The Mirror (The Lost Bride Trilogy #2)

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Nineteen

Before Trey could respond, Sonya came in. Something in the beat of silence had her gaze moving from man to man.

She said, “Uh-oh.”

“Nothing like that.” Owen held up the bowl. “Want scrambled eggs?”

“No, thanks.” She went for coffee.

“I was about to tell Trey about this weird dream I had.” As he spoke, Owen poured the eggs into the hot, melted butter in the pan.

Despite the lack of coffee, she whipped straight around. “You went through the mirror.”

“No. And yes, I’m sure,” he added before Sonya could ask. “I woke up in bed, with Jones still snoring. When my feet hit the floor, he’s up. I leave the room, he’s with me. It’s how we roll.”

“This is true,” Trey confirmed.

“It’s like he needs to be right there in case he has to help me fight off a horde of roaming zombies or invading, eye-sucking aliens.”

“I saw that eye-sucking alien movie.” Reassured, and boosted by coffee, Sonya dropped bread in the toaster. “It was terrible. I liked it.”

Trey just shook his head. “Good to know. So you had a dream.”

“That I don’t think was just a dream. About playing chess with Collin.”

Now Trey smiled. “He’d double-dare you with chess, then beat the crap out of you.”

“That’s why he double-dared me. It wouldn’t have been so weird if that was it, even though it was way lucid. Like I could feel the chess pieces in my hand, smell the fire, taste the beer. But what really hit the weird is he was young. Like our age, Trey. His still had blond hair—not a trace of gray.”

“Like my father,” Sonya murmured.

“Yeah, I guess so. And his face—it’s not how I see him when I think of him. I’ve seen pictures, sure, but it’s not how I remember him.”

He finished the eggs, plated them as he told them about the dream. Sonya added toast to their plates, put in more for herself, and topped off their coffee as they listened.

“It sounds like he wanted to explain to you why he left the house to Sonya. Not to you or the other cousins.”

“Not necessary, but yeah, I think that was part of it.”

“And the more important part? To warn you,” Sonya added. “The black queen. It’s a good symbol for her. He thought about my father, and I’m what’s left of my father. But he clearly loved you, both of you.”

“Family,” Owen said simply, “and the Doyles were family to him as much as the Pooles. Maybe more. And this house? A lot more than a house for him. He took the history, the legacy, all of it to heart, and whatever he added or changed, he kept that in mind. Anyway, I sure as hell never had a dream like it.”

“You’re a Poole,” Sonya pointed out. “And sleeping in the manor. Now that it’s happened, I realize I should be surprised it hadn’t happened before.”

“And it could be because you’ve gone through the mirror now,” Trey added. “But you’re both missing an important point. A key point.”

“Says the lawyer.” Owen got up to take his plate to the sink.

“That’s right, and the evidence supports that if you dreamed about Collin, and in the now, Owen—since you talked about a boat Poole’s building now as well as about Sonya—Collin, some part of him, is still in the manor.”

Sonya’s phone erupted with “You Got That Right.”

“Lynyrd Skynyrd,” Owen muttered. “Never wrong. I missed that.”

“Right there with you,” Sonya told him. “And it makes sense. I mean if you follow manor logic, it makes sense. He’s here, too. I… What aftershave did he wear?”

“Strange question I actually know the answer to because Anna and I got him some for his birthday once when we were kids. Eternity.”

“Calvin Klein.” Sonya nodded. “I should’ve known. Same as my father. I’ve caught a trace of it a few times. Just a trace, but I recognized it. Collin’s still here, not just because this is home, but…”

“Because Johanna’s still here,” Trey finished.

“Yes. And he either found a way or decided it was time to connect with Owen.”

“It was good to see him, talk to him. Even though, given how he looked, I’d have been a toddler.”

Pausing, Owen looked at his cousin.

“He didn’t have to tell me to have your back on this, Sonya. Already there.”

“I know it.”

“I’ve gotta get going. Got a fancy yacht to build among other things.”

“Do you have one?” Sonya wondered. “A fancy yacht?”

