The Mirror (The Lost Bride Trilogy #2)

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty

On five, she stepped into a smaller, busier lobby, where a woman with flaming red hair and wearing a spring-green suit waited.

“Ms. MacTavish, I’m Adele Loring, Ms. Poole’s assistant. I’ll escort you to her office.”

“Thank you. It’s a lovely building, and an amazing view,” she added as the wide, sea-facing window drew her gaze.

“We think so. Can I bring you in some coffee, tea?”

“No, thanks. I appreciate Clarice making time for me, and won’t keep her long. I know she’s busy.”

“Always. Busy and tireless. They seem to be Poole traits.”

They passed offices—doors open, doors closed, and the productive sound of keyboards.

Doors stood open at the end of the hallway, and the wall of windows didn’t just draw the gaze, it astonished it.

They ran floor to ceiling, offering the sweep of the rugged, rocky coastline. It opened the room to the flow of bay and marina into the sea. And the sweep of boats—pleasure and work—that plied it.

At the large desk that looked as if it might have belonged to Arthur Poole himself sat a woman who carried her forty-six years lightly. She wore her dark blond hair in a short wedge that suited the diamond shape of her face, and a sweep of bangs that accented those Poole-green eyes.

She rose when the admin stepped in with Sonya, and added surprise as she barely topped five-two.

Sonya had expected tall and formidable, but the woman who came around the desk was petite in a pair of red running shoes and an all-business dark suit.

She held out a hand.

“Sonya, it’s great to finally meet you.”

Petite or not, the handshake hit formidable. “It’s great to meet you. Thanks for taking time out of your day for me.”

“Don’t be silly.”

Clarice waved that away, but Sonya knew when she was being measured.

“How about a cappuccino? I’m dying for one.”

“I’m not silly enough to turn one down.”

“Coming right up,” the admin said, and slipped out.

“Let’s sit over here. I’ve been glued to my desk all morning.”

She gestured to a seating area with a cream-colored sofa, two chairs the color of the sea, and a table that looked as old as the desk.

“First, Owen tells me you’ve settled into the manor very well.”

“Yes. It’s an amazing home, and I love it. I understand Collin felt an obligation, but—”

“No buts.” Without hesitation, Clarice pushed that aside. “Of course he did, and rightfully. None of us knew about your father, about you. I understand Collin learned about him, and you, from Deuce not long before your father’s death. I’m very sorry you lost him, and sorry Collin felt unable to share he had a twin. It must have been painful for Collin.

“Thanks, Adele,” she said when the admin brought in the coffee.

“We’re all pleased you’re in the manor, and if it troubles you, I can assure you none of us wanted it. It’s beautiful, yes, and contains so much family history. But we’re all very settled in our own homes.”

“I’d hoped to talk to you about some of that history. I’ve just come from seeing Gretta Poole.”

“Oh.” Clarice took a sip of cappuccino. “That would’ve been difficult. We’ve tried to take turns going to see her since Collin had to put her in the center. It rarely goes well.”

Over another sip, Clarice studied Sonya, and seemed to come to some decision.

“I don’t remember her as a happy woman, and in the past several years her mental health has deteriorated.

“Even though he knew what she’d been a part of, that she wasn’t his biological mother, Collin looked after her as a son would. I’ll be frank, as that suits me best. I don’t know if I’d have been as generous or forgiving.”

“I think she felt, though I don’t agree, she had no choice. Her mother…”

“If you think I’d take offense at anything you say about Patricia Poole, don’t. This was her office. It’s mine now. She had her way of running the business, and the family for that matter. I have mine. We have two children, my husband and I. Teenagers, twins. I can’t imagine the heartlessness it took to separate the brothers. Except…”

She took another sip of coffee. “I knew Queen P very well, as I’ve worked for this company since I was sixteen—summers then, of course. She respected my business acumen, but made it clear she disapproved of Hank—my husband. She offered me a promotion and a ten-thousand-dollar bonus if I broke our engagement.”

“I see.”

“Bet you do.” Clarice smiled and drank more coffee. “She reluctantly respected my backbone. In any case, we got along because we both invested our time and talents in the family business. Then again, I didn’t know until well after her death what she’d done to the family.”

“She made Gretta pick.”

“I’m sorry?”

“She made Gretta pick which twin to keep, which to put up for adoption.”

“How do you know?”

“From what Gretta told me.”

Obviously surprised, Clarice sat back. “She told you about it?”

“Some of it. I think I opened the door by showing her this.”

She took out the compact.

“I—Patricia left me three pieces with that design. May I?”

Sonya handed Clarice the compact.

