Inheritance, page 29
When they reached the second parlor, where the light glowed again, he went in, opened the clock face.
“Might as well make her work for it.” This time he turned the hands to seven-ten. “Owen and I could move the clock out of the house.”
“I don’t think that would stop it, and it’s kind of a warning when it sounds. I wonder if Collin heard it. He didn’t wind the clock, but he kept it here. Not up or down in storage.”
“If you change your mind, we’ll take it out.”
He slid an arm around her waist as they walked back to the staircase.
“She was in there with us, Trey. I’ve felt cold spots before, but not like that, and not like the Gold Room. It’s a mean cold when it’s her. I guess that’s a warning, too.”
“Maybe you get rattled, Sonya, but you don’t stay rattled. My money’s on you.”
In bed, she curled up against him.
“I’m really glad you’re here.”
“So am I.”
Closing her eyes, she let the steady beat of his heart lull her until she slept.
PART THREE
Spirits
Let us have a quiet hour,
Let us hob-and-nob with Death.
—Alfred, Lord Tennyson, “The Vision of Sin”
Chapter Twenty-one
On Friday, after Yoda stopped sulking because he didn’t have Mookie, Sonya cheered him up with a trip to the village for scallops, angel hair pasta, and something called unbleached flour.
She hadn’t known they bleached flour.
A quick run left her plenty of time to arrange the tulips she’d bought for her mother’s room. And start her first attempt at making bread.
“We’re not afraid, are we, Yoda? We’re not afraid of some flour and beer and butter and whatever. Not when we live in the haunted manor.
“Maybe a little afraid—but if we fail, we dump it, and she’ll never know.”
After following Bree’s instructions to the letter, she stared at the raw dough in the loaf pan.
“I guess it looks like bread dough. How would I know anyway?”
Fingers mentally crossed, she slid it into the oven, set the timer.
And decided it wasn’t obsessive not to leave the kitchen. Instead, she rearranged the fruit bowl a couple of times, paced, played a quick game of tug.
“Look! It’s sort of plumping up—it’s the beer, I looked it up. And it’s browning some, too. Can you smell that? I can smell it.”
When the timer—finally—went off, she remembered she was supposed to tap the bread and see if it sounded hollow. It made no sense to her, but she tapped.
“I guess it does. Anyway, I can’t stand it.”
After shaking the bread into her oven-mitted hand, she turned it onto the cooling rack. Stepped back.
“Now, I’m asking you, Yoda, is that or is that not the cutest little loaf of bread you’ve ever seen? And made by these hands.”
Her iPad played John Lee Hooker’s “Don’t Be Messing With My Bread.”
“You got that right.”
As the bread cooled, she took the flowers, a polishing cloth, and polish up to the second floor with Yoda at her heels. She’d come back to the linen closet for fresh sheets and towels.
When she got to the room she’d chosen, she smelled the fresh polish on furniture that shined. Fresh, fluffy towels hung in the en suite—which also shined—and more towels stood carefully rolled in a basket.
“Well, thank you. It’s perfect.” She set down the flowers. “She’ll love it. She’ll like the view of the woods.”
She noticed the pretty purple bowl that matched the violets on the wallpaper above the wainscoting and the little crystal clock—with the right time—beside it.
She couldn’t swear they hadn’t been there before, but either way …
“They’re nice touches. Thoughtful.”
As she walked through the spotless house, she decided whoever made it spotless must love it as much as she did.
And since everything looked perfect, she went back to work.
“She’s going to text when she’s thirty minutes out, so meanwhile we’ll get some work in.”
With no Mookie, Yoda contented himself by curling up under her desk.
When she got the text, she shut down, hurried to the kitchen to make the salad. She had a moment of shock when she saw neither bread nor rack.
“Oh, no, I—”
Then saw the loaf shape wrapped in a clean white cloth.
“I guess I missed that part of the process.”
She considered the timing perfect when she tucked the salad in the fridge, and Yoda ran barking to the door. Rushing after, Sonya threw open the door and wrapped Winter in a hug.