“What would I want with that? I’ve got The Horizon . A sloop, a beauty who heels and hardens up like a dream. Let’s move it, Jones. Later,” he said, and with the dog beside him, went out the back.

“I’ve done a little sailing with Cleo, and I have no idea what heels and hardens up mean.”

“I’d explain, but I have to get going, too. You’re okay.”

It wasn’t a question but a statement Sonya appreciated. “I am. And if it follows pattern, after that explosive show last night, she’ll need some time to gear it all up again.”

“Good luck with Gretta.” He kissed her, lingered. “I’m afraid you’re going to need it.”

He took his plate and hers to the sink.

“Do you have one? A boat?”

“I don’t need one. I’ve got The Horizon . Come on, Mook.”

When he left, Sonya smiled over her coffee. She’d never had a brother, but she recognized brothers when she saw them.

It seemed silly, maybe shallow, to worry about wardrobe for this visit to her great-aunt, but Sonya wanted to appear friendly and respectful.

Whether Gretta noticed or not.

By the time she got upstairs, she discovered the decision had already been made.

The sage-green dress with its high V neck and fabric belt lay on the neatly made bed. As they were paired with her earthy brown pumps, Sonya agreed with Molly’s choice.

“Friendly but not frivolous, simple but not stuffy. Nice work. Nervous.” She pressed a hand to her stomach. “I don’t know why, but I am. She won’t know me, probably won’t even talk to me. This whole trip is most likely a waste of time. But I’m nervous anyway.”

Clover’s musical response was Bachman-Turner Overdrive’s “Takin’ Care of Business.”

“Yeah, that’s what I have to do. Take care of business, family business.”

Dressed, makeup done, she debated—too long—whether to wear her hair up or down, then settled on using a clip that allowed a combination of both.

“Nearly ready!” Cleo called out from her bedroom when Sonya walked by. “Two minutes.”

“I’m going to let Pye and Yoda out so they can do everything they have to do until we get back.”

She found herself reluctant as she stood alone in the kitchen checking her purse one more time. Reluctant to leave the manor, to take this drive, to meet this woman who, in a very real way, had betrayed her own brother, the woman her brother loved, and two helpless infants.

But Clover had it right. Until she took care of this business, it would hang over her.

“Very nice choice,” Cleo said as she came in. “You look approach able but not malleable. I overrode Molly this time, and went with the black. I thought I could fade into the background if necessary.”

“This is the right thing to do.”

“It is, Son. Whatever it accomplishes or doesn’t, it’s the right thing to do. And a necessary thing.

“I’m grabbing a couple of Cokes for the road. After last night, there can’t be too much caffeine.”

“Speaking of last night, Owen had a dream.”

Cleo turned quickly, a Coke in either hand. “A mirror dream?”

“No. I’ll explain in the car. We need to let Yoda and Pye back in. Maybe we should put out some treats for them, or more toys, or—”

“I think Jack will take care of that.” Cleo handed a Coke to Sonya and went to let the animals in. “Be good, be good, my sweets. We’ll be back before you know it.

“You’re jumpy, I get it.” Cleo patted Sonya’s arm. “You drive. It’ll take your mind off it. And you can tell me about this non-mirror dream I’m assuming I didn’t star in.”

“Not this time.”

They went out to the car, where Sonya programmed the GPS. “I’m not worried about Pye and Yoda. If they need to go out again, somebody in there will let them out, and back in. I don’t know why I didn’t think of that before.”

“Neither did I, but I’m betting you’re right. In any case we’re not going to be gone all that long.”

“No.” But the nerves kept jittering. “Couple hours. Just a couple hours. Okay, mind off what’s on the other end of this drive, eyes on the road. Owen,” she said, and told Cleo about the dream.

“I think that’s just lovely. I think it’s lovely the way Collin wanted to reach out to him, and how he did it. Take away the damn black queen for now.”

“Boy, wouldn’t I love to.”

“For now,” Cleo repeated. “Sitting over the chess board together—just the two of them—beer and brandy, music, the dog, the fire going.”

