The road wasn’t bad either, she noted as she carefully navigated the curves. At some point, she needed to check out the garage and the truck in it. But her car held its own just fine.
She had a solid ninety minutes before her appointment, so she’d make good use of it.
She liked the hints of the bay, the village as she drove down, and noted the white, red-capped lighthouse on the far point beyond it.
Something worth another visit—maybe in warmer weather. Today, she’d find a place to park, pop into a few of the stores. Meet some people, buy a little something, as supporting local shops mattered.
Maybe grab some lunch. She wondered if the pizzeria served it by the slice. She’d like a slice of pizza.
She’d drive down to the bay, take some photos. Potentially for Anna’s website—hell, maybe her own. But also to send to her mother, to Cleo.
As she drove into the village, she let out a happy sigh. Just what she needed. People, places, movement. After only a couple days in the manor, she’d begun to understand how easily it would be to become a recluse—as her uncle had.
With everything right there—the space, the views, winter roaring outside—why not stay in the warm and the quiet?
And talk to yourself, she thought.
Whoever took charge of street cleaning had done the job, and she parked at the curb in front of the bookstore.
She’d make a note of town businesses, check their websites, their online presence.
A woman with a two-story library hardly needed books, but to Sonya’s mind nothing held the pulse of a community like a bookstore.
She studied the sign—well done, good graphics—then climbed the trio of steps to the covered porch. Chimes rang as she opened the door.
It smelled of books, coffee, and fresh orange peel.
The long counter to her left held the coffee station, a checkout station, and a workstation with a monitor. To the right, books lined freestanding bookcases, made clever stacks on tables. Along with them stood spinners of bookmarks, greeting cards.
A woman with streaky brown hair worn in a bouncy tail looked up from the monitor. “Hi, welcome to A Bookstore. Can I help you find anything?”
“I thought I’d look around.” She walked to the counter, held out a hand. “I’m Sonya MacTavish. I’m living up at the manor.”
“Collin Poole’s niece.” The woman pushed off her stool, took Sonya’s extended hand. “It’s great meeting you! Diana Rowe. Everyone’s been wondering when you’d come into the village. How about some coffee, tea, hot chocolate? On the house.”
“I’d love some coffee.”
“The white chocolate mocha’s our flavor of the month.”
“Who am I to say no to that? It’s a great store.”
“There’s more in the back. Books, of course,” she said as she went to the coffee station. “And sidelines. Soy candles made locally, Tshirts, book bags. Feel free to look around. Here’s my partner. Anita, it’s Collin Poole’s niece, Sonya.”
“Oh! I see it. You’ve got your uncle’s eyes. Welcome to Poole’s Bay.”
“Thanks.”
Anita had a thick, soft fall of light brown hair and a firm handshake.
“Are you settling in? The manor’s an amazing place.”
“It is. I’m starting to settle.”
“The library,” Anita said in tones of reverence.
“My favorite room.”
“Collin was a big reader.” Diana brought the coffee around the counter, offered it. “He used to come in at least once or twice a month. Not so much in the last few years.”
“He’d call in an order,” Anita continued. “Deuce Doyle—I know he’s handling the estate, so you’ve met him—would pick them up and take the books to him. Or Trey would—Deuce’s son—if he couldn’t make it.”
“I know you never met him,” Diana said, “but he was really well-liked. We just loved him, didn’t we, Anita?”
“We did, and we miss him. Why don’t we show you the rest of the store?”
When the door opened, bells chiming, Diana waved them off. “I’ve got this.”
“You’re a graphic designer, isn’t that right?”
“That’s right. Oh, this is wonderful.”
Two cozy chairs faced an electric fireplace. More books, a section for kids with some pint-sized chairs. An open corner cabinet displayed the local candles, diffusers. Another held colorful Tshirts and book bags.
“You’ve got more space than I thought from outside. And you’ve managed to make it cozy.” After a sip of coffee, Sonya lifted her eyebrows. “Where’s this been all my life?”
“Diana’s got a knack. The coffee’s locally roasted. Poole’s Bay supports Poole’s Bay. Have you met your cousins yet?”
“No.”
“You’ve barely had time to unpack. The Pooles still build the best wooden sailing ships in Maine—in my opinion. Fiberglass boats and so on, too, but they keep up the founder’s tradition.
“I’ll let you browse. Just call on me or Diana if you need anything.”
The woman with a two-story library ended up leaving with three books, two bookmarks, and a pretty bag to carry them in.
She got her slice of pizza—solid A—and sat at the counter chatting with the man on duty who tossed dough to the approval of the lunch crowd.
She stopped in the gift shop that carried Anna’s pottery, had yet another conversation about her uncle with the assistant manager, who sold her one of Anna’s pots. An actual pot that would display Xena perfectly.
Another stop netted her a hand-knit scarf she didn’t need but was oh so soft and pretty. Plus, another contact, another conversation before she drove down to the bay.
She stood in the winter wind, taking pictures, watching boats and buoys bounce in the waves. And she marveled at the sight of the manor high up on the cliffs to the north.
And to the south, with the lighthouse above, the weathered brick buildings that housed Poole Shipbuilders.
Another day, she thought—maybe. How could she be sure how her “cousins” felt about her inheritance?
She’d give that some time, give them some space.
Maybe Oliver Doyle could give her a little better feel for that, and them.
She glanced at the time on her phone.
And no time like the now to find out.
In a fresh gust of wind, she walked back to her car to drive to her appointment.
Chapter Nine
The beauty of small towns, Sonya discovered, was you’d have to work hard to get lost.
One block west across High Street, and she was there.
The law office stood on the corner inside another Victorian.
Not with the size and scale of the manor, she noted, but absolutely charming.
They’d gone a sagey green for the cladding, cream for the trim on the fanciful three-story. A covered porch stood on one side of the entrance doors and an angled turret on the other.
Peaked roofs, a pair of dormers, what she thought of as kind of a half turret on the far side of the third floor.
Trey’s apartment, she thought, and it would have a wonderful view of the bay, the point, the lighthouse.
They’d provided a space for parking, but since it seemed nearly full, she pulled up to the curb and wound her way up the path to the short stairs with their twin rails to the entrance.
No doubt it had once been a home, and if it remained one, she’d have knocked. But thinking business, she tried the door.