“This is such a surprise. I admired the lipstick case. She always carried it. And she told me it was part of a set her husband—Michael Poole—gave her for Christmas right before their engagement announcement. She never mentioned this piece. Where did you get it?”

“I found it in the manor. The mirror’s broken.”

“Yes, I see.”

“Gretta recognized it, too, and I was able to ask her some questions. Her mother told her to choose one baby, as only one was needed to continue the family line. And they would say Gretta had been engaged, but the fiancé died. The baby was his. It seems people believed that.”

“Not everyone,” Clarice murmured. “My mother didn’t. She knew Gretta, and I heard her—overheard her—talking to my aunt once, saying there was no way Gretta Poole had gotten away from her mother’s hawkeye long enough to get pregnant.

“I’m sure there was a lot of gossip and speculation about it back then, but by the time I was born, it had largely died out. Except for the occasional comment like my mother’s.”

She started to hand the compact back.

“You should have it,” Sonya told her. “It’s a set, after all.”

“Owen said I’d like you,” she replied. “I would very much like to have it, thank you. Not because it was Patricia’s, but because it’s a lovely set.”

“If there’s anything else in the manor you’d want, I hope you’ll tell me.”

“Here, at the company, we display history and tradition. My home, on the other hand? I like clean, simple lines. Contemporary.

“Collin saw to it I got what was most important to me, as he did with all of us. You have a small share of the company. If you want to take a more active part—”

“Oh, I absolutely don’t.”

“And I’m very pleased to hear that.” Laughing, Clarice finished off her cappuccino. “I’d have thrown you a bone, but we have a damn good rhythm around here. I will offer you a tour whenever you like.”

“Thanks. I have to get back now. I left a cat and a dog inside the manor. But I’m glad I finally came.”

“So am I. And thank you for this.” She set the compact down. “It not only completes the set, but I find the broken mirror very symbolic. The woman who owned it cared far too much about appearances.”

On the way out, Sonya texted Cleo, then stood in the brisk spring breeze and watched a group of people launch a boat into the bay. Curious, she moved around for a better view as they hauled the boat on some sort of wheeled platform down a long, slanted track.

Voices carried on the breeze as they worked. While she couldn’t hear the words, she caught the accents—pure Maine—a bark of laughter, what sounded like a sharp command.

By the time Cleo pulled up, white sails billowed, and the couple on the deck of the boat shouted and waved to the crew on the dry dock.

The boat glided on the waters of Poole’s Bay.

“I think I just saw someone take their first sail in their new boat.” Smoothing her hair back, she smiled at Cleo. “It’s a process.”

“I want that process with my own. And Clarice?”

“I liked her, Cleo. You’ll like her. She was wearing red On Cloud sneakers with—I’m pretty sure—a classic Armani suit. She probably has gorgeous Italian pumps at the ready. I gave her the compact.”

“You really did like her.”

“I did. She strikes me as the no-bullshit type.”

As Cleo drove, Sonya related the gist of the conversation.

“As strange as this has all been for you,” Cleo commented, “it’s been strange for all of them, too. Learning what Patricia and Gretta did, then having you take up residence, someone they never knew existed. I have a lot of respect for the way Owen’s handled that, and now I can spread that respect to Clarice Poole.”

“I’ll say she was relieved when she asked if I wanted a more active part in the family business and I gave her an unqualified no.”

“I bet. So two new Pooles for you today. And I’d say polar opposites. And now we’re home,” Cleo added as she pulled into the drive.

When they opened the door, Yoda wagged with his ball clamped in his mouth—no doubt courtesy of Jack. Pye leaped down from where she’d perched on the newel post, and from the tablet on charge in the library, Clover greeted them with the Isley Brothers’ “Shout.”

Yes, Sonya thought. Now we’re home.

The rest of the day flowed into a quiet night, and Sonya found her creative juices churning in the morning. Routine settled in, and she welcomed it with enthusiasm.

Neither she nor Cleo mentioned the quiet, as they agreed: Talk about it, jinx it.

On Saturday morning, they did discuss whether or not to go by the yard sale.

“God knows we don’t need anything. But.”

“But,” Cleo continued, “we go to show support, and because we’re part of Poole’s Bay.”

“Same book, same page. How about we plan to leave about two?”

“Okay. That gives me time to give my last illustrations another good look. Then I’m sending them off. Then?” Cleo swiped her hands together. “Done.”

“I want to see them. I’ll come up before we go. I need to do more testing on the Gigi’s job.”

“We have a plan.” As she filled her water bottle, Cleo looked at Sonya over her shoulder. “And it includes you having a little time, which you haven’t, with Trey.”

