation with a plump hand. “I tried to slide in there, they’d need the Jaws of Life to pry me out, especially after breakfast. There’s a stool at the counter with my name on it. No, I just spotted you on my way back from the ladies’ and wanted to say hello.”

A silence fell between them.

“Well,” Becca said, her voice breathy, her full face growing blank. “Can’t let my pancakes get cold. Or that coffee of yours. We’ll catch up another time.”

“Yes, let’s,” Sarah said, but the other woman had already turned away.

Seated again, Sarah cradled the warm mug. She’d encountered too many of these uncomfortable silences in the last seventeen days—eighteen, now—to count. People didn’t understand that all you needed was for them to acknowledge your loss. Even if all they said was “I heard about your husband—I’m so sorry,” or “you must be heartbroken.” She’d settle for “I don’t know what to say,” but people didn’t even say that.

She picked up her phone. Started a text to her mother. Put it down, unfinished, and sipped her coffee. What did it say, that it was easier to accept mothering from the waitress she’d never met than from her own mother?

It said that her mother knew what she was going through, and the stranger didn’t. Her mother would ask how she was feeling, was she sleeping, when had she last eaten, and had she talked to the kids? Even though Peggy talked to the kids at least once a week—well, to Abby, anyway. Noah, not so much. It was hard, sometimes, to remember that the questions came from love and concern.

If only she had answers.

“Careful—hot,” the waitress said and Sarah raised her hands. What had she been thinking, ordering so much food? She remembered telling the kids, the kitchen counter covered with muffins and salads people had brought when they heard the news, that they needed to eat. Both had given her that “you’re crazy” look kids learned before they learned their ABCs. But then Noah had said “You, too, Mom,” and his tenderness had nearly crushed her.

Did anything smell as good as bacon and potatoes still sizzling from the grill? She picked up her fork.

Twenty minutes later, Janine slid into the booth and nodded at the empty plate. “I guess the food’s good.” The waitress appeared, coffee pot in one hand, an empty mug in the other. “Desperately, yes. And buttered white toast, please?”

“You got it, doll.”

Janine tugged off her scrunchie, shook her hair loose, then drew it back again, all while glancing around. “Hasn’t changed much. Smells better, though.”

Sarah leaned forward, her voice low. “Everything’s okay, right? I mean, not okay, but you’re in the clear.”

“I’m not under arrest, but that’s not the same as not under suspicion,” Janine replied, in an equally low tone. “Leo’s a nice guy, but he’s got a murder and no suspects.”

“Oh, honey,” the waitress said as she set Janine’s plate of toast on the table. “When it comes to Lucas Erickson, this town is full of suspects.”

“Deb!” the white-haired man at the nearest table interjected. “How can you say that?”

“Why shouldn’t she say it?” his wife asked. “It’s what everyone’s thinking.”

“Not a fan, I take it?” Sarah asked the waitress. Deb.

“The son of a bitch represented my ex in our divorce,” Deb explained. “I know darn well Lucas helped him hide assets from me. Now he’s living the good life, with a brand-new pontoon boat and a shiny red truck to pull it with. Candy-apple red. And I’m working here. Not that I don’t enjoy it, but you understand.”