From the tablet in the kitchen, Taylor Swift sang “The Best Day.”
“I missed you!”
“I missed you, too. Oh my God, Sonya, this house! Oh, this dog. Look at that sweet face, look at that handsome boy!”
Yoda instantly collapsed, exposed his belly, and looked up at Winter with pure love.
Obliging, Winter crouched down, rubbed, and cooed.
“You came straight from work.”
Trim in her dark suit, Winter gave Yoda’s belly a last rub. “Took off early, as planned, and put my bag in the car this morning. And Cleo’s stuff’s in there, too.”
She straightened to give Sonya another hard hug. “I didn’t want to waste time getting here. You look good! FaceTiming isn’t the same as real timing. And that goes for the house, too. Holy jumping Jesus, Sonya. My jaw literally dropped. It’s so you.”
“It is?”
“This is always what you wanted. Well,” she qualified as she looked around the foyer. “Maybe more than you imagined—or I did. That staircase!”
She wandered forward, stopped. “These rooms. A piano.”
“One of two. Why don’t we go up, see if you like the room I chose for you. I’ll give you a quick tour—a full one would take too long. No, I’ve got your bag.”
“Thanks, baby. You told me it felt like yours.” They crossed to the staircase, started up. “Now I can see it. But there’s so much of it. What are you doing with all this room?”
“I have my spots.” She gestured toward the library. “Such as.”
“Oh, well, wow. How do you ever leave this? It’s like something out of a movie. And look at Xena thriving.”
Turning a circle, Winter studied Sonya’s mood boards. “Doing good, interesting work while you’re at it.”
“I think so, and I’ll fill you in on all that.” And everything else, Sonya thought.
“Collin Poole must have loved this house to preserve and maintain it so well. I’ve been a little worried about that part with you. Now I’ll worry a lot less. Everything just shines, baby. You must’ve found a hell of a cleaning service.”
She decided on: “It’s kind of miraculous. We’ll talk about that, too. We’re in the north wing.”
“Listen to you.” On a laugh, Winter elbowed her daughter. “North wing.”
With Yoda prancing between them, Sonya led her mother toward the bedrooms.
“I’m at the end of the hall.”
“You know I have to look. And it’s just lovely. Oh, seriously lovely. Lady of the manor. Do you watch the sunrise from your terrace doors?”
“I do. I gave you a different view—but you’ve got your pick. You’re a park walker.”
“I suppose I am.”
“So I put you down the hall, and on this side, facing west. It’s quieter, too. I think.”
She opened a door. “Let’s see if it works for you.”
“Oh! This is beautiful! Like my own suite in the world’s classiest B and B. Look at the wallpaper. It’s so sweet. And my own little fireplace. I’m going to feel like a rock star sleeping in that bed.”
Winter brushed her fingers over the tulips. “Thank you, sweetheart, for knowing me so well. I’ll love looking out at the woods.”
“If you want to unpack, I can help. Or, after working most of the day, and driving from Boston, we can have a glass of wine.”
“See? You know your mom. Let’s have some wine.”
On the way down, she showed Winter Cleo’s room, then the secret door.
“Is it safe?” Frowning, Winter peered down the steps. “Do you go in there?”
“It’s the most direct way to the gym—down—and the attic—up. I’m trying to use the gym three or four mornings a week. I’ll show you around in that part tomorrow if you want.”
“Maybe. Did you hear that? I thought I heard bells.”
Sonya echoed Trey’s words from her first day. “You’ll have this.” She shut the door.
“Music room,” she said as they continued.
“Is that a hurdy-gurdy? I’ve never seen one outside of a museum. The painting? She’s lovely.”
“Johanna, Collin’s wife. He painted it.”
“Talented, very talented. Like your dad.”
“Yes. She … died a long time ago. He had his office over here, where he hung Dad’s painting.”