“He and Owen have been busy with their own work, then the whole yard-sale thing.”

“It shows character they’ve taken the time and trouble to repair some of the things that drunk son of a bitch damaged.”

“It does, and I’ve missed him. We can invite them to dinner tonight. I could do that scallop-pasta thing. It’s actually quick and sort of easy.”

“We can pick up the scallops on the way home, so part two of a plan. I’m going up to get to it.”

Before she did the same, Sonya checked the recipe. And reminded herself it sounded harder than it was. Mostly. She’d made it for her mother, so she could make it again.

Satisfied, she headed upstairs. As she and Yoda settled in, Clover used Def Leppard’s “When Saturday Comes” to communicate.

“Just a couple hours’ work. Then Cleo and I are going out for a while. And this Gigi’s job is going to rock just like Def Leppard.”

At just after one, thoroughly satisfied, she shut down to do her makeup. Then wandered up to Cleo’s studio.

“Perfect timing. I’m going to send these last six, and unless my editor has issues with them, I’ll be officially on sabbatical.”

Sonya came around the desk to study the work.

“Oh, Cleo, no one’s going to have an issue with this group of mermaids.”

“Gossip.”

“About what?”

“Anything at all works for me. But that’s what you call a group of mermaids. A gossip. Sexist, I know, but that’s the term.”

Cleo studied them herself, and smiled. “I liked the idea of them getting together, like a girls’ night out.”

“I love it, and this one, a family unit—the way he’s holding the little girl, and she’s cradling the baby. Oh, and this one! I swear you can see her hair moving in the current. Fire and water.”

“They’re going. When you know you’ve done the best you can do, you stop.”

“They’re amazing, and yes, send them.” She wandered to the windows. “I think we’re doing our best work here, Cleo. And I’m happier doing it.”

“I don’t disagree. I was happy in Boston, and fulfilled, too. But I’m happier and more fulfilled here. I’m going to paint my ass off, Son. I’ve got so many ideas.”

“Speaking of paintings, have you checked today?”

“Right before I sat down to look these over.”

“I might as well take another look before we go. Oh, and we need to pick up angel hair pasta. I think we have everything else. Maybe—”

She broke off when she opened the door. Her heart kicked up its beat until it pulsed in her throat, in her ears.

“Cleo, it’s Agatha.”

“And they’re off! What? But—”

She jumped up from her chair, rushed over. “Well, Jesus! Two—maybe three—hours ago, that wasn’t there.”

“It’s my dad’s work.” Now tears wanted to clog her throat. “I’d know that even without the signature. My father painted this, Cleo.”

“It’s like they’re taking turns.”

“I don’t know how this could be, but there it is. There she is. Agatha Winward Poole. The fourth bride.”

“It’s beautiful work. She’s… more stately than beautiful. The gown’s amazing. Look at that train, and the detail of the lace. A tiara over the veil. The diamonds actually sparkle.”

“She’s different from the others we’ve found. More regal, I’d say. But more than that, Johanna looks serenely happy, Clover almost giddy, and Lisbeth, well, sparkles like those diamonds. But she looks—”

“Smug.”

“That’s the word. Smug or not, she didn’t deserve dying on her wedding day. We’ll take her down, and when we get back, hang her portrait with the others.”

As they studied the portrait, Cleo draped an arm around Sonya’s shoulders.

“I hate it makes you sad.”

“I saw her die, and here she is, regal, proud, and yeah, smug. It is sad. And it’s strange and awful knowing if she hadn’t died, I wouldn’t have been born, would I?”

They carried the portrait down and propped it against the wall in the music room.

Being out on a sunny spring Saturday chased the sads away. When they arrived, the yard sale was already in full swing.

Up and down the block cars and trucks lined the quiet little street. People carried lamps, small tables, a toaster, chairs along the sidewalk.

More, a great deal more, milled around the yard, browsing or bargaining for items rigorously organized by type or use.

Corrine, with a floppy-brimmed hat over her hair, stuck orange dots on price tags— SOLD .

Anna sat at a folding table with a cashbox. Money changed hands briskly.

More women worked the crowd, laughing, counteroffering.

Sonya watched Trey and Owen muscle a sofa and carry it toward the sidewalk.

“Hey, cuties. Didn’t expect to see you today.”

“We wanted to see how it was going, and wow. Is there anything we can do to help?”

“Stop talking,” Owen suggested, “so we can cart this damn… damn good-looking sofa,” he amended as the woman leading the way turned, raised her eyebrows at him, “down to Ms. Bridge’s truck.”

