Cleo had already given him points for helping Sonya, had added more for Jones. With the question, she doubled them. “Circe.”
“That works. Circe’s no lightweight.”
“The desk won’t be either,” Sonya warned.
“All right.” Rubbing his hands together, Trey nodded. “A challenge.”
“Somebody got it up there, so somebody can get it down.” Owen worked his way to it, crouched down to test the drawers. “Cherrywood, pristine. The wood’s a little thirsty. This and the mermaid need a good buff with paste wax. Don’t be using any supermarket spray shit on these pieces. Any of them. You can do the lemon oil, orange oil between, but once, maybe twice a year, you buff with a good paste wax.”
“We’ll get some.”
“None of my business.” Owen straightened, turned to Sonya. “But do you figure the two of you can maintain all this furniture the way it needs to be? Keep it dusted, protected? Not to mention the acres of wood floors?”
“No.” Sonya huffed out a breath. “No, I have to swallow getting a cleaning service. It’s on my list for next week, or the week after. I wish you’d take something, Owen. More than one something.”
As she spoke, a sheet slid slowly to the floor. Sonya gripped her elbows.
“That’s creepy. Come on, that’s just creepy.”
“Little bit.” But Owen walked over to the chest of drawers with the sheet now pooled at its feet. “Needs a little work. Got a handle missing. The bottom of this drawer’s cracked. Looks like some dog chewed on the front leg here. I’ll take it.”
“Really?”
“I can fix it. And maybe you’ll stop feeling so damn guilty.”
And with that, he earned more points on Cleo’s scoreboard.
“Look at the back, Owen.” Trey crooked a finger and grinned. “Somebody—probably a kid—carved his initials down at the bottom. ODP. Owen David Poole. Your initials, too.”
“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.”