“You know, I didn’t think of that. He made it comfortable. Familiar.”

“Exactly. Letting Owen know he was proud of him, he loved him. Things people sometimes forget to say until it’s too late to say them. And the way he spoke about your dad, Deuce, Trey, the Doyles. It’s meaningful.”

“From my take on it, Owen understood that. He got that, and it mattered.”

“So did and do you, matter. He trusted the manor to you because you’re his brother’s child, and because the manor matters. And he’s still part of it, like Clover and Molly and the rest.”

“That’s what Trey pointed out, and both Owen and I missed. I should’ve known you wouldn’t. So why did he look young? Owen’s age?”

Angling her head, Cleo adjusted her sunglasses. “I’ve always wondered, if you need to, or choose to, stay after you die, couldn’t you be any age you were?”

“You would wonder that.”

“Jack, for instance, can’t be a grown man because he never was. But Collin was Owen’s age once, so why not? And wouldn’t it put them on more even footing?”

“I thought the last part, but I never gave any thought to the other until now. Again, in manor logic, it makes sense. Some sense anyway.

“We’re going to be there soon. I’ve thought of a dozen different ways to approach this, and still can’t decide which is best.”

“You can overprepare,” Cleo pointed out. “I think this is a case of playing it by ear.”

The memory center, housed in a rosy brick building, spread long and low over expansive grounds. It stood quiet behind gates, with a flow of gardens waiting to bloom flanking each side. Paths wound through them where people walked in twos or threes or sat together on stone benches. Bright red tulips circled a small fountain with the spill of water catching the sun in rainbows.

Trees showed their April haze of green or the first brave blossoms.

It all looked almost bucolic, but Sonya saw a woman with tears on her cheeks crossing to the parking lot.

Such was the cruelty of forgetting.

Inside, they checked in, had their identification verified, then got an overview by one of Gretta’s caregivers as they walked past a common area.

People sat together, sat apart. A trio of women worked, intently, on a jigsaw puzzle.

“We offer group and individual activities, designed to stimulate or soothe all five senses. Music therapy, photographs, animal therapy. Art—which is Gretta’s interest. She wanted to stay in her room this morning and draw.”

The caregiver, Jen, gestured them down a hallway.

“She draws?”

“Art engages her, and comforts her. Her drawings are childlike now, but she takes pride and pleasure in them. I understand you don’t know your great-aunt.”

“No, I only learned about this part of my family recently.”

“She wanted to be an artist when she was younger. Her son often brought her art supplies when he visited.

“We were sorry to hear of his passing.”

“Does she ask about him?”

“No. She’ll ask about her mother. While she still has good days, her condition has deteriorated over the last year. Though rare, she can have bursts of violence or verbal abuse. Understand, this is the disease.”

“I do.”

“She’s having a good morning, and most often enjoys visitors.”

They walked into a pretty private suite with the cheer of natural light. Dozens of drawings and paintings lined the walls. Childlike depictions of flowers, of houses with a big yellow sun overhead, Christmas trees, stick figures.

The room had a cozy sofa and chairs, a colorful floral rug.

And a table by the window where a woman sat drawing with crayons.

Her hair was stone gray and cut short. Over faded blue eyes she wore white-framed glasses that slid down her nose. And over her thin frame, she wore pink pants and a crisp white blouse.

With her tongue caught in her teeth, she hummed tunelessly as she drew.

“Good morning again, Gretta. It’s Jen, and I’ve brought you visitors.”

“Did Mother come? She said she would.”

“Not today. Oh, what pretty flowers. They’re so cheerful.”

“Need to finish, hang it up. Pick the ones I want for my show when I go to New York.”

“We’ll hang it up for you, but these nice women have come to see you.”

She looked up, wrinkling her nose as her glasses slid down a bit more. “You’re pretty. I like pretty things.”

“Thank you.” Sonya offered an easy smile. “I like your art.”

“I’m very talented. There are several artists on the Poole family tree. Such talents often come through the blood.”