“Dolly’s truck,” she said. “You graduated high school some time ago, Owen.”

“Ask Mom,” Trey said to Sonya. “I think they’ve more than got it, but she’d know.”

“You ask,” Cleo told her. “I’m going to browse.”

“Cleo.”

“Browse isn’t buying. Probably.”

Shaking her head, Sonya made her way through the people, the tables, to Corrine.

“What a turnout. Is there anything Cleo and I can do to help?”

“You already did. Word of mouth’s one thing, but those flyers you did? We’ve got people stopping by—and buying—who are staying at the hotel, even just passing through the village. Marlo’s going to have a nice nest egg, and your flyers made a difference.

“That fifty’s firm on those nightstands, Harry, so don’t even try. They’re a set and in good condition. Since Owen and Trey fixed them,” she muttered to Sonya.

“Look at this cute little purse!” Cleo came over with a cross-body bag. “You know I love a red purse. And it’s only twelve dollars.”

“Cleo, in all the years I’ve known you, I’ve never seen you carry a purse that small, except an evening bag. And even then.”

“It could happen. It’s red. It’s twelve dollars.”

“Ten for you,” Corrine told her.

“Sold.”

Sonya spent the next two hours—twice as long as intended—while Trey and Owen hauled nightstands—fifty dollars, firm—and side tables, an easy chair, and more. While Cleo hunted bargains, she chatted with people she knew, with others she’d just met.

And if she bought a few things as well, she told herself she did so to be supportive.

“You’re running out of stock,” she said to Trey when he had a minute.

“Yeah, it’s good to see. I had to tell her what Wes did, and she’s been pretty down. This is going to lift her up again.”

“If you and Owen aren’t worn out after this, come to dinner. Stay the weekend.”

“Dinner sounds great. The weekend even better. I’m sorry I haven’t had any time in the last few days.”

“For a good cause. I’m going to get Cleo away from here before she buys something else. Come up when you can.”

“Hey.” He pulled her in, kissed her on the lawn where strangers and neighbors, clients and family browsed what was left.

In the end, Trey and Owen helped load up the borrowed folding tables.

“Thanks, Mom, seriously.”

“Neighbors help neighbors, but you’re welcome. I’ll see the money’s deposited, and the firm can cut Marlo a check on Monday morning.”

“Great. Got a total there, mistress of the cashbox?”

“I do.” Walking over, Anna handed her mother the cashbox. “Three thousand, three hundred fifty-eight dollars and fifty cents.”

“That’s a damn nice haul,” Owen commented.

“It is, but that’s not all. And remind me whose idea it was to put out that giant pickle jar that said For Marlo and the kids , with their picture on it?”

Trey gave her a brotherly eye roll. “Yours.”

“That’s right, I nearly forgot. And I’m going to admit it wasn’t just hormones that had me tearing up when Bob Bailey stuffed a hundred in there. Fifteen hundred and eighty-three dollars—for a grand total of forty-nine hundred forty-one dollars and fifty cents.”

“Make that five thousand and whatever.” Owen dug out his wallet. “Hell, I’ve only got eighty-five on me. I’m keeping the five. Lend me twenty.”

With another eye roll, Trey pulled out his wallet, passed Owen twenty.

“And here’s another hundred and fifty-eight dollars and…” Trey dug in his pocket. “Fifty cents. That makes it an even fifty-two hundred.”

Teary, Anna kissed them both.

Seth jogged up. “Deuce and I got the trash bagged up and stowed in the back of the truck. What’s this?”

“With these last contributions, fifty-two hundred goes to Marlo.”

“Let’s make it fifty-five. Solid number.” He took out a money clip, peeled off bills.

“Show-off.”

Grinning at Owen, he passed the bills to his mother-in-law.

“You’re very good boys,” Corrine said. “I’m proud of you, and of my very good girl. Proud enough I’ll spring for pizza and a bottle of Chianti.”

“Baby girl says: Pizza, yum.”

When Anna put a hand on her baby mound, Seth laid his over it. “So do Mom and Dad.”

“Gotta rain check that, Mom,” Trey said. “Owen and I have an earlier invite to dinner at the manor.”

“What’re they making? Because,” Owen said, “pizza.”

“Don’t know. We need to get the dogs from Mom’s. I should probably clean up a little.”

“Clean up later. It’s past have-a-beer time.”

Because he couldn’t disagree, Trey didn’t argue.

When they arrived at the manor, both women rose from where they sat in the main parlor drinking wine.

“They’ve got adult beverages. I want an adult beverage.”

