She felt steadier after a shower, and decided on a dark green sweater, a grey wool vest, and pants. She took her time with makeup because she planned to meet shopkeepers, locals, and first impressions mattered.
Better, definitely better, she thought. She looked friendly, professional. And sane.
Deliberately—making a mental note of it—she turned off the fire.
Downstairs, she got her coat, a cap, fussed a bit with the arrangement of her scarf. Not just for warmth, she thought, but style.
As she reached for her gloves, she heard a door creak open—or closed. Ignoring it, she grabbed the house keys and left.
The air hit fresh—and cold—with a brisk wind blowing in from the water. It filled her, she realized, that endless view, the wonderfully fierce sound of water surging against the rocky shore.
She needed to get out like this—even just for a walk. She crossed the pavers to her car, and sent a thanks to John Dee for clearing them and her car after the snowstorm.
The road wasn’t bad either, she noted as she carefully navigated the curves. At some point, she needed to check out the garage and the truck in it. But her car held its own just fine.
She had a solid ninety minutes before her appointment, so she’d make good use of it.
She liked the hints of the bay, the village as she drove down, and noted the white, red-capped lighthouse on the far point beyond it.
Something worth another visit—maybe in warmer weather. Today, she’d find a place to park, pop into a few of the stores. Meet some people, buy a little something, as supporting local shops mattered.
Maybe grab some lunch. She wondered if the pizzeria served it by the slice. She’d like a slice of pizza.
She’d drive down to the bay, take some photos. Potentially for Anna’s website—hell, maybe her own. But also to send to her mother, to Cleo.
As she drove into the village, she let out a happy sigh. Just what she needed. People, places, movement. After only a couple days in the manor, she’d begun to understand how easily it would be to become a recluse—as her uncle had.
With everything right there—the space, the views, winter roaring outside—why not stay in the warm and the quiet?
And talk to yourself, she thought.
Whoever took charge of street cleaning had done the job, and she parked at the curb in front of the bookstore.
She’d make a note of town businesses, check their websites, their online presence.
A woman with a two-story library hardly needed books, but to Sonya’s mind nothing held the pulse of a community like a bookstore.
She studied the sign—well done, good graphics—then climbed the trio of steps to the covered porch. Chimes rang as she opened the door.
It smelled of books, coffee, and fresh orange peel.
The long counter to her left held the coffee station, a checkout station, and a workstation with a monitor. To the right, books lined free-standing bookcases, made clever stacks on tables. Along with them stood spinners of bookmarks, greeting cards.
A woman with streaky brown hair worn in a bouncy tail looked up from the monitor. “Hi, welcome to A Bookstore. Can I help you find anything?”
“I thought I’d look around.” She walked to the counter, held out a hand. “I’m Sonya MacTavish. I’m living up at the manor.”
“Collin Poole’s niece.” The woman pushed off her stool, took Sonya’s extended hand. “It’s great meeting you! Diana Rowe. Everyone’s been wondering when you’d come into the village. How about some coffee, tea, hot chocolate? On the house.”
“I’d love some coffee.”
“The white chocolate mocha’s our flavor of the month.”
“Who am I to say no to that? It’s a great store.”
“There’s more in the back. Books, of course,” she said as she went to the coffee station. “And sidelines. Soy candles made locally, T-shirts, book bags. Feel free to look around. Here’s my partner. Anita, it’s Collin Poole’s niece, Sonya.”
“Oh! I see it. You’ve got your uncle’s eyes. Welcome to Poole’s Bay.”
“Thanks.”
Anita had a thick, soft fall of light brown hair and a firm handshake.
“Are you settling in? The manor’s an amazing place.”
“It is. I’m starting to settle.”
“The library,” Anita said in tones of reverence.
“My favorite room.”
“Collin was a big reader.” Diana brought the coffee around the counter, offered it. “He used to come in at least once or twice a month. Not so much in the last few years.”