The Mirror (The Lost Bride Trilogy #2)

Chapter Two

Chapter Two

Since Cleo volunteered to take the long list for the pot roast dinner and do the marketing, Sonya settled down at her desk in the library. She set down her water bottle, her tablet.

Over the past few months, she’d gotten into the habit of letting Clover, her house DJ, run the tunes. So without pulling up a playlist, she looked over at her mood boards.

Considering the early hour she’d eaten breakfast, she could afford to take a part of the morning to work on the Ryder Sports proposal.

She had time yet before she had to go to Boston and present it, and she thought she had a decent shot at the account. But her former bosses at By Design stood as formidable competition.

Matt and Laine had trained her well, and she’d worked hard for them for seven years. She knew how to put a major campaign together.

But she couldn’t ignore the fact that she’d formed her own graphic design company, Visual Art by Sonya, less than a year ago. As a freelancer, a one-woman operation, she’d generated jobs since, and done some damn good work.

But the multigenerational, well-established sports equipment company would be, by far, her biggest client.

And she couldn’t discount the point of pride when she knew she’d surely be in competition for that client with her ex-fiancé.

The cheating bastard.

Didn’t matter, she told herself. Brandon Wise didn’t matter.

All that mattered? The work.

She had a really good concept, and an excellent start.

“Time to push forward,” she said, and opened the file.

With Yoda curled under her desk, she put in a solid two hours before she heard Cleo come back.

“Quick break.” She saved the work and started down with Yoda following.

“Another two bags in the car,” Cleo called out.

“Did we need that much?”

“Well, I was there.”

Sonya ran out to fetch the bags, then stopped, breathed in air that tasted of spring.

She’d first come to the manor and the coast of Maine in the dead of winter. Now the air warmed, and daffodils bloomed. The big, bony weeper beside the house had fat buds, still closed and secret, on its branches.

Holding out her arms, she turned in a circle.

“This is my place now.”

The view of the sun streaming down on the water, hers. The sound of waves crashing against the rocks, hers. Flowers blooming or budding, hers, too.

And if the curse on it was hers, too, now? She’d deal with it, somehow, some way.

She grabbed the bags and sailed back into the house.

In the kitchen, Cleo put groceries away. “That’s a big slab of meat, Son.”

“I know. It’s scary, but I can do it. You bought an awful lot of apples. Are we getting a horse?”

“Oh, wouldn’t that be sweet? But no. I’m making an apple pie.”

“You’re making an apple pie? From actual apples? Who are you, and what have you done with my Cleo?”

“I’m now Cleo, chief cook of the manor. Owen doesn’t think I can do it, and I thought, well, I’ll never know unless I try. So I called Mama, and she texted me her recipe while I was in the store. We had most everything except the apples anyway.”

After getting out a bowl, Cleo began to put the apples in it. “And if I screw it up, nobody knows but you and me. And a houseful of ghosts.”

“I’ll never tell.”

Sonya’s phone popped out with Maroon 5’s “Secret.”

“Good, that’s settled.” Cleo tucked the cloth grocery bags away. “What time do you need to get started on that big slab of meat?”

“I think about one, one-thirty. I’m going to work until one for sure, then get it on.”

“Then I’ll meet you here by one-thirty. I’m grabbing a Coke and heading up to my studio. Want a Coke?”

“Yeah, I could use the boost. Don’t go near the Gold Room, Cleo.”

“Oh, you don’t have to worry about that. It’s mermaids for me today, not witches. And if the illustrations go well enough, I might work some on the painting.”

They started upstairs together.

At the library, Cleo tapped her Coke to Sonya’s. “Let’s go get our art on.”

Back at her desk Sonya put the Ryder proposal aside. While she didn’t consider it pie in the sky, she needed to get down to her bread and butter.

She worked on her newest job, a store down in Poole’s Bay.

Consistency, creativity, user-friendly, she thought as she disregarded Gigi’s current, clunky, and altogether boring website.

Fun should be the theme there, she decided. Fun, casual clothes, surprising and fun scents in soaps and lotions, candles and bath salts. Toss in some—again—fun accessories.

She started a new mood board, keeping the fun up front.

The place really needed a fresh new logo. Though that hadn’t been part of the package, she decided what the hell. She already saw it in her head.

The silhouette of a long-legged woman in heels, a short skirt, swinging a handbag, a scarf trailing behind. Just a hint of Paris, she thought as she worked. It fit with the name of the shop.

It said casual sophistication, female energy. And, of course, fun.

