Inheritance (The Lost Bride Trilogy, #1)(100)

“Talented, very talented. Like your dad.”

“Yes. She … died a long time ago. He had his office over here, where he hung Dad’s painting.”

“You told me, but I … Yes, that’s Drew’s work.” Moving into the room, Winter studied the painting. “Did he come here at some point, or is that really from his dreams? Some twin connection?”

“I thought you might want it.”

“Oh.” Still looking at the painting, Winter reached for Sonya’s hand. “Thanks for that, but it feels like it belongs here. I wonder how and when Collin Poole acquired it. I like knowing something of Drew’s—besides you—has a place here.”

At the distinctive sound of a door closing, Winter glanced around. “Is someone else here?”

“Depends on your definition of someone.” To lead her out, Sonya put an arm around her mother’s waist. “I told you the house is haunted.”

“Yes, but…”

From the kitchen, Billy Joel sang, “Bottle of white, bottle of red.”

“We’re going with white because I’m making scallops.”

“My always rational daughter’s telling me, very seriously, that her house is haunted and she’s making scallops? How much shock do you think my system can handle?”

“That’s why wine first.”

“Then this kitchen,” Winter said as they reached it. “This gorgeous cook’s kitchen, this great room, and again this view. They managed to keep the integrity of the house but ditched the labyrinth feel with this space, opening up instead. Now I have kitchen envy.”

Running a hand over the island, Winter shook her head at Sonya. “I failed to interest you enough in cooking, only managed to teach you the bare basics.”

“I made a pot roast dinner for eight,” Sonya reminded her as she chose a bottle.

“And the photo you sent was cookbook worthy. Baby of mine, you actually believe you have ghosts in this house?”

“I don’t just believe, Mom. I know.”

Sonya uncorked the wine as the iPad played Paul Simon’s “Mother and Child Reunion.”

“Such as that.” Sonya poured the wine. “You need to stop now, and give me a chance.” When the music cut off, Sonya handed her mother a glass. “Sit down, Mom. That was Clover. She died in 1965, after giving birth to Collin and dad.”

“I’m sitting down.”

“There’s a lot more. I told you about her, from the book I have, from what Deuce—Oliver Doyle II—told me. At some point, I’m going to try to talk to Gretta Poole. The woman Collin thought was his mother but was actually his aunt. She has dementia.”

“Yes, you told me. You’re saying Drew’s birth mother is here, in this house. You’ve seen her?”

“No. She just makes herself known with music, to me. Trey’s seen her. Twice now.”

“Trey Doyle—the third Oliver.”

“Right. We’re dating.”

“More surprises.” Winter took a moment to sip some wine. “Why aren’t I meeting him tonight?”

“That’s such a mom thing—going straight there when we’re talking about the ghost of your mother-in-law.”

Winter tipped her wineglass toward Sonya. “Priorities.”

“First, because he didn’t want to intrude. Plus, he has a family wedding tomorrow. You’re going to like him.”

“Cleo did. She mentioned him, and that he had his eye on you, and you had yours on him. So I’m not surprised.”

“Trust Cleo. You’ll like him,” she repeated. “He manages to be rock steady and easygoing at the same time.”

“The point is, you like him. I’m glad you’ve found someone you like. I’m glad you look happy, you sound happy.”

“I am happy. It’s been strange, okay? Getting used to the move, then the haunted thing. When we go up after dinner—which I’m going to start in just a minute—we’re going to find your bed turned down, your fire lit. Mom, I haven’t hired a cleaning service because apparently I inherited one.”

“I see.”

“Do you?”

Winter drank wine, rubbed Yoda when he planted his front paws on the stool. “When I finally got you to sleep the night after the horrible day your father died, I didn’t know how I’d cope. How I’d get through the next hour, much less the next day, next week, next year.

“And I saw him. I went into our room, and he was there. He told me we’d be all right, that he’d loved me every minute of every day since we met.”

“You never told me that.”

“No, I never did. I thought it was grief. But it wasn’t, not only. Sometimes I’d feel his hand on my cheek as I fell asleep. I still do now and then. Or hear his voice inside my head when I’m struggling with a decision or problem. ‘Trust your gut, babe, then check in with your heart.’”

Smiling, she set down her glass, reached for Sonya’s hand.

“If I believe there’s an after, and I do, why not believe that whatever made that person who they were, the essence of them, could linger?”

“Is that why you never remarried? Because you felt he was still here?”