She led them up to start with the Victrola.
“That’s a nice piece.” Owen ran a hand over the wood cabinet. “In damn good shape, too.”
“I meant it, Owen. If you want something, it’s yours.”
“He can’t have the mermaid.”
Interest flickered as Owen turned to Cleo. “What mermaid?”
“She’s in another section—a floor lamp—but you can’t have her. She’s already mine. I’ll negotiate on the desk in case it has any sentimental meaning. I’ll go as far as rock, paper, scissors on the settee we already moved, but I stand firm on the mermaid.”
“Anything but the mermaid,” Sonya qualified. “I want to move the Victrola down to the music room. Unless you want it, Owen.”
“I’m good.”
They hauled it down, then the cabinet for sheet music while Sonya and Cleo carried boxes of old records.
The dogs trailed up, trailed down. Then sensibly wandered into the library to nap by the fire.
“That’s where I want to put Collin’s painting. Johanna’s portrait. I can find another place for the still life. If you need a break—”
“Sonya.” Trey set a hand on her shoulder. “We carried two pieces. I think we’ve got more in us.”
“We’ve got the mermaid, and a big desk. Cleo’s taking over Collin’s studio.”
“You paint?” Owen asked as they started back up.
“Now and then. I make a living illustrating.”
“What’s the difference?”
“How much time do you have?”
“Dumb it down.”
“Okay, condensed version.” She gestured to a painting as they walked. “Stands on its own, eye of the beholder. An illustration is connected to text, to serve a purpose, and—hopefully—they enhance each other.”
“Okay.”
They wound their way up, and to the mermaid.
“Okay,” Owen said again, with reverence. “Okay, she’s a beauty.”
“Mine.”
Ignoring Cleo, he ran his hand over the carving, the long fall of windswept hair, the knowing smile, the smooth breasts.
“She’s solid mahogany, Trey.” He glanced at Cleo. “What’s her name?”
Cleo had already given him points for helping Sonya, had added more for Jones. With the question, she doubled them. “Circe.”
“That works. Circe’s no lightweight.”
“The desk won’t be either,” Sonya warned.
“All right.” Rubbing his hands together, Trey nodded. “A challenge.”
“Somebody got it up there, so somebody can get it down.” Owen worked his way to it, crouched down to test the drawers. “Cherrywood, pristine. The wood’s a little thirsty. This and the mermaid need a good buff with paste wax. Don’t be using any supermarket spray shit on these pieces. Any of them. You can do the lemon oil, orange oil between, but once, maybe twice a year, you buff with a good paste wax.”
“We’ll get some.”
“None of my business.” Owen straightened, turned to Sonya. “But do you figure the two of you can maintain all this furniture the way it needs to be? Keep it dusted, protected? Not to mention the acres of wood floors?”
“No.” Sonya huffed out a breath. “No, I have to swallow getting a cleaning service. It’s on my list for next week, or the week after. I wish you’d take something, Owen. More than one something.”
As she spoke, a sheet slid slowly to the floor. Sonya gripped her elbows.
“That’s creepy. Come on, that’s just creepy.”
“Little bit.” But Owen walked over to the chest of drawers with the sheet now pooled at its feet. “Needs a little work. Got a handle missing. The bottom of this drawer’s cracked. Looks like some dog chewed on the front leg here. I’ll take it.”
“Really?”
“I can fix it. And maybe you’ll stop feeling so damn guilty.”
And with that, he earned more points on Cleo’s scoreboard.
“Look at the back, Owen.” Trey crooked a finger and grinned. “Somebody—probably a kid—carved his initials down at the bottom. ODP. Owen David Poole. Your initials, too.”
“Yeah, well. Like I said, I’ll take it. Let’s tackle the desk first. It’s going to be a bitch.”
It took some muscle, some geometry, and some inventive cursing. Sonya hugged one of the drawers to her chest as the men turned it, braced it, eased it into the studio.
“You deserve a lot more than beer.”
“Oh, oh, look at the way the light hits it! Can you put it over there?” Cleo ran ahead of them, spread her arms, swooped them down. “Right here, angled this way. Look how it’s already coming together in here. I’m going to name my firstborn Collin Oliver Owen.”
“You should put a painting on the easel, Cleo, when you’re not working there. It just adds. But,” Sonya added, “Johanna goes downstairs.”
Trey walked over to the portrait. “You said you found this in that closet?”
“Yes. Maybe it made him sad to look at it, so he put it away, but—”
“Sonya, I can’t count the number of times I’ve been in this studio. And I went through this space myself after Collin died. I’ve never seen this portrait before. And there wasn’t a painting in the closet. He stored blank canvases in there.”
“It was in there.”
“I believe you.”
“That’s Johanna.” Owen stepped over to stand by Trey. “I’ve seen pictures. Collin didn’t paint people much. Landscapes and that sort of thing.”
“That’s a shame,” Cleo said. “Because he had the talent for it. She’s beautiful. His use of light and lines and movement? Beautiful.” Sighing over it, Cleo tapped a hand on her heart. “He loved her. It shows.”
“It was in the closet,” Sonya said again.
“Then I’d say he wanted you to have it.” Trey turned to her. “Let’s get the rest of what you want moved, then we can talk about it over that beer.”
Sonya pressed her fingers to her eyes. “Are you always this calm?”
“Mostly he is,” Owen told her. “But if you push the wrong button, step back.”
It took well over another hour, then an outdoor break for the dogs, before they gathered in the kitchen.
“That took a while.” Cleo got a bottle of wine while Sonya poured beer into pilsners. “And we owe you more than the beer. I don’t suppose anyone cooks.”
“He cooks better than I do,” Trey replied.
Considering, Cleo looked at Owen. “You cook?”
“Somewhat above average.”
“That’s about where I hit, which is a full step up from Sonya. I can make a pasta thing.”
“I could eat a pasta thing.”
“All right then. I’m going to see what we’ve got around here.”
“I am going to cook—for the Doyles.” Decision made, Sonya thought. “How about next Friday night? Or Saturday?”
Trey took out his phone, studied his calendar. “Friday looks clear. Anna and Seth have a thing Saturday.”
“You have everyone’s schedule on there?”
“He’s an organizer.” Owen took a counter stool. “Whether you want him to be or not.”
“Just avoids scheduling conflicts. I’ll pass the word.”
“Let me know if that works for everyone. I think seven’s good. Owen, you’re more than welcome.”
“I’ll let you have this Doyle thing, but thanks.”