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“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 hauntedandshe’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.”
