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“Diana’s got a knack. The coffee’s locally roasted. Poole’s Bay supports Poole’s Bay. Have you met your cousins yet?”
“No.”
“You’ve barely had time to unpack. The Pooles still build the best wooden sailing ships in Maine—in my opinion. Fiberglass boats and so on, too, but they keep up the founder’s tradition.
“I’ll let you browse. Just call on me or Diana if you need anything.”
The woman with a two-story library ended up leaving with three books, two bookmarks, and a pretty bag to carry them in.
She got her slice of pizza—solid A—and sat at the counter chatting with the man on duty who tossed dough to the approval of the lunch crowd.
She stopped in the gift shop that carried Anna’s pottery, had yet another conversation about her uncle with the assistant manager, who sold her one of Anna’s pots. An actual pot that would display Xena perfectly.
Another stop netted her a hand-knit scarf she didn’t need but was oh so soft and pretty. Plus, another contact, another conversation before she drove down to the bay.
She stood in the winter wind, taking pictures, watching boats and buoys bounce in the waves. And she marveled at the sight of the manor high up on the cliffs to the north.
And to the south, with the lighthouse above, the weathered brick buildings that housed Poole Shipbuilders.
Another day, she thought—maybe. How could she be sure how her “cousins” felt about her inheritance?
She’d give that some time, give them some space.
Maybe Oliver Doyle could give her a little better feel for that, and them.
She glanced at the time on her phone.
And no time like the now to find out.
In a fresh gust of wind, she walked back to her car to drive to her appointment.
Chapter Nine
The beauty of small towns, Sonya discovered, was you’d have to work hard to get lost.
One block west across High Street, and she was there.
The law office stood on the corner inside another Victorian.
Not with the size and scale of the manor, she noted, but absolutely charming.
They’d gone a sagey green for the cladding, cream for the trim on the fanciful three-story. A covered porch stood on one side of the entrance doors and an angled turret on the other.
Peaked roofs, a pair of dormers, what she thought of as kind of a half turret on the far side of the third floor.
Trey’s apartment, she thought, and it would have a wonderful view of the bay, the point, the lighthouse.
They’d provided a space for parking, but since it seemed nearly full, she pulled up to the curb and wound her way up the path to the short stairs with their twin rails to the entrance.
No doubt it had once been a home, and if it remained one, she’d have knocked. But thinking business, she tried the door.
And walked into the hum of an office.
The requisite fireplace crackled with light, and the generous windows offered more.
They kept it homey, she supposed, yet dignified with the dark millwork, a waiting area with chairs upholstered in burgundy andnavy. A woman somewhere in her fifties sat at a desk. From just a few days at the manor, Sonya thought she recognized it as an antique.
The woman had a short cap of steel-gray hair, a sharp-jawed face, and cheaters perched on her nose.