When her alarm beeped at one, she pulled herself out.

And as she began the process of saving her work, shutting down, for the first time she heard the bouncing of a ball in the foyer downstairs.

Jack, the little boy who hadn’t lived to see his tenth birthday, loved playing with Yoda. And the love was mutual.

Maybe it was odd how easily she accepted that, but she’d lived in Lost Bride Manor long enough to learn not just to accept, but to embrace.

Because she didn’t want to scare him—though how you scared a ghost was beyond her—she called out before she started down.

“I’m shutting down work for the day. I have work in the kitchen now.”

She saw no sign of Jack until she got to the kitchen and found all the cabinet doors open.

“I guess you weren’t finished playing with Yoda.” She closed doors as she spoke. “But I’m on a schedule.”

She got out the enormous heavy pot and Cleo’s big slab of meat.

“Not as scary this time,” she told herself. But she didn’t actually believe it.

She seasoned the roast, began to brown it in oil. While it browned, she started peeling carrots.

She had a browned slab of meat and a pile of carrots and had started on the potatoes when Cleo dashed in.

“Sorry! I got caught up.” Cleo grabbed an apron. “I started on a mer family. Cute little merbabies and toddlers. Then I thought: Where’s Nana and Paw? They should have grandparents. I’ll help you peel potatoes, and you can help me peel apples.”

Before getting another peeler, Cleo pinned her cloud of burnt-honey hair up.

“I forgot a tie. Let me have that one.” Sonya peeled the one off Cleo’s wrist, tied her hair back. “When we were in college, did you ever see us peeling potatoes together?”

“I have to say no. But I didn’t see myself peeling them with anybody.” Cleo’s eyes danced as she looked at Sonya. “Shame-the-devil truth? I kind of like it.”

Sonya studied the mound of peels. “I like when it’s all done, and doesn’t suck.”

“I kind of like the process, like art. The finish is what brings you pride, but you can’t have the pride without the process.”

“I’m working on the Gigi’s job. I’m liking that process. And I can admit this process isn’t as fraught as when I did it by myself the first time.”

“I hung with you on FaceTime.”

Sonya gave her a hip bump. “This is better. No regrets, right? About moving in?”

“Not a single one. I love it here. God, I love my studio. I’m going to love taking time to paint outside before much longer, and spending a Sunday afternoon sailing Poole’s Bay when Owen builds me my sweet little Sunfish.”

“I’d have stayed without you, because I knew this was my place, my home as soon as I saw it. But I wouldn’t have been half as happy.”

When they had all the vegetables prepped, Sonya heaved a breath. “Okay, here goes. You dump them in the oil and juices, with the herbs, stir them all around, let them cook awhile, brown a little maybe.”

“All right, you’ve got that. I’m going to start on the pie crust.”

“You’re actually making pie crust. With flour and—whatever else is in pie crust.”

“Process, Son, process. If you just do the inside part, it’s sort of a cheat. I just—What is that noise?”

Sonya kept stirring even though her heartbeat sped up. “It’s the dumbwaiter.”

“The… well, God.” Rubbing her hands on her apron, Cleo walked into the butler’s pantry, frowned at it. “I’m going to look. It better not be something awful or it’s going to piss me off.”

Sonya held her breath, and didn’t release it until she heard Cleo say, “Aww! Oh, it’s sweet. Look here, Son. It’s a pretty pie plate.”

She carried it in. “Bright red, all fluted, and with an apple on the white inside bottom. It’s perfect. I was just going to use this plain old glass one I found up here.”

“Molly. She sent me up a platter for the pot roast I made for the Doyles. Lissy’s platter. A wedding gift.”

Cleo set the pie plate down, hugged Sonya’s shoulders. “It’s hard, I know it’s hard, but Owen was right. We can’t change what happened to her. Well, to either Lisbeth Poole or Molly O’Brian. To any of them.”

“It’s terrible watching them die, Cleo. Worse somehow knowing it’s not just a dream, but that I’m somehow there and can’t do anything to stop it.”

“I know it. But, Sonya, you’re bearing witness. Just like you said outside Molly’s room. And I think it’s important. And I think there’s a reason Molly looks after us the way she does. Like sending me this dish, so I can make a pretty pie—hopefully. It matters to her. You matter.”

“They all matter to me now. I want to stop Dobbs. I want to make her pay for all the misery she caused. I want—”

Doors began to slam; windows flew open and closed.

“Oh, blow it out your ass,” Cleo shouted. “You blackhearted old bitch!”

