That evening, she gave the Poole family history book a pass. She FaceTimed her mother so they had dinner together, and her world seemed back on track.
“Let’s see, your first dinner party at the manor.” Winter considered. “You’re in Maine, in the winter, a good-sized group of meat eaters. Pot roast.”
“That sounds—complicated.”
“It’s not, trust me. You can do it. You need a big Dutch oven, with a lid. And I’m going to give you a list of ingredients, send you the recipe. You put it together, baby, and it does the rest.”
“If you say so.”
“I do. Write this down.”
The longer the list, the more she considered the idea of just taking the Doyle family out to dinner.
“Don’t even think about that. You’re going to invite them into your home and make them a lovely meal. Remember how the house smelled when I made pot roast?”
“Yeah—amazing. But that’s you.”
“You’ve got this.”
Maybe, Sonya thought when they’d said goodbye, and she took another look at the—long—list. But she wouldn’t place any bets on it.
She’d make tea—something she’d discovered added a soothing note in the evening—get in her pajamas, and start the novel by her bed.
She had her agenda for tomorrow already laid out in her head. An early start, she thought, a midday walk, then back to it.
She paused by the music room, studied it with tea in hand.
Yes, definitely the Victrola, the music cabinet. She could arrange them in there.
“And you know what else? That still life’s a little formal for me. Johanna could go there. Maybe she played an instrument. Note to self: Ask Deuce.”
She walked up to her room, felt her stomach clutch. The fire simmered, and the bed was turned down. And this time, a fresh pair of pajamas sat, neatly folded, on the space between the pillows and the turned-down duvet.
“I have to talk to someone about this. How do I talk to someone about this without sounding like a crazy woman? Maybe I am a crazy woman. I don’t feel crazy.”
But she felt uneasy enough to shut the door and turn the lock.
* * *
Sonya spent the beginning of the week with her head down, her blinders on, and her mind on the work. If doors creaked open or slammed shut, she ignored them. When her iPad greeted her with a song, she shrugged it off.
By Thursday, she started the final testing cycles for Anna’s website, her social media, the works.
Incredible, Sonya thought, what she could accomplish with long hours and few distractions.
But today, she cut her work time short. Cleo would be there tomorrow—she couldn’t wait—and she actually needed to go to the market.
And since that meant a trip to the village, she’d take care of opening that bank account. The Lobster Cage had a terrific takeout menu, so she’d order something and bring home dinner for herself.
On her way to her car, she detoured to the garage, used the remote to open it.
As she’d suspected, Collin’s truck appeared every bit as big and intimidating as she’d imagined.
That, she determined, she could sell without guilt.
She eyed the pair of snow shovels that, thanks to John Dee, she’d yet to use. A big, red, freestanding tool cabinet stood next to a workbench; a man’s twelve-speed bike hung on the wall. What she thought might be a compressor sat in the far corner.
She closed the door again.
She’d figure out what to do about the truck, at least, then she could park her car in the garage.
The bank took longer than she’d imagined. Not just the paperwork, but conversations.
It turned out the assistant bank manager was a very distant cousin—the Oglebee side, stemming from George Oglebee, who married Jane Poole, Hugh Poole’s daughter, in the late eighteen hundreds.
“I’m Mary Jane.” She adjusted her red-framed glasses. “I go by M.J. Everyone was very sorry about Collin. But we’re very glad there’s a Poole in the manor again. I just hated to see it closed up and empty like it was for a time after Charlie Poole died back in—what was it?—sixty-five or sixty-six, I think. My mother would know exactly. She knew Charlie Poole.”
“I’m just starting to learn about the family history.”
“Isn’t everybody! Nobody had any idea Collin had a twin brother, or that they were Charlie’s. My mother claims she’s not a bit surprised, but she will say that. It’s just sad, if you ask me, that your dad and Collin never had a chance to know each other.”