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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, whomarried 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.”
“I feel the same.”
“And poor Gretta Poole, living with that lie all her life.” Tsking, M.J. shook her head. “Her mother ruled that roost, you’d better believe.”
“Do you know her? Gretta Poole?”
“She did her banking here—or Collin did it for her, for the most part. She hasn’t been well for, oh, a dozen years or more. But he took care of her, good care.”
She filed it all away as she finished setting up her account—just before the bank closed for the day.
She had her market list on her phone—fresh salad makings, fresh fruit, more eggs and milk, more coffee, butter. In and out, she promised herself.
But in the market, she added bagels, chips. And because she didn’t know her way around yet, added more.
Gauging her time, she placed her order at the restaurant. But since the market stood only steps away from a little florist, why not?
Flowers for Cleo’s room, her own, the front parlor. What the hell, the library. Didn’t she spend most of her time there?
Plus, contacts, she reminded herself, and chatted with the florist on duty.
Who happened to be a friend of Anna’s.
