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“The beginnings of the North Shore Road,” Nic said. “Not that it’s much of a road now, but construction must have been a bear.”
“It didn’t go all the way around the lake until the late ’30s,” Sarah said. “The WPA finished it. You wanted to get west of here, you had to take the steamer. In Caro’s journal, she says Con spent the week in town during the summer, while the family stayed at the lodge. Town’s minutes away now, but back then, getting there took hours.”
Ellen Lacey had listed men who’d worked on the project and their wages. She’d pasted in receipts, the paper yellowed. Sarah almost whistled at the cost of the staircase. And seriously? Was the lamp over the game table in the corner, the one some tall McCaskill lad or his friends were always bumping with his head when penny ante poker got antic, a genuine Tiffany?
Someone—Ellen, she presumed—had added sketches of a bird’s nest found near a felled tree. On other pages, she’d drawn spring grasses and wildflowers—yellow glacier lilies, red paintbrush, bluebells. And a bitterroot, the state flower, for which the lake had been named. Page by page, they watched the lodge take shape—the ridgepole, walls, and windows, until finally, what they saw in the scrapbook matched what they saw around them, give or take a hundred years.
“The Laceys,” she said at the photo of the co
uple standing on the front steps with their children, the boy beaming at the photographer while pointing a stick at the date 1920 carved in the stone foundation. It was still there.
What joy for Ellen to see her vision come to life, this stunning retreat on the edge of the lake. To descend the grand staircase, preside over picnics and parties, smile as her children tumbled down the lawn.
“I wonder what ever happened to them.” Several rolls of heavy paper lay on the table next to the journals and albums. “Are those the pictures from the trunk?”
Holly set her glass on the end table. “You know, sis, we’re sitting on a mother lode of historical info. The county museum would kill for this stuff.”
But it was their family history. Another decision to make.
Holly unrolled the first picture and they all took a look. A black-and-white panoramic view of the lodge, taken from the dock. No cabins yet. A name in white on the lower right indicated the work of a professional photographer, a name familiar from early family portraits. Holly let the picture curl gently back on itself and picked up the next photo. This one had been taken indoors.
“Oh, wow. It’s like Downton Abbey, in a log house.”
Sarah recognized the Laceys at the foot of the steps, a boy about six and a girl a year or two older standing in front of their parents. Con and Caro stood on the step behind them.
“I’d kill for that beaded dress,” Holly said, pointing at Caro.
“You find it in one of those trunks in the carriage house,” Sarah said, “and it’s yours.”
Other guests gathered around their hosts or stood on the staircase, the pine garland wrapped around the banister a clue that this had been a holiday gathering. To the left stood the household staff. A housekeeper wearing a formidable expression and a stiff black dress, an older man in a butler’s tuxedo, a younger man, and two young women.
The back of her neck prickled. That face …
* * *
In her yoga pants and sweatshirt, feet bare and a book in hand, Sarah came down the staircase slowly. Riser by riser, tread by tread, craftsmen of a century ago had built it with pride, under Ellen Lacey’s watchful eye.
The scrapbook lay on the coffee table where they’d left it. If they sold, what would they do with it, and the guest books and other photos and furnishings? The museum was one option, as Holly had said, but they belonged to the place as much as to the family. Would a future buyer appreciate them? Where was the line between responsibility and burden?
And why was she so drawn to that photo of the holiday party?
In the kitchen, she found a clean wine glass and a bottle they hadn’t finished. They were going through the wine almost as fast as Bastet was going through her Ocean Whitefish Paté.
“At that rate, you’re not going to be little for long,” she told the cat, then returned to the main room, giving the lamp another glance. A genuine Tiffany, in the wilds of Montana? She’d give it a closer look in the morning, maybe send a few photos to an antique dealer friend.
What other treasures had she overlooked through familiarity? That parchment shade on the brass reading lamp? Hand-painted with ferns and pink flowers, while the one in her grandfather’s office was more typically Western, the edges whipstitched with brown leather cord. And what about the chair? She’d always assumed it was a Stickley knockoff, but now she wondered if it wasn’t the real thing. Tomorrow, she’d flip it over and search for identifying marks. Another reason to get reliable Wi-Fi, so she could consult a few websites.
Everything in the lodge looked different now. History—one more thing to note in her inventory.
Sarah sipped her wine, the cat in her lap, stroking the soft fur. The jumble of noises in her head began to quiet. It had been hours since she’d reached for her useless phone, irritated over not being able to call or text the kids. But this couldn’t go on. If the phone company didn’t send someone out in the morning, she’d go into town and see if she could find an electrician to fix it. Or wire for splicing. Not that she knew how, but at least she had the pliers.
She shifted and the cat’s claws dug into her thighs. “Hey, let go.” The chair wasn’t uncomfortable, but her mid-back had been bothering her ever since Jeremy’s death. Nothing a massage or a visit to the chiropractor could fix. It was just a hollow feeling, the place where her sense of loss had decided to settle.
She picked up her book and switched the lamp up a notch. The bulb sizzled and sparked and went out. She swore softly and set the cat on the floor. In the kitchen, she rummaged in the bulb stash to find the right size. The door swung open, revealing Holly in her long sleep shirt, legs bare, hair mussed.
Sarah held up the bulb.
“Figures,” Holly said. “Like every time you move into a new place, or come back from vacation, a light bulb goes out. Usually in the middle of the night, like when you’ve taken a late flight and stumbled home and all you want to do is take off your makeup and crawl into bed, and poof!”
