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“She is, but she’s not well. Alzheimer’s, which spawned dementia. She’s in a memory care facility in Ogunquit. Though she no longer knew him, Collin visited her twice a month. She was a dutiful mother,” Deuce said again, “and an unhappy woman, one who suffered from depression, migraines, and as she grew older, extreme social anxiety.
“Patricia Poole cast a long shadow.”
“I can see that.”
Just as she began to see a troubled, tangled family dynamic.
“I’m grateful for all you’re doing, and for trying to help me understand what’s obviously a complicated family history.”
“You’re my closest friend’s niece. I’m more than willing to answer any questions I can. As I did with your grandfather.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Your father’s father contacted me. He and your grandmother are understandably upset to learn their son had a brother, that they weren’t informed at the time of the adoption.”
“Angry, too. I know.”
“Also understandable. But more, at this point, my sense is their concern’s for you. That you’re safe here, and looked after.”
“Oh, well—”
“I’m going to have my first grandchild.” He beamed when he said it. “So I have a glimmer of that concern. We had a productive conversation. All in all, Sonya, I think your father was the more fortunate brother. I don’t think you’d describe your grandmother as a dutiful mother to her son.”
“No, I wouldn’t. Loving and supportive, of him, of my mom, of me. I’ll call my grandparents when I get back to the manor.” She got to her feet. “I need a little more time to find my bearings, but I’d like to have you—your family—come to dinner one night.”
“We’d enjoy that very much.”
“Possibly. I’m not much of a cook, but I’ll figure out something. Oh, and one more thing. I need to find those bearings, but if I stay, I think I want to get a dog. I like the quiet, don’t mind being solo, but sometimes it’d be nice to have some noise and companionship. Is there an animal shelter, or an animal rescue in the area?”
“There is. Trey’s dog is a local rescue. I can get you that information.”
“I appreciate it.” She held out a hand. “I really do.”
“You took a leap, Sonya. I appreciate that.”
When he walked her out, a man sat at the second desk. About her age, she judged. A very cute man in a sports coat and sweater, his black hair in short twists.
Another man stood looking over his shoulder, and there was no mistaking the resemblance. This Doyle looked like a lawyer fromthe top of his full mane of hair—white as fresh snow—to the tips of his polished Oxfords. He wore a very sharp gray, three-piece, chalk-stripe suit.
“Now, that’s what we’re after, Eddie!” He gave the man at the desk a slap on the shoulder.
He looked over, pushed his black-framed glasses back up his nose, and gave Sonya a long look.
“You must be Sonya MacTavish.” He strode over, grabbed her hand in a quick clutch and shake. “Ace Doyle. You’re a looker, aren’t you?”
She’d never thought of herself that way, but felt her smile spread. “You sure are.”
He laughed, a big boom of one. “Quick, too.”
He had those blue eyes, no less gorgeous behind bifocals, with those sharp black brows over them. He had to be in his late seventies, maybe early eighties, but as with his son, she’d have cut a decade off.
“How are you liking the manor? Everybody up there treating you all right?”
“I like it very much, but it’s just me.”
He winked at her. “It’s never just you in Lost Bride Manor.”
“Ace.”
