“Is that a serious thing?”
“Cleo’s grandmother’s serious about it. I met her when we spent an amazing spring break in New Orleans. She’s fascinating, and spooky. Fascinatingly spooky, not scary spooky. She read my palm, my cards. Tarot.”
“What did your future hold?”
“Some of it’s more a reading into who you are and what you’re looking for. She was pretty damn accurate, but I put that down to her reading people well, and knowing me through Cleo. Then you get to meeting the tall, dark stranger or going on a long sea voyage. And…”
She trailed off as Ian came back with dessert menus.
Pulling herself out of the memory, she smiled at him. “Just where would I put it?”
Between the two of them, they talked her into a cappuccino and the signature house bread pudding.
“And?” Trey prompted. “You thought of something before.”
“It’s strange. I haven’t thought of any of it for years. She said I’d face a betrayal, which would hurt but provide a fortunate escape and open opportunities. I’d be wise to take both. And that I’d make my home in a house of history and secrets overlooking the sea.”
She picked up her water glass. “Looks like she was pretty damn accurate on that part, too. Spooky,” she repeated, and drank. “I never believed any of it; any of the, well, spooky stuff before I came here.”
“How do you feel about it?”
“Yet to be determined.” She shrugged. “Or partially. I love that house, Trey. Like Yoda, it was love at first sight. Which I also didn’t believe in before I saw the house or Yoda.”
“Practicality or cynicism?”
“Maybe a little of both. And I insist on maintaining at least some of both.”
“That and your resiliency will help you deal with what’s in the house.”
Charmed, simply charmed, she shook her head. “You’re not even the tiniest bit, we’ll say cynical, about the manor.”
“I grew up with it, and to some extent in it. You’ve had about a month.”
He glanced over as a woman with short, boldly red hair arrowed toward their table. The white chef’s coat gave her away.
“Interrupting. Mind?” She snugged into the booth beside Sonya. “Bree Marshall.”
“Sonya MacTavish. Trey told me you were a wonderful chef. He didn’t say you were a goddess in the kitchen.”
“I like you. I like her,” she said to Trey.
Ian brought the coffee and dessert.
“Can I get you something, Chef?”
“No, I’m only on a short break. We’re winding down, thank Christ and all his followers. I just need Trey for one quick minute. It’s not private. Eat,” she added, and waved at the dessert plates. “Manny,” she said to Trey.
“Manny? What about him? I had a beer with him a week or so ago. He’s fine, right?”
“Sure. Right. Manny and me.”
“Manny and you what? Oh.” Now Trey sat back. “When did this happen?”
“It hasn’t yet. Completely. Just around the edges. You know me, you know him.” She turned to Sonya. “We all go back. High school. Trey and I had a thing in high school. Don’t worry about that.”
“I wasn’t.”
“Good. Confident. Like her even more. We—Trey and I—had not even what you’d call a thing a few years later. Not to worry there either.”
“I won’t.”
“Bree.” Trey managed to infuse the single syllable with deep frustration, mild embarrassment, and endless affection.
“Right. Back to it. Manny and me. A friend—you know Marlie—talked me into going over to Ogunquit a couple weeks ago. Rock Hard had a gig. Rock Hard’s Manny’s band. He’s a drummer. I don’t know if the name’s a reference to the Maine coast, the music, or woodies, since they’re an all-male band.”
“Jesus, Bree.”
“Sorry.” As Trey rubbed his face, Bree turned to Sonya again. “Was that offensive?”
“Not in the least. Sounds to me like it could be all three.”
Bree jabbed a finger at her. “Bet you’re right. Anyway, Manny used to drum for Trey’s band back in the day. Head Case.”
“Head Case?” On a rolling laugh, Sonya picked up her cappuccino. “I love it.”
“They weren’t bad. So I went to Manny’s gig—they’re solid, Trey, you’ve heard them. And Manny and I hung out some, and things clicked. Not that way. What do you take me for?”