“It’s not a lot. Just a couple of pieces and the painting of Johanna on her wedding day.”
Trey took a slow sip of beer. “What painting of Johanna?”
“The one I found in the closet of Collin’s studio. It’s beautiful, and it shouldn’t be shut up in there.”
“In the closet, in the small turret?”
“That’s right.”
“Okay.” Eyes on hers, Trey sipped his beer. “How about Saturday?”
“It’ll have to be after three,” Owen said.
“After three on Saturday?”
“Perfect. And much appreciated. I need to pick up my order. I’m glad I met you, Owen.”
“Don’t get rid of that truck. If you want it out of the way, I can park it down by the dock.”
“Thanks. Maybe. See you both on Saturday.”
Owen watched Trey watch her walk away. He took a sip of his beer. “She might not know your poker face, but I do. There wasn’t a painting in that closet, was there?”
“Not as of a few weeks ago, and I’d remember if there’d been a wedding portrait of Johanna Poole in the inventory.”
“Well, somebody wants her to have it.”
“Apparently.”
Idly sipping his beer, Owen watched her leave with her takeout bag.
“Do you figure she’ll last up there for the three years?”
“I wouldn’t bet against her.”
“She’s your type.”
Surprised, amused, Trey swiveled back. “Since when do I have a type?”
“Since she walked in.”
“Huh. Maybe. Still need to keep it light.”
“Because?”
“Not only because she’s dealing with a lot right now, but she was engaged—weeks from the wedding—just last summer.”
“Huh back. She didn’t strike me as the flighty type.”
“Don’t think she is.”
“Could be she has bad taste in men. That gives you a shot.”
Trey met Owen’s smirk with one of his own. “Let’s order some nachos and another brew.”
“I’m for it.”
* * *
When she got home, Sonya carried half the flowers and half the groceries into the kitchen, then went out for the rest. She’d bought too much, obviously. But maybe it wouldn’t be too much if she talked Cleo into staying a couple extra days.
She hauled in the last, shut the door.
The tablet she’d left on the desk upstairs started up with Ariana Grande’s “Thinking Bout You.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t,” she muttered.
And when she walked into the kitchen, all the cupboard doors stood open.
She dumped the flowers and groceries on the island.
“Fine! I surrender. The place is haunted. Happy now?” After yanking off her coat, she tossed it on a stool. Pulled off her hat, tossed that, then dragged her hands through her hair.
“Losing my mind,” she muttered. “Just losing my mind.”
She put the groceries away, closing doors as she went.
“Okay, vases.”
She heard it, the little creak from the butler’s pantry. She eased that way, saw the pair of upper doors over the sink open.
“I’ll deal with it.” She snagged the flowers, marched in. “I’m not going anywhere, so you deal with that.”
After choosing vases, she focused on arranging flowers.
She’d live her life, she told herself. Her normal, productive, reasonably sane life. In the big haunted manor.
To prove it, she’d warm up the shrimp scampi takeout, eat dinner, have a glass of wine. She’d take the flowers upstairs that went upstairs, make sure the room she’d earmarked for Cleo had everything ready for her.
Put in an hour, maybe two on work. Then settle in for the night with her book.
Normal.
“This is my house now,” she said as she poured the wine. “So get used to it.”
* * *
Late in the night, pounding woke her. She pulled herself out of sleep, tossed the covers aside. Someone pounded on the door, the front door, she thought. She heard it still, over the howling wind, the thrash of the sea.
As she rolled out of bed, she saw the snow—fast, thick, whirling—outside the windows.
A storm had come up, and someone needed help.
She rushed out, grateful for the night-lights she’d plugged in down the hallway.
Someone stuck in the blizzard. An accident, a breakdown.
As she hurried down the stairs, she thought she heard them cry out for help. But the noise—the wind, the waves—stormed through the air.