Despite herself, Sonya let out a peal of laughter.

The iPad began to rock out, inviting them to celebrate good times.

“That’s right, that’s right, Clover.” Cleo waved her fists in the air, shook her hips. “We’re going to have a good time tonight.”

“Come on!” Sonya sang, and plopped the roast on the vegetables. She picked up the wine she’d already opened, and poured it over the meat. “A whole damn bottle.” She put the lid on the pot, then slid it into the oven, wagged a finger at Cleo. “Hours. No peeking.”

“This already smells amazing. And I’m making pie.”

“Show us how it’s done.”

It didn’t live up to the phrase easy as pie , but they agreed it looked pretty when, after the measuring and the rolling and patching and peeling and slicing and stirring, Cleo slid it into the second oven.

“Son of a bitch! They better appreciate every bite of that. That’s a ton of work.”

“Let’s take Yoda out, get some air.”

Sonya waited until they walked outside in air cool after the heat of the kitchen.

“She stopped banging and bitching when we made fun of her.”

“Yeah, I noticed.” Cleo sent a smug glance back at the manor. “She feeds off fear and grief. That’s what you said last night.”

“We can’t stop all of it, but we can fight back some with a few well-placed Blow it out your ass es.”

“I’m all for that. And we’re going to throw that party, hold our Event in a few weeks. We need to start planning the details of that one.”

“We do. We will.”

“It’s going to piss her off, having the house full of people. Happy people.”

“It really is. We need to have your parents. I hope your grand-mère and my mom are up for that. And I should have my grandparents, all of them if they can make it. My aunt Summer and uncle Martin.”

“We’ve got plenty of room for them.” Cleo paused, looked back at the manor. “The house was meant for what we’re doing in it, Son.”

“And what’s that?”

“Living, working, planning. And in your case,” Cleo added, “having really good sex.”

“It is really good sex.”

“And as your friend, I applaud you. But she doesn’t want any of that. She only wants the grief and the fear.”

“We’re going to give her plenty she doesn’t want. And I’m going to find those rings, Cleo. I don’t know how, yet, but I’m going to find them. And meanwhile, we’re going to live and work and plan.”

She watched Yoda chase a squirrel.

“You’re going to get that slinky cat.”

“I am,” Cleo agreed. “I’m going to start that search real soon.”

“And tonight we’re going to serve a hell of a good meal, and we’re going to do it in that big-ass dining room.”

“That’s what I’m talking about! When that pie comes out, we’re going to get ourselves and that table looking extra.”

“You always look extra. I should hate that about you.”

“But you love me.”

“I really do. Let’s go check on your pie. And then I’m making beer bread.”

Cleo smiled. “You figure Molly’s cleaned up our cooking mess by now?”

Sonya didn’t bother to look ashamed. “It’s that obvious, huh?”

“Seems to me everybody’s getting what they want.”

They deserved a day like this, Sonya thought. A day to do good work, and to set that work aside early. A day to fiddle and fuss and spend time together.

With the scents of baking and cooking filling the kitchen—now spotless—they sat at the counter to work on the details of what they called An Event, scheduled, after some debate, for the second Saturday in June.

“The open house deal keeps it friendly, casual,” Sonya decided. “But I vote for formal invitations.”

“Make that unanimous. Adds elegance. An illustration of the manor.”

“You read my mind. I’ll go get a sketch pad.”

By the time the pie and bread sat cooling on a rack, and they’d risked one quick peek inside the pot, they had their template of the manor in spring, with the weeping tree blooming, flowers spreading lush.

Sonya MacTavish and Cleopatra Fabares

Invite you to The Manor for an evening of

Food, drink, and fellowship.

Saturday, June the eighth, at four p.m.

“I like it,” Cleo decided. “It’s simple and welcoming.”

“Not too simple?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Good. We need to include an RSVP.” Sonya began to fiddle with the wording there. “A please respond by, say, May twentieth, so we have an idea of the count. Trey’s mom will help us with names and addresses.”

“We can hit Bree up for help with a menu. Head chef of the Lobster Cage, that’s a solid connection.”

“And she likes us, so yeah. We tap her for help on lining up servers, a couple bartenders. We order food from restaurants in the village.”

“We’re going to have to drag tables and chairs out of storage,” Cleo pointed out. “Or rent them.”

“Add glassware, dishes, linens. You know, I’ve designed invites for countless events, done websites for caterers, restaurants, bars. But neither one of us have ever planned and executed something like this.”