“I’m sure they can.”

Gretta offered a hand. “I’m…” Her eyes clouded a moment. “Miss Poole. Are you an art dealer?”

“No, I’m not. But I appreciate art. I’m Sonya. Is it all right if I sit down while you work?”

“Company is always invited to sit. Manners are essential to a decent society.”

“I’ll be close by,” the caregiver murmured, and stepped out of the room.

“It’s very kind of you to pay a call. May I offer you some refreshment?”

Though surprised by the offer, Sonya smiled again. “No, thank you. We’re fine. Is there anything we can get for you?”

“Oh, I have everything I need, and Mother will be here soon. We’ll have a civilized tea when she arrives. I will have to start packing shortly. There’s so much to do before I leave for New York. And I still have to pack and buy my train ticket. Is that where you’re from?”

“New York? No, I’m from Boston originally.”

“Mother and I travel to Boston twice a year to shop for the season. Mother has an image to maintain at work, and hosts important din ner parties for important people. One must be appropriately dressed at all times. Mother selects my wardrobe, of course. Mother has excellent taste.”

Sonya had an image of a young woman led around on a leash. But pushed it away.

“I’m sure she does. I always enjoyed shopping in Boston, but Cleo and I live in Poole’s Bay now.”

“Who is Cleo?”

“My friend.” Sonya gestured to where Cleo sat.

“She’s very pretty. She could be an artist’s model. I don’t use models for my art. I enjoy painting still lifes and landscapes primarily. It’s good to have friends, but of course, when you’re a member of an important family, they must be carefully chosen.”

The leash she’d envisioned now ended in a choke chain.

“Do you have friends in Poole’s Bay?”

“I’m very busy with my art. Very busy.” Then she frowned. “I know you.”

“I’m Sonya.”

“No. No. I don’t know that name. It sounds foreign, and I don’t know that name. But I know those eyes. Poole green. Mine are blue, like Mother’s.”

Sonya thought of Trey’s word— agitated —as Gretta picked up another crayon.

“She’ll be here soon. Mother is a very busy woman, and is always punctual.”

“I have something of hers.” Sonya reached in her purse, brought out the compact.

“Where did you get that!” Gretta started to reach for it, then snatched her hand back. “Not supposed to touch Mother’s things. So pretty, so shiny! But mustn’t touch. No. No. She’ll be angry.”

“You’ve seen this before?”

“Not that, like that. You shouldn’t have that.”

“I found it,” Sonya said carefully. “In the manor. Cleo and I live in the manor now.”

“No, you don’t!” The words whipped out as the eyes behind the white-framed glasses went hard and bright. “Nobody does. Mother says it’s an albatross, but Papa won’t sell it. I’m not allowed to go there. No one is.”

“Charlie went there. Charlie lived there with his wife, Lilian.”

“Charlie was bad! He never listened, always in trouble.” Her voice went to singsong, like a child’s. “He went away. I stayed. I was good, he was bad.”

“He was an artist, like you.”

“He had responsibilities to the family, to the business. He—he shirked them. The manor is bad. I painted it once, and Mother destroyed it. It’s cursed,” she said in a whisper. “Locked up tight.”

Then smiling, she continued to draw.

“But I’m going to New York. I’ll have my own apartment. Are you from New York?”

“Charlie unlocked the manor and lived there with Lilian.”

Gretta’s mouth twisted, and the point of the crayon broke as she dug it into the paper.

“Gold digger, digging for Poole gold. Deserved what she got. And Charlie, too. Didn’t listen.” She began to color furiously, dragging Scarlet over the paper like blood.

“Go against Mother, pay the price. Lock it up, lock it all up and throw away the key.”

She set the Scarlet aside, picked up Midnight Blue. Scribbling, scribbling, she formed odd figures beneath a bloody sky.

Understanding she might never be able to ask again, might never have the answer, Sonya pressed.

“How did she choose? How did your mother choose which baby to keep, Gretta? How did she decide which of Charlie’s sons to keep?”

