Shakira’s infidelity song, “Don’t Bother,” sang from the phone in Sonya’s pocket.
“Oh, I agree.” Winter laughed with it. “My girl will be just fine.”
“I think you and Clover would’ve gotten along.”
“Enough that however strange it is, I like knowing she’s watching out for you. You take care of yourself. You’re my favorite daughter.”
“You drive safe, and text me when you get home.” They hugged hard, swayed with it. “You’re my favorite mother.”
“Bye, sweet doggie.” Bending, she gave Yoda rubs and kisses. “And you tell the guy you’re dating I expect to meet him the next time I’m here.”
“I will. And, Mom? I love knowing you and Dad had magic.”
“The magic made you. Stay happy.”
Sonya watched her go as Yoda danced in the doorway and whined.
“I know, but she’ll come back. And if I visit there, I’ll take you with me. But we’re good here.”
She looked down at him as they both stood in the open doorway. She felt spring creeping into the air.
“I was going to wear you out with a game of tug—though that takes some doing. Then I was going to work until I had leftover chicken for dinner. You know what?”
Obviously riveted, he angled his head and stared up at her.
“Screw work. It’s Sunday afternoon. I’m going to grab a jacket—don’t need more today—and that ball I bought last time I was in the village. We’re going to take a walk, and play ball. When we’re done with that, we’re going to come in and snuggle right up with a book—unless we feel more like a movie.”
She bent down. “What do you say to that?”
Since he raced in circles, she decided he felt fine about it.
“You hang on a minute.”
She got a jacket, the little red ball.
They worked on fetch—he resisted bringing the ball back—in the slushy snow.
As they played, the shadow moved across the window. Watching.
Glancing up, Sonya shielded her eyes with the flat of her hand. On impulse, she raised her other in a wave.
And saw the shadow move.
She had no doubt in that moment, it waved back.
“All right then,” she said aloud, and nodded. “Okay.”
When she heard a bang, she looked to the third floor. She watched the windows in the Gold Room fly open, slam shut.
Yoda let out three snapping barks.
“I agree,” Sonya told him, and shot up a middle finger.
Deliberately, she turned her back to the windows, threw the ball for Yoda again.
“Watch how much we give a tiny damn about you.”
By the end of the fetch session, the windows stopped banging, and she’d managed to train Yoda to not only bring the ball back, but drop it in her hand.
“Such a good boy, such a smart boy. You deserve a treat.”
In full agreement, he swung into his happy circles before racing her back to the house.
Clover greeted her with Fogerty’s “Wicked Old Witch.”
“Bet your ass she is.”
And yet, Sonya thought as she went back to the kitchen to get Yoda his treat, other than ringing the bells, moving the hands on the clock, the house had stayed mostly quiet during her mother’s visit.
After making herself some tea, she settled down in the library with her book while Yoda napped.
Clover played a medley of artists and eras, and Sonya read about the hunt for a serial killer who collected the eyeballs of his victims.
“Gruesome,” she said as she closed the book. “I loved it.”
As she gave some vague thoughts to dinner and a movie, Trey texted.
Why do weddings suck up an entire weekend? Wedding brunch this morning, then I’m pulled into a post-wedding drinks and dinner where I’m limited to one beer as DD, driving my grandparents home. If we ever leave.
Hope your weekend with your mom required less energy.
Can I take you to dinner tomorrow?
Weddings are a once-in-a-lifetime event. Everyone hopes, anyway. Had a great weekend with my mom, wherein I stunned her with my success with Bree’s recipe. I owe the chef major thanks. And you can absolutely take me to dinner tomorrow.
Congrats. I’ll shoot to get to you by seven.
How were Great-aunt Marilyn and Great-uncle Lloyd?
Marilyn and Lloyd were, and are, in their usual form. Only sharpened by the fact Anna and my cousin Liam’s wife, Gwen, are both pregnant. I’ve got to get back to the table. See you tomorrow night.
Too soon to sign off with a heart emoji, she decided. After some internal debate she admitted fell on the silly side, she settled on a smiley face with red lips and long eyelashes.
When you had to fret over emojis, she thought, your dating skills needed honing.
Down in the kitchen again, she fed the dog, warmed up some leftovers. When the I’m home text from her mother came through, no need to fret over emojis.
She treated herself to a face mask, opted to go all in with a hair mask, then a long, indulgent shower.
By nine, in her pajamas, she snuggled down on the second floor of the library with Yoda. After the serial killer, she leaned toward something light as a palate cleanser.
With some regret, she scrolled past several horror movies and settled on a comedy.
And by ten, she’d drifted off to sleep. Shortly after, into dreams.
Chapter Twenty-two
The mirror glowed. Its glass blurred with color and movement. Around its frame, the predators’ eyes seemed to gleam.
Dimly, she heard music, voices, a quick, bright laugh.
She stepped through.
And stood in the ballroom under the brilliant light of a trio of chandeliers.
Rather than shrouded furniture crowding the space, divans and chairs in deep colors ran along the walls, and the floors shined under that sparkling light.
An orchestra played. Harp, violin, flute, what she thought might be a piccolo. And yes, she recognized the piano from the music room.
Men wearing waistcoats and high collars danced with women in long gowns, many with elaborate sleeves, bell-shaped skirts. Some women wore feathers in their hair, or elaborate pins.
Jewels glittered as the dancers circled the room in a waltz.
Others sat in the seats tucked back against the walls. More stood with drinks in hand by tables ladened with food.
Crystal flutes of champagne sparkled under the light that showered from the chandeliers.
She saw the bride, regal in her white gown, the satin, the lace, the tiara crowning her black hair.
A man—tall, dark blond hair, sharp jawed, Poole-green eyes—took her hand, kissed her knuckles.
She handed her champagne glass to a servant, then glided onto the dance floor with him.
They made a striking couple as they turned, twirled. He, smile content, looked at her face. But she, Sonya noted, shifted her gaze to take in the room.
To see who watched, to see who admired.
Rather than the radiant smile of a new bride, hers seemed smug, haughty.
When the dance ended, he kissed her hand again.
“Shall I take you down to supper, Mrs. Poole?”
“Not yet, not quite yet, Mr. Poole. We’ll have a ball when the holidays come, shall we? Perhaps a masquerade ball at the turn of the year. How fine it all looks.”