“He’ll soon be taking his first appointment of the day. Meanwhile, the Doyle Law Offices website is going live in five, four, three, two, one.”
“And the crowd cheers,” Cleo said, and stifled a yawn. “Need coffee.”
She came back in ten minutes with a mug.
“I just texted with Corrine Doyle. She strikes me as a woman who lines up her ducks.”
“Yeah, I’d say that’s accurate.”
“It looks like this duck is posing in her Ryder yoga outfit tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow. She moves fast. Is that good for you?”
“Suited both of us. She’s arranged to use the little yoga studio in the village, and I can run some errands after.”
“Should I go with you? I should go with you.”
“You should not, because then you’d be all, maybe you should do this, do that, look this way, look that way.”
“I would. I couldn’t help it, but—”
“She’ll send you the best shots. Go back to work.”
“We should talk about what you’re doing with your hair.”
“No, we shouldn’t,” Cleo called back, and kept walking.
Sonya considered different pitches for changing Cleo’s mind. She even debated the chances of insisting—and killed that thought in its infancy.
Still, she fretted about it until, shortly after her midday walk, she got files emailed from Corrine Doyle.
In the first she found a dozen photos of Eddie on a bike. He wore a suit and tie, a backpack. She’d blurred the background enough he might have ridden on any street anywhere.
Young man riding to work, she thought.
The second file held another dozen, this time of Owen. Sweaty and sexy, she thought, sleeveless black tee, heavy weight curled toward the shoulder, biceps popped, face set, and eyes focused.
She studied ones of him standing, but thought: Nope, the close-up of the curl said it all.
“This is going to work.”
Immediately, she switched over to play with her two choices and the layout.
At the end of the day, she jogged into the kitchen.
“I’m making a salad,” Cleo told her. “We’ve got enough pork and potatoes for another meal if it’s just us, plus salad.”
“Fine. Look at this.”
She showed Cleo the evolving layout on her tablet.
“Ooh, a very handsome bike rider—love the suit and tie idea. And biceps. Mmm-mmm-mmm.”
“I know, right? Sexy.”
“You’ve already got a man.”
“I can still appreciate the mmm-mmm-mmm.”
“True. I pity the woman who can’t.”
“Picture you in your yoga pose, a couple kids playing basketball, Trey reaching for that line drive or fielding a bouncer, and so on. I think when I get them all, I’ll do a poster. Like, In sports, in life, Ryder’s got you.”
“You’ve got it going, Son.”
“I’m going to hit it for another hour or two after dinner, keep it going.”
“Works for me. I’m giving my mermaid—well, Owen’s mermaid—a little more time tonight.” Stopping, Cleo huffed out a breath. “Well, Jesus, Son, when did we get so boring?”
“Boring, my ass. We’re driven, creative, professional women. We forge our own path.”
“Damn right.”
“Besides, we went clubbing just a little while ago.”
“We did. We did that, but you know, maybe we should think about having a party. A gathering. A get-together.”
“A shindig?”
“A shindig. You know, something with food and drink and conversation. We know people. There’s the Doyles, and Owen—you could open it to the other cousins. There’s Bree and Manny.”
“John Dee, maybe the rest of Rock Hard.”
“Maybe add in your Poole’s Bay clients, the flower ladies, Gigi.”
As an idea struck, Sonya plucked a crouton out of the salad bowl and popped it into her mouth. “Not a shindig so much as an open house. You’ve got your High Street merchants, the mayor, and like that.”
“Keep it very informal. People come, people go during a, what, maybe three-hour period.”
“I’m liking this. People will come. They’re curious. Besides the Doyles, hardly anyone’s really been inside the manor for years, if ever.”
“It’ll take some planning.”
“We’re good at planning.”
“Nobody better,” Cleo agreed. “I can do an illustration of the manor.”