“Scared?”

Sonya lifted her shoulders. “Little bit.”

“Me, too. It adds to the fun.”

“There are times your idea of fun and mine don’t approach intersection.”

When the tablet played the Beastie Boys, Sonya had to laugh.

“Okay, okay. We’ll fight for our right to party.”

“Which takes us to music. Do you think Trey and Owen can convince Rock Hard to play?”

“Won’t know till we ask. It goes on the task list.” Sonya noted it down. “Task for me: I’ll generate the invitations.”

“When you do, I’ll get them mailed. You get the list from Trey’s mom, and I’ll talk to Bree.”

“Good division of labor.” Sonya clinked her water glass to Cleo’s. “I know there are some folding tables in the basement. Not the scary basement where I’ll never set foot again. I vote we assign Trey and Owen to hauling them up so we can clean them.”

“Again, unanimous. Flowers. We’re probably going to have to plant some, Son, and that’s a learning curve for both of us. And we’ll want some on the tables outside, and inside.”

“So a trip to the nursery, and the florist. Both of us on those. I don’t worry about making it pretty. We’re good at that. I wanted to plant some flowers anyway. Like in the pots in the garden shed.”

“I want to plant some herbs.”

“You do?”

Cleo gave a decisive nod. “If I’m going to cook around here, I’m doing it right.”

“You’re in charge of those. Totally in charge.”

“I can handle it. Now, let’s go make ourselves pretty, and we’ll come back and do the same with the table.”

“What happened last night.” Sonya gathered the sketch pad, her notes, her tablet. “It’ll happen again. I know that, and so do you. But we’re here, making a meal—with a freaking pie—and we’re here, planning a party.”

“An Event,” Cleo corrected, and made Sonya smile as they walked from the kitchen.

“An Event. Sometimes my head says it’s all crazy. But I know it’s not. I know we’re doing exactly what we should do.”

“Live, work, plan,” Cleo repeated.

“All of that. Just like I know there’s so much more good in this house than bad. Some of the bad, it’s just what happens when people live and work and plan in a house for over two hundred years. The worst of the bad? That goes back to one… I won’t call her a person.”

“Entity.”

“Entity then. And even with that, with what happened to them, Clover plays music, Molly makes the beds, Jack plays with Yoda.”

They turned into the library, where Sonya put the notes and sketchbook on her desk. “And there’s more.”

“A lot more,” Cleo agreed. “I feel them all the time.”

“Why do they stay? The brides, and the ones who mourn them, maybe they stay because of the curse. But why do the others?”

“I don’t know.”

Sonya looked around the library, looked to the window where the African violet Cleo had given her years before bloomed.

“I think it’s because this is home. I think they stay for the same reason I do—and you do now. This is home.”

“I never thought of that,” Cleo said as they walked out and down the hall. “And it feels right. It’s a good house, Sonya, despite her. It’s a really good house.”

“It’s our house, and it’s their house. A year ago, I might’ve expected you to say something like that. But it’s a hell of a surprise that I can say it, and mean it.”

“And that’s why they’re with you, Son, because you say it, and you mean it. Now, go make yourself pretty.”

She could do that. Funny, she thought as she continued to her room, though she’d gotten about three hours’ sleep, she really wasn’t tired.

She wanted an evening, this evening, of—well—food, drink, and fellowship.

She walked through her sitting room to the bedroom. There, under the late afternoon sun, the sea spread outside her windows, the terrace doors.

And there, on the bed, lay a dress she’d bought with her aborted honeymoon in mind. A dress she hadn’t worn since trying it on.

Molly’s choice, she thought, and why not.

She held it up, turned to the mirror.

She didn’t wear pink often, but this color skewed more deep rose. A simple, sleeveless sheath she’d imagined wearing to a romantic dinner. As a bride.

“That would’ve been a mistake. But the dress isn’t. Okay, Molly, nice choice. Thank you.”

She took her time, and as she dealt with her hair, let out a sigh. Time, she determined, to bite the bullet and make an appointment with the local hairstylist. It had been way too long there.

And still many more weeks before she’d travel to Boston for the Ryder presentation.

Which still left time, if she hated what the new stylist did, to correct it.

“Nothing wrong with a little vanity,” she told herself as she zipped up the dress. “And appearances for that presentation matter.”

Clover agreed with “Looking Good.”

Amused, Sonya turned in the mirror. “Yeah, I know I look good. Let’s see if Cleo’s ready.”

