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“She’s right, though. You three talk, you keep up. I’m the one who pulled away.”
“Yeah, well. She’s got a lot on her mind. You know.”
She shot Janine a sharp glance. “No, I don’t know. How am I supposed to know? She doesn’t tell me anything. She never came out when Jeremy was sick, not once.”
“Did you invite her?”
“She knew she was welcome.”
“That’s not the same.”
“She came out for the funeral and stayed at a hotel. We had room, even with both kids home, and Mom and Connor and his family there. Plenty of room, in my big, perfect house.” Sarah dropped one of the stones into her left palm and threw the other into the lake. Plop.
“She lost her job a couple of months ago,” Janine said. “She didn’t want you to know.”
“That’s what she’s been not telling me? What Mom’s been not telling me? We all see she drinks too much. Is that why she lost it, or the other way around?”
“She applied to be director of the museum. So did one of the curators. The board chose him, and the first thing he did was fire her.”
“Can he do that? Legally, I mean?”
“Apparently, yes.” Janine tilted her head. “But it’s not an easy job to replace.”
Sarah let the last stone fall onto the beach and got to her feet. Holly had worked at museums and art centers for years, most recently as director of operations, more of a business position than an artistic one. Sarah had done time on boards herself, including the board of a children’s art center, and thought Holly would make a great director. She was certainly good at telling people what to do.
“But why didn’t she tell me?”
“I don’t know.” Janine slipped an arm around her and they walked up the slope a few feet and sat on the slate steps that led from the deck to the beach.
“Is she—I hate to ask this, but is she okay for money?”
“I think so. They gave her a good severance package.”
They’d all kept their bad news, their hard times, from her. To keep from bothering her, from upsetting her, while she had so much going on. Didn’t they know that keeping things from her made it worse?
How much of the distance and silence was her own fault?
And how did she fix it, now that she was on her own?
18
“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?
