Inheritance (The Lost Bride Trilogy, #1)(62)

“Yeah, well. Like I said, I’ll take it. Let’s tackle the desk first. It’s going to be a bitch.”

It took some muscle, some geometry, and some inventive cursing. Sonya hugged one of the drawers to her chest as the men turned it, braced it, eased it into the studio.

“You deserve a lot more than beer.”

“Oh, oh, look at the way the light hits it! Can you put it over there?” Cleo ran ahead of them, spread her arms, swooped them down. “Right here, angled this way. Look how it’s already coming together in here. I’m going to name my firstborn Collin Oliver Owen.”

“You should put a painting on the easel, Cleo, when you’re not working there. It just adds. But,” Sonya added, “Johanna goes downstairs.”

Trey walked over to the portrait. “You said you found this in that closet?”

“Yes. Maybe it made him sad to look at it, so he put it away, but—”

“Sonya, I can’t count the number of times I’ve been in this studio. And I went through this space myself after Collin died. I’ve never seen this portrait before. And there wasn’t a painting in the closet. He stored blank canvases in there.”

“It was in there.”

“I believe you.”

“That’s Johanna.” Owen stepped over to stand by Trey. “I’ve seen pictures. Collin didn’t paint people much. Landscapes and that sort of thing.”

“That’s a shame,” Cleo said. “Because he had the talent for it. She’s beautiful. His use of light and lines and movement? Beautiful.” Sighing over it, Cleo tapped a hand on her heart. “He loved her. It shows.”

“It was in the closet,” Sonya said again.

“Then I’d say he wanted you to have it.” Trey turned to her. “Let’s get the rest of what you want moved, then we can talk about it over that beer.”

Sonya pressed her fingers to her eyes. “Are you always this calm?”

“Mostly he is,” Owen told her. “But if you push the wrong button, step back.”

It took well over another hour, then an outdoor break for the dogs, before they gathered in the kitchen.

“That took a while.” Cleo got a bottle of wine while Sonya poured beer into pilsners. “And we owe you more than the beer. I don’t suppose anyone cooks.”

“He cooks better than I do,” Trey replied.

Considering, Cleo looked at Owen. “You cook?”

“Somewhat above average.”

“That’s about where I hit, which is a full step up from Sonya. I can make a pasta thing.”

“I could eat a pasta thing.”

“All right then. I’m going to see what we’ve got around here.”

“I am going to cook—for the Doyles.” Decision made, Sonya thought. “How about next Friday night? Or Saturday?”

Trey took out his phone, studied his calendar. “Friday looks clear. Anna and Seth have a thing Saturday.”

“You have everyone’s schedule on there?”

“He’s an organizer.” Owen took a counter stool. “Whether you want him to be or not.”

“Just avoids scheduling conflicts. I’ll pass the word.”

“Let me know if that works for everyone. I think seven’s good. Owen, you’re more than welcome.”

“I’ll let you have this Doyle thing, but thanks.”

“There’s a chair at the table, and possibly an edible meal if you change your mind. Now.” She picked up her wine, turned to Trey. “Can we talk about the invisible elephant in the room?”

“Why don’t you tell us what’s been going on? Besides the song list.”

“Okay.” Sonya paced along the island as Cleo hunted up what she wanted. “Doors open, doors close, boards creak. I can—could—dismiss that. Old house.”

“And solid as the rock it’s built on,” Owen pointed out. “The floors—ruler level. Sure it’s settled, but you’re not going to have doors open and close on their own.”

“I get that. I’m not pulling a Scully. Not anymore. The day you moved my printer for me, Trey? I’d watched a movie the night before upstairs in the library. I woke up, and I had a throw over me, the TV was shut off, the remote back in its drawer. And when we went up with the printer? The throw was folded again.”

She paused, sipped. “I need to start documenting. I use the fireplace in the library every day, and every day it’s cleaned out and set. I’ll come down and make coffee in the morning, and when I get back, my bed’s made. And at night, turned down like a hotel maid service.”

“I could use one of those,” Owen commented. “Who wouldn’t go for one of those?”

Taking a moment from her search, Cleo glanced back at him. “I know, right?”

“I thought I was just losing it, forgetting things. Oh, the things on my dresser, they’re in different places than where I put them.”

“Piano music,” Cleo reminded her as she began to mince garlic.

“Middle of the night. I thought I dreamed it, or imagined it. But we both heard it last night, and went down. There was light—like candles make—in the music room. Until we got there, and no light, no music.”