Gretta laid a finger over her lips. “Family secret. Just between mother and daughter. Not Lawrence. Useless. He likes boys instead of girls. More secrets. Nobody can know. He’s dead anyway. Lawrence is dead. It’s just Mother and me. Just us two now.”

“I’m family, Gretta. I’m a Poole.” Sonya glanced down at the crude drawing of two babies, fists raised as if for a fight as the sky above them bled red. Sonya tapped both. “How did you choose?”

“‘Pick one, pick one. Doesn’t matter which.’ Only one to preserve the line. They looked the same. One stays, one goes. And never, never tell.”

“You picked.”

“I didn’t want either. I’m going to New York.” Again she put her finger across her lips. “Another secret. Lots of secrets. Mother said I had to pick one. And now I’m Mother, too. Mother said I had a fiancé, oh, very handsome! His name was…”

Frowning, she stared up at the ceiling.

“Doesn’t matter. Doesn’t matter. He’s tall and brave and had to go to war and fight. He has blond hair and blue eyes, and we love each other so much. He died, though, very sad, but I had a baby anyway.

“I didn’t want a stupid baby! Poole blood, Poole line, Poole business. Poole secrets. Never, never say Charlie’s baby. Gretta’s baby. Do my duty. Fucking duty.”

She grabbed Black, drew angry slashes over one of the babies she’d drawn.

“Charlie’s dead, and that’s that. He cried and cried and cried, but he’s my baby now.”

“And his brother?”

“What brother?”

Angling her head left, right, left again, she chose Mountain Meadow to create flower stems.

“Collin’s brother. His twin brother.”

“Who knows? Who cares? I only had one baby. Mother named him…”

“Collin.”

“Collin Poole hanged himself. Everybody knows that.”

“The baby you raised was Collin, too.”

“I wasn’t a good mother, because he didn’t listen. Like his father. ‘You chose poorly, Gretta.’ They looked the same, didn’t they?”

Gretta clenched her teeth: anger, exasperation.

“How could I know I’d pick the one who wouldn’t listen and behave? I followed all her rules, I did my best.”

“I’m sure you did.”

“Stayed, didn’t I?” Her mood darkened again as she grabbed Wild Strawberry for petals. “I stayed in Poole’s fucking Bay saddled with a stinky crying baby. I did my duty, not like goddamn fucking Charlie.”

Snarling, she drew a stick figure with Black, and put it in a hangman’s noose.

“Hanged himself. Pooles do that. Selfish bastard ruined everything for me. He didn’t do his duty, did he? Went where the fuck he wanted, did what the fuck he wanted, getting some gold-digging street whore pregnant. The manor killed him, so he got what he deserved.”

The fury exploded out of her as she stared at Sonya.

“You’ve got his eyes. Poole-green eyes. You’ll die there, too. Mine are blue, like Mother’s. Stay away from the manor. Everyone dies there.”

As quickly as it had erupted, the anger died. She sent Sonya a vague smile.

“This has been a lovely visit. I hope to have a showing of my art in a few months at an important gallery in New York. I’ll see you receive an invitation.”

“Thank you.” Sonya rose.

“The maid will see you out. Please ask her to have Mother come in when she gets here, and bring tea. Mother’s so busy, I wouldn’t want to keep her waiting.”

Outside, Cleo put an arm around Sonya’s shoulders. “That was sad and horrible.”

“It’s a sad and horrible disease, and after what seems like a very sad and horrible life. I’m sorry for her.”

She stopped at the car, just leaned against it, because she wanted the air for a few minutes.

“My take—and tell me if yours is different. She lived under her mother’s rule, and rules, where Charlie didn’t. He got away. But I think she was planning to do the same.”

“To New York.”

“She was a bit older than Charlie, so she’d probably come into some of her trust fund. It sounds like she had plans to use that, move to New York, get an apartment, focus on her art.”

Cleo nodded. “And then.”

“Yeah, and then. Browbeaten into choosing one of the twins, taking it as her own, a product of some bogus engagement.”

“The resentment.” Cleo looked back at the building. “It’s still festering. All these years.”