Cleo had gone for lightning blue, a little shorter, a little flirtier, and was currently working her hair into a complicated braid.

Her eyes met Sonya’s in the mirror. “I remember when you bought that dress. I talked you into it.”

“I remember. Molly laid it out.”

“Mine, too. She’s got excellent taste. And considering we were both in watch-a-double-feature-and-go-to-bed clothes last night for our strange little party, it’s nice to put on a dress.”

“I’m making a hair appointment tomorrow. In the village.”

Cleo’s hands paused. “Are you sure?”

“I’ve gotta commit. And if they screw it up, I have time to fix it before the big presentation in Boston.”

“I see your point, but hair adultery’s a big step.”

Sonya nodded solemnly. “The long-distance relationship isn’t going to work out.”

“I’ll support you in your decision. I’m not sure I can be that brave with my multicultural do. Creole, Asian, a hint of Jamaica, a whiff of Brit? You’ve got white girl hair.”

“I do. I’m risking it. Ready?”

Yoda pranced down with them, then danced in front of the entrance doors.

“Time to go out? You come around back when you’re done.” She opened the door for him. “You’ve got company coming, too.”

“I thought I’d contact the one you got the adorable Yoda from. For that slinky cat.”

“Lucy Cabot. She’s great. Also works with a cat rescue. I’ll send you her info. She’d know.”

Sonya paused by what she knew Collin Poole had called the Quiet Place, where the old grandfather clock with its moon face stood silent. At three.

No matter where they put the hands, they always returned to three.

“I don’t remember hearing it chime three last night. But I must have. I don’t always, but I got up, made my way to the ballroom, so I must have. When I do hear it—when I’m aware I hear it—I don’t feel that pull.”

“If you ever do, you get me first.”

“Count on it. Have you thought any more about making an office? Separate from your studio?”

“Maybe. The studio makes me so damn happy, but it might be smart to have a separate space for business.”

“I like the idea of using more of the house. Really using it. That’s why—”

She broke off when they walked into the big kitchen.

The pie and bread sat on the cooling rack and the air smelled glorious.

And the platter sat on the island.

“Oh, isn’t that gorgeous. What a beautiful dish! It looks old and important.”

“It is,” Sonya murmured. “It’s Lisbeth’s. It’s the one I used before. A wedding gift.”

Lifting it, Sonya turned it over so Cleo could read the inscription on the back.

“She never got to use it, and that makes you sad. But, Sonya, I think using it—not just letting it sit somewhere in storage—it’s a way of remembering her.”

“I saw her, across the ballroom. Just for a minute. There were so many people. She was so young, Cleo, and she looked so happy. Honestly, she just glowed.”

She set the platter down.

“You’re right. It shouldn’t just sit in storage.”

They set the table, added candles, the good wineglasses. Since the April evening was cool enough, they lit the fires in the kitchen, in the dining room.

“How about some music to set the mood?” Cleo began.

Clover answered with “Tangled Up in You.”

“Maybe a little direct,” Cleo decided, “but I like it. Glass of wine, partner?”

“You pour. I need to take the pot roast out, make the gravy.”

“Grab an apron for that. I’m going to be watching how you do it.”

The minute Sonya took the pot out of the oven, lifted the lid, Yoda scrambled up to stand on his stubby back legs, wave his front paws.

“That’s a Jack trick, and yeah, you’ll get a taste test.”

“I want one myself.” Cleo poured the wine. “It just sits in there all damn day, then smells like that. I think the pie was harder.”

“You’re forgetting the mountain of peels that went into the composter.”

“Some of those were apple peels. Just look at that,” she added as Sonya set the roast in the center of the platter and began to surround it with vegetables. “I believe you’ve become a pot roast genius.”

“Let’s make sure.” Sonya sliced off a bit, divided it into three. She handed one to Cleo, tossed one to Yoda, then sampled herself. “I believe you’re right. I am, officially, a pot roast genius.”

“There may not be room for my pie after this.”

“They’re men.” Sonya put the platter in the warming oven. “They’ll have room for pie.”

Hip cocked, sipping wine, Cleo watched Sonya whisk up gravy.

“I am seriously impressed. Here, I’ll whisk awhile. Take a wine break.”

They switched positions.

Yoda scrambled up with a joyful bark to race toward the front of the house. The doorbell bonged, and Clover switched to the Black Eyed Peas singing about how tonight’s gonna be a good night.

“I agree.” Reaching over, Sonya turned down the heat. “Let’s let them in and get it started.”