“You told me, but I … Yes, that’s Drew’s work.” Moving into the room, Winter studied the painting. “Did he come here at some point, or is that really from his dreams? Some twin connection?”
“I thought you might want it.”
“Oh.” Still looking at the painting, Winter reached for Sonya’s hand. “Thanks for that, but it feels like it belongs here. I wonder how and when Collin Poole acquired it. I like knowing something of Drew’s—besides you—has a place here.”
At the distinctive sound of a door closing, Winter glanced around. “Is someone else here?”
“Depends on your definition of someone.” To lead her out, Sonya put an arm around her mother’s waist. “I told you the house is haunted.”
“Yes, but…”
From the kitchen, Billy Joel sang, “Bottle of white, bottle of red.”
“We’re going with white because I’m making scallops.”
“My always rational daughter’s telling me, very seriously, that her house is haunted and she’s making scallops? How much shock do you think my system can handle?”
“That’s why wine first.”
“Then this kitchen,” Winter said as they reached it. “This gorgeous cook’s kitchen, this great room, and again this view. They managed to keep the integrity of the house but ditched the labyrinth feel with this space, opening up instead. Now I have kitchen envy.”
Running a hand over the island, Winter shook her head at Sonya. “I failed to interest you enough in cooking, only managed to teach you the bare basics.”
“I made a pot roast dinner for eight,” Sonya reminded her as she chose a bottle.
“And the photo you sent was cookbook worthy. Baby of mine, you actually believe you have ghosts in this house?”
“I don’t just believe, Mom. I know.”
Sonya uncorked the wine as the iPad played Paul Simon’s “Mother and Child Reunion.”
“Such as that.” Sonya poured the wine. “You need to stop now, and give me a chance.” When the music cut off, Sonya handed her mother a glass. “Sit down, Mom. That was Clover. She died in 1965, after giving birth to Collin and dad.”
“I’m sitting down.”
“There’s a lot more. I told you about her, from the book I have, from what Deuce—Oliver Doyle II—told me. At some point, I’m going to try to talk to Gretta Poole. The woman Collin thought was his mother but was actually his aunt. She has dementia.”
“Yes, you told me. You’re saying Drew’s birth mother is here, in this house. You’ve seen her?”
“No. She just makes herself known with music, to me. Trey’s seen her. Twice now.”
“Trey Doyle—the third Oliver.”
“Right. We’re dating.”
“More surprises.” Winter took a moment to sip some wine. “Why aren’t I meeting him tonight?”
“That’s such a mom thing—going straight there when we’re talking about the ghost of your mother-in-law.”
Winter tipped her wineglass toward Sonya. “Priorities.”
“First, because he didn’t want to intrude. Plus, he has a family wedding tomorrow. You’re going to like him.”
“Cleo did. She mentioned him, and that he had his eye on you, and you had yours on him. So I’m not surprised.”
“Trust Cleo. You’ll like him,” she repeated. “He manages to be rock steady and easygoing at the same time.”
“The point is, you like him. I’m glad you’ve found someone you like. I’m glad you look happy, you sound happy.”
“I am happy. It’s been strange, okay? Getting used to the move, then the haunted thing. When we go up after dinner—which I’m going to start in just a minute—we’re going to find your bed turned down, your fire lit. Mom, I haven’t hired a cleaning service because apparently I inherited one.”
“I see.”
“Do you?”
Winter drank wine, rubbed Yoda when he planted his front paws on the stool. “When I finally got you to sleep the night after the horrible day your father died, I didn’t know how I’d cope. How I’d get through the next hour, much less the next day, next week, next year.
“And I saw him. I went into our room, and he was there. He told me we’d be all right, that he’d loved me every minute of every day since we met.”
“You never told me that.”
“No, I never did. I thought it was grief. But it wasn’t, not only. Sometimes I’d feel his hand on my cheek as I fell asleep. I still do now and then. Or hear his voice inside my head when I’m struggling with a decision or problem. ‘Trust your gut, babe, then check in with your heart.’”
