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As she reached for the canvas, the closet door nearly slammed shut behind her.
“And I’m not getting shut away in here either.”
She took a nearly full jug of mineral spirits off the shelf, used it to brace the door open. She maneuvered the painting out, then carried it over to set it on the easel.
“For now. I actually like you in the simplicity of this frame. No fuss, no carving, and I’ll find a place for you. I don’t know why he didn’t.”
She sucked in her breath as a door slammed, then a second, then a third.
Suddenly cold, she hurried out.
“Closing off the third floor,” she told herself. “Making sure all the doors are shut, and closing off the storage areas as soon as possible.”
Her thought to make coffee—to warm up—flew out of her head when she reached the kitchen.
Every cabinet door stood open.
“That’s just enough.” Maybe her voice shook, but she said it again. “That’s just enough.” And shut every door with a snap.
She started to rush to the coat closet, grab her things, get out. And as she reached for her coat, she knew if she left now, left when her hands trembled, she might never come back.
“It’s my house. It’s my damn house.”
So she’d make coffee, and work awhile. Before she worked, she’d take something out of the freezer. Maybe chicken. And later, she’d make a meal that wasn’t a salad, a sandwich, or canned soup.
“I’m going to work here, and sleep here, and eat here, and live here. Because it’s my damn house.”
That evening, she gave the Poole family history book a pass. SheFaceTimed her mother so they had dinner together, and her world seemed back on track.
“Let’s see, your first dinner party at the manor.” Winter considered. “You’re in Maine, in the winter, a good-sized group of meat eaters. Pot roast.”
“That sounds—complicated.”
“It’s not, trust me. You can do it. You need a big Dutch oven, with a lid. And I’m going to give you a list of ingredients, send you the recipe. You put it together, baby, and it does the rest.”
“If you say so.”
“I do. Write this down.”
The longer the list, the more she considered the idea of just taking the Doyle family out to dinner.
“Don’t even think about that. You’re going to invite them into your home and make them a lovely meal. Remember how the house smelled when I made pot roast?”
“Yeah—amazing. But that’s you.”
“You’ve got this.”
Maybe, Sonya thought when they’d said goodbye, and she took another look at the—long—list. But she wouldn’t place any bets on it.
She’d make tea—something she’d discovered added a soothing note in the evening—get in her pajamas, and start the novel by her bed.
She had her agenda for tomorrow already laid out in her head. An early start, she thought, a midday walk, then back to it.
She paused by the music room, studied it with tea in hand.
Yes, definitely the Victrola, the music cabinet. She could arrange them in there.
“And you know what else? That still life’s a little formal for me. Johanna could go there. Maybe she played an instrument. Note to self: Ask Deuce.”