“Because she was too weak to refuse to live that lie, to refuse to go along, to stop her brother’s sons from being separated.”

Again, Sonya took the compact from her purse. “A woman nearly eighty still afraid to touch her mother’s things.”

“And yet, waiting with some anticipation for her mother to come. Why don’t I drive back?”

“Would you?” Sonya handed over the key fob. “She remembers,” she said as she got into the passenger seat. “Just as they told me. Remembers things from back then better, I think, than she remembers things from yesterday.”

“That spurt of rage? And that was rage—like Owen told us about. That’s bottled up in there.”

“That horrible drawing.”

“She drew her rage,” Cleo decided. “What would it do to someone, living a lie like that, resenting every minute of it? Doing what she saw as her duty and giving up a dream?”

“And never having a life of her own. Never, that I’ve heard of, having real friendships, a relationship. Living under her mother’s roof and rules, even after for the rules, after her mother’s death.”

“You know more than you did before we came.”

“I can see it, but I’ll never understand it. Can you imagine Patricia standing with Gretta over those babies and telling her to pick one? Like they were puppies in a kennel, or worse, shoes on a shelf.”

“All in all, Son, your dad was lucky. He had parents who loved him instead of a woman who did what she felt forced to do. Her duty.”

“You couldn’t be more right.” She thought of the compact in her purse, then pulled out her phone. “I’m going to call Poole Shipbuilders, see if Clarice is in and will talk to me.”

“Now?”

“While it’s all right here in my head. You can drop me off if she’ll make time for me. I’ll get someone to give me a ride home.”

“I’ll drop you off, run some errands. You can text me when you’re done, and I’ll pick you up.”

“Great. First, I’d better see if I can have some time with Cousin Clarice.”

Sonya got her first up-close look at Poole Shipbuilders. The original brick building Arthur Poole had built as a young, enterprising man had expanded over the centuries, the generations.

It spread and dominated its portion of Poole’s Bay, and its shipyard that had spawned a village. Had, she thought, built the manor where she now lived.

“It’s bigger than you think,” Cleo commented as she wound through the lot, section by section, toward the area designated for visitors. “It’s impressive.”

“Intimidating and strange. Strange that I own a piece of them. A tiny one, but still a piece. That building there, that’s the offices. Clarice is on the fifth floor.

“Okay.” She took a deep breath. “Wish me luck.”

“You know I do, but why would you need it? Text when you’re done.”

Sonya got out, crossed to the entrance with its careful landscaping and dignified sign.

POOLE SHIPBUILDERS, ESTABLISHED 1781.

She went through a wide glass door and into a lobby that immediately put her more at ease.

They’d stuck with tradition with models of ships, portraits of generations of Pooles from the founder, Arthur Poole, she noted, right down to Owen.

Floors—wood planked rather than tile or carpet—gleamed. A waiting area with comfortable chairs boasted a brick fireplace with a thick wooden mantel. It held a model of a sailing vessel and a pair of antique lanterns.

When she crossed to the reception counter—wood again, not sleek but smooth—the woman behind it smiled.

“You must be Ms. MacTavish. Ms. Poole said to expect you. If you wouldn’t mind signing in. I’m Noelle, by the way, Corrine Doyle’s niece.”

“Oh, it’s nice to meet you.”

“You, too. If you take the elevator to five, Ms. Poole’s admin will be waiting for you.”

“Thanks.”

She crossed to the elevator. Before she could push the up button, it opened. Owen got off, carrying a design tube and looking rushed.

He pulled up short when he saw Sonya. “Hey. Are you looking for me?”

“No. I’m here to see Clarice.”

“Okay. Gotta go.” Then he stopped again. “Do you know where you’re going?”

“Fifth floor.”

“Yeah, then take a right, all the way down. Corner office. Later.”

As he strode away, Noelle called out, “Owen, you’ve got that four o’clock with Mike. He’s coming to you.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

When he kept going, Sonya stepped on the elevator, took a last look at Arthur Poole’s portrait, then pushed five.