Bitterroot Lake

Had she misunderstood her mother’s intentions for the house? Certainly possible; she’d misunderstood a lot of things lately.

But if Peggy imagined Abby might spend the summer here, she hadn’t told Sarah.

She pushed away the plate, not quite empty. Holly pushed it back. She couldn’t eat another bite, or sit here any longer, or let other people tell her what to do. She just couldn’t.

No, she was not going to feel guilty just because her sister felt bad. She hadn’t hurt anyone; she hadn’t done anything wrong.

Her wine glass was empty. Fine. Eating and drinking this late at night wasn’t good for her anyway. Outside, the wind had given way to rain, pounding against the logs and windows. As a child, she’d loved the rain. Now, it scared her.

“You don’t have any idea why Lucas sent you the letter?” she asked. “You and Janine.”

“No.”

But there were too many secrets, too many silences between them for the words to be convincing. “Let’s go back to bed. Mom will be here at the crack of dawn, snapping her dust rag at us.”

“You go.”

What was bothering her sister? Had it been Holly she’d seen in the dream, her hair lit up by the moonlight, running with the wind as it whipped the trees?

The thought kept Sarah awake for hours.

* * *

Something tickled Sarah’s cheek.

Two green-gold eyes stared at her, inches away.

“You little sneak,” she said. While she’d been sleeping, the cat had wormed its way under the blanket and Sarah had instinctively wrapped her arm around it. Her. Abby’s cat used to do the same thing.

She freed her fingers from the blanket and stroked the soft black-coffee fur.

Coffee. That’s what she smelled. And something baking. Happy smells in her happy place. She tightened her grip on the cat and sat up. Outside, the lake glistened as if last night’s storm had blown all worry away and left the world shiny and smooth.

Why hadn’t her mother hired professional cleaners? Even just for the windows. She could afford it. She didn’t need Sarah here for free labor. Trying to keep her close and busy. Fine. She’d inventory the furniture and artwork and figure out where Mary Mac’s glassware had gone.

And what to do about the cat. Bastet. She buried her face in the

soft fur. Thank God the dream that woke her had not returned when she came back to bed after her late-night snack.

No sign of her sister, not even a rumpled blanket. Had Holly gone for a run?

She put her feet on the floor. What was that? Glanced down. Shivered, despite the blanket wrapped around her, the warm cat in her arms.

The first time Jeremy left her a penny on the floor, she hadn’t known it was from him. The coin had been on the rug in the upstairs guestroom where she’d been sleeping, or not sleeping, the night he died. Sarah didn’t think she’d dropped it—she kept her purse downstairs. Only the housekeeper had been in the room—she’d come to the house, unscheduled, when she’d heard the news, knowing Sarah would be overrun with visitors the next few days. Just to “tidy up,” she’d said. But it was unlike her to drop something and leave it, even something as inconsequential as a penny.

The second time, last week, Sarah had been alone. The kids had gone back to school, her family had all gone home. Jeremy’s mother had dropped by, but they’d sat in the breakfast nook, nursing coffee and grief. There was no way her mother-in-law had dropped three pennies on the rug in Sarah’s second-floor closet.

She’d heard stories. Pennies from Heaven. Feathers. Sightings of a special bird or butterfly. She’d overheard a woman in a coffee house tell a friend that her late husband often left a light on for her when she was out late and had forgotten. Creepy or comforting? Could go either way.

But what was Jeremy doing here? And what was he trying to tell her?

“Why couldn’t you pick a butterfly, Jeremy? Who doesn’t love butterflies?”

The cat in her arms, Sarah shuffled to the kitchen. As she neared the door, the sounds of conversation leaked out, low and furtive. She pushed it open with her hip and the conversation stopped. Were those guilty looks on the faces of her sister and their old friends? Had they been talking about her?

“What smells so good?”

“Scones,” Janine replied, shoving her chair away from the table and standing, though there was no need. A fourth chair sat empty, and the plate of scones held plenty. “I’ve been getting up at three to bake for so long, I wouldn’t know what else to do.”