“We’ll get you that.” Sonya stopped Owen before he could head straight back to the kitchen. “We want to show you something first.”

She led the way to the music room.

“Another one.” Studying the portrait, Owen slipped his hands into his pockets.

“Bride number four,” Trey said.

“Agatha Winward Poole. Owen Poole’s—son of Marianne Poole—first wife. Died of anaphylactic shock via poisoned petits fours on her wedding day.”

“When did you find it?”

Sonya glanced over at Trey. “Right before we left for the village. The yard sale didn’t seem like the time or place to mention it.”

“No.” He moved closer. “That’s your father’s signature. The same as on Clover’s.”

“Yes, my father’s work. Cleo and I hung it there when we got back from the village.”

“She’s a looker. They all are,” Owen observed. “But this one’s got an edge to her. So, four down, three to go.”

“Maybe just two? We already have the portrait of Astrid.”

He shot Sonya a sidelong glance. “You’re a graphic designer. You know space better than that. Taking the width of these four, the spacing between. Three more.”

“I did notice that, and thought about it.”

“They have to paint them. Your dad, Collin. One each so far,” Cleo pointed out.

“Cleo had looked in the closet two hours or so before I did. Nothing there when she looked, then this. I’d almost forgotten what it’s like to be jolted like that. It’s been—not saying the Q word—workplace productive for a few days.”

“Take it when you can get it,” Owen advised. “Now I’m getting a beer. What’re we eating?”

“I hope you like scallops.”

“I’m a Mainer.”

“I assume that’s a positive for scallops.”

“All-around positive,” Trey assured her. “I haven’t really been able to talk to you, not in depth, about your visit to Gretta.”

“And dropping by Poole Shipbuilders.” Owen handed Trey a beer.

“I can head that up by saying Gretta’s difficult and sad, and Clarice and what I saw of Poole is great.”

“Can’t argue with either. Why is nothing cooking?”

“Here.” Cleo pulled a tray out of the refrigerator. “I did a charcuterie.”

“Fancy word.” Despite the fancy, he popped a slice of summer sausage. “Good.”

Between bites and sips, Owen set the table while Sonya began the process of cooking while having conversations.

She muttered Bree’s recipe’s warning as she sautéed the scallops.

“Do not overcook, do not overcook.”

“So Gretta recognized the makeup case?”

“Mmm.” She nodded at Trey. “And I think that’s how I was able to get her to say more about what happened with my father and Collin. A lot of pent-up rage there, which came out in the nasty drawing and a lot of f-bombs.”

“Who wouldn’t have rage, pressured to give up what she wanted, to pretend she’d given birth, to raise a child she didn’t want?”

Owen shrugged at Trey. “She could’ve said no. And yeah, yeah, nobody’s saying it was easy to say no to Patricia Poole, but she was an adult, and Jesus, had the advantage of money her mother couldn’t take away from her. If she’d had a spine and half a heart, she’d’ve taken both those kids and told the goddamn truth.”

“I’m going to agree with Owen.” Cleo gave Sonya’s back a quick rub. “It seemed to me she was blaming everyone but herself. Charlie, Clover, her mother. But she doesn’t take any of the responsibility.”

“She has dementia,” Trey began.

“True, but did she ever take responsibility?”

“No, not that I’ve ever heard,” Owen added. “But she is, and was, who she is and was. It’s too bad. There would’ve been plenty of Poole relations who’d have taken both kids.

“And fuck, sorry, Sonya. That sounds like I’m tossing your father’s parents aside.”

“No, it doesn’t. I understand what you meant, and it’s true. But we’ve said it before. My father got the happy end of that situation. Gretta played Collin’s mother out of duty, and under duty was that pent-up rage and resentment. And as far as I know, she never let that rage or resentment out, never took it out in an abusive way on Collin.”

“No.” Trey shook his head. “I’d have heard from my father if she had.”

“Flat,” Owen said. “That’s how I remember her. No real ups, no real downs. Just flat.”

“Because she gave up.” Cleo put a platter by the stove. “When she gave in to her mother, she didn’t just give up New York, she gave up everything.”

When they sat down to eat, Trey sampled a bite, then grinned at Sonya. “Hiding your talents.”

“More of a limited skill. But I’ve got this one down. It’s good.”

“It’s damn good. A damn good reward for a couple of long days.” Owen toasted her with his beer.

Clover chimed in with Bowie’s “Heroes.”

All in all, Sonya considered it one of the best weeks at the manor.

And though she woke at three, she didn’t walk. Instead, she stood with Trey at the glass doors and watched Hester Dobbs take her fall.