“Call me Deuce. Mr. Doyle or Oliver can get confusing around here.”
“Deuce. You said before she—Patricia—refused to live in the manor, closed it up for years. Why didn’t she just sell it?”
“For the simple reason it wasn’t hers to sell. Michael left it to his son Charles, and he, in turn, to his brother, Lawrence.”
“All right. I’m going to take a good look at that book, and the family tree. Is the daughter—the woman who raised Collin—still alive?”
“She is, but she’s not well. Alzheimer’s, which spawned dementia. She’s in a memory care facility in Ogunquit. Though she no longer knew him, Collin visited her twice a month. She was a dutiful mother,” Deuce said again, “and an unhappy woman, one who suffered from depression, migraines, and as she grew older, extreme social anxiety.
“Patricia Poole cast a long shadow.”
“I can see that.”
Just as she began to see a troubled, tangled family dynamic.
“I’m grateful for all you’re doing, and for trying to help me understand what’s obviously a complicated family history.”
“You’re my closest friend’s niece. I’m more than willing to answer any questions I can. As I did with your grandfather.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Your father’s father contacted me. He and your grandmother are understandably upset to learn their son had a brother, that they weren’t informed at the time of the adoption.”
“Angry, too. I know.”
“Also understandable. But more, at this point, my sense is their concern’s for you. That you’re safe here, and looked after.”
“Oh, well—”
“I’m going to have my first grandchild.” He beamed when he said it. “So I have a glimmer of that concern. We had a productive conversation. All in all, Sonya, I think your father was the more fortunate brother. I don’t think you’d describe your grandmother as a dutiful mother to her son.”
“No, I wouldn’t. Loving and supportive, of him, of my mom, of me. I’ll call my grandparents when I get back to the manor.” She got to her feet. “I need a little more time to find my bearings, but I’d like to have you—your family—come to dinner one night.”
“We’d enjoy that very much.”
“Possibly. I’m not much of a cook, but I’ll figure out something. Oh, and one more thing. I need to find those bearings, but if I stay, I think I want to get a dog. I like the quiet, don’t mind being solo, but sometimes it’d be nice to have some noise and companionship. Is there an animal shelter, or an animal rescue in the area?”
“There is. Trey’s dog is a local rescue. I can get you that information.”
“I appreciate it.” She held out a hand. “I really do.”
“You took a leap, Sonya. I appreciate that.”
When he walked her out, a man sat at the second desk. About her age, she judged. A very cute man in a sports coat and sweater, his black hair in short twists.
Another man stood looking over his shoulder, and there was no mistaking the resemblance. This Doyle looked like a lawyer from the top of his full mane of hair—white as fresh snow—to the tips of his polished Oxfords. He wore a very sharp gray, three-piece, chalk-stripe suit.
“Now, that’s what we’re after, Eddie!” He gave the man at the desk a slap on the shoulder.
He looked over, pushed his black-framed glasses back up his nose, and gave Sonya a long look.
“You must be Sonya MacTavish.” He strode over, grabbed her hand in a quick clutch and shake. “Ace Doyle. You’re a looker, aren’t you?”
She’d never thought of herself that way, but felt her smile spread. “You sure are.”
He laughed, a big boom of one. “Quick, too.”
He had those blue eyes, no less gorgeous behind bifocals, with those sharp black brows over them. He had to be in his late seventies, maybe early eighties, but as with his son, she’d have cut a decade off.
“How are you liking the manor? Everybody up there treating you all right?”
“I like it very much, but it’s just me.”
He winked at her. “It’s never just you in Lost Bride Manor.”
“Ace.”
And just grinned at his son. “Hell, ghosts are just people who aren’t ready or able to move on or recycle. You can bet I’m going to haunt this place after my time comes.” He pointed at Sadie. “Get used to it.”
“You already haunt this place.”
At her dry response, he let out another boom.
“You give me a call next time you’re coming into the village. I’ll take you to lunch. I like taking pretty girls to lunch. Keeps me sharp. Eddie, say hello to Sonya, Collin Poole’s niece. Eddie’s my latest victim.”
He said, “Hello,” and grinned at her. “Ace, you’ve got that conference call in five minutes.”
“Work, work, work.” He gave Sonya’s hand another clutch and squeeze. “Don’t you be a stranger.”
He strode out on a wave of energy.
“Well,” Sonya began, “he’s—”
“A character?” Deuce finished.
“I was going to say amazing.”
“And another falls under his spell. Be careful. He’ll end up getting your life story and deeply buried secrets out of you inside of five minutes.”
“I bet he would. Thanks again. I’d better get back to my haunted manor.”
She realized as she went out that she’d only been half joking. And that she’d better shake that off.
* * *
After checking the time, Deuce walked back, past his father office, past his son’s assistant’s office where Jill clicked away at a keyboard, and into what had been the kitchen when he’d grown up in the house.
Now, transformed, it served as his son’s office, with a view of the backyard through the windows. Trey sat at a desk Collin had given him when Trey passed the bar. A desk from the manor’s attic, and one Trey had lovingly refinished himself.
Trey held up his index finger as he talked on the phone, so Deuce took a seat. As he did, the dog dozing beside the desk got up, stretched heroically, then walked over for a pet.
Even as he scratched the dog between the ears, he could see his mother at the old stove, stirring up oatmeal she claimed would stick to his ribs before he walked to school. See himself sitting with his father at the kitchen table having his first (legal) beer.
See himself and Collin sneaking cookies from the jar on the counter.
Now where the counter had been, a shelf held law books.
A good old house, he thought, and as a good old house should be, full of memories. It served a new purpose now, made new memories now, and had for nearly as long as his son had been alive.
And he was glad of it.
Trey hung up, puffed out a breath. “Heidi Gish got another speeding ticket.”
“Lead foot.”
“She wants to take it to court and sue the state trooper who clocked her doing ninety-four because, she claims, he was rude. She’s going to have her license suspended this time. She doesn’t want to hear it, or that, this time, it’s going to cost her more to try to fight it than to suck it up.
“Anyway. How’s your day going?”
“I just met with Sonya.”