Smiling, she set down her glass, reached for Sonya’s hand.
“If I believe there’s an after, and I do, why not believe that whatever made that person who they were, the essence of them, could linger?”
“Is that why you never remarried? Because you felt he was still here?”
“It might have played a part, but no. What your dad and I had, it was … magic.” On a sigh, a loving one, Winter laid her free hand on her heart. “Right from the start, we had magic. I never felt that with or for anyone else. Why would I settle for less?”
She squeezed Sonya’s hand. “Still, you’re so much alone here. Excluding you,” she said to Yoda. “Are you afraid?”
“Sometimes. And I’m glad Cleo’s moving in. Because Cleo, and it’ll be nice to have someone here. Add we’ll use more of the house, because Cleo. I have to remind myself not to burrow in the library.
“There’s a lot more. I’ll tell you while I make dinner. You’re not helping.”
“I’m topping off my wine, and will sit right here, a fascinated observer.”
Because she did know her mother, Sonya built her way to the more frightening incidents. Maybe toned them down, just a little.
When the water boiled for the pasta, she slid it in. And set a timer before continuing as she prepped the scallops.
Set a second timer there.
“You saw the mirror. The one your father dreamed of.”
“I can’t say for absolute, but I believe I did absolutely. And I know I saw Astrid Poole’s murder, I saw Catherine die in a blizzard. I saw Marianne deliver twins and die. And each time, I saw Hester Dobbs.”
“Since you seem to have the cooking miraculously under control, I’m going to set the table.”
“The small one there. The dining room’s grand and glorious, but intimidating unless you’ve got a group.”
As they worked together, she told Winter about the night Trey saw Clover again. As she began, the tablet played “Whatta Man,” and made her laugh.
“She can’t help herself.”
“And that really doesn’t give you a chill?”
“Not anymore. I’m telling you all this because I don’t want you to freak if anything happens while you’re here. And because I want you to know I’ve got a handle on it. There’s a salad in the fridge.
“I hope this works, hope this works.”
She heated the skillet on low, dumped in the carefully measured lemon juice, added salt and pepper—no measurement given—then spread the drained pasta on a pretty platter.
“It smells terrific, Sonya.”
“It does smell good, and in about half a minute, we’ll find out if it worked. Did I thank you for letting me give Corrine Doyle the pot roast thing?”
“You did, and she sent me a very nice handwritten thank-you.”
“She did? That sounds like her. I’ve only met her once, but it sounds like her. Here goes.”
With the care of a diamond cutter and a rare gem, she ladled the scallops and sauce over the pasta. Added Parmesan and a sprinkle of chopped parsley and basil.
“Artistic eye. Presentation was never your problem. You could make a takeout meal look like dinner at a five-star. I want you to know I appreciate you making me dinner.”
At the table, Winter dished up a little salad, then the main. “And I’m going for the scallops first because I have to.”
After forking one in half, then half again, she wound a little angel hair with it. Sampled.
And sat back.
“Sonya, it’s absolutely wonderful.”
“Is it really?” Bypassing the salad, Sonya tried it herself. “Oh, it’s good. I didn’t overcook it. Bree put the fear of God in me on that.”
“Now, who’s Bree?”
“Oh, Trey’s ex—high school ex—and friend. She’s the head chef at the Lobster Cage. A really good restaurant in the village. It’s her recipe.”
“I want it. I’m making this the next time I have friends for dinner. Now tell me the rest. The ghostly rest.”
“It’s the clock—there’s a grandfather clock in the second parlor.”
Sonya told her.
“Sweetie, that’s terrifying. That’s Shirley Jackson territory. She burned your arm. Let me see it.”
“There’s nothing to see.” But to placate, Sonya shoved up the sleeve of her sweater. “I’m not going to pretend it wasn’t scary, or that I haven’t jumped out of my skin more than a few times, but—”
“You’re determined. I know your face.”
“It’s my house, Mom. It should’ve been Dad’s. He should’ve grown up here with his brother.”
