“Oh, I’m sorry.”

  “Just a cold.” He hauled out her two suitcases as if they weighed nothing. “But my mother laid down the law. Is this it?” He gestured to the three boxes she’d sealed and labeled.

  “That’s it.”

  “I’ll come back for them.”

  She nodded, looked back at the house. “It makes a statement.”

  “What does it say to you?”

  “I’m here,” she said as they carried the first load to the entrance. “I see. I know. And I’m spectacular.”

  She stopped, looked out. “You can see the bay, the marina, the village. Oh, there’s a boat way out there. I’m surprised you can’t see Greenland. I hope my room faces the sea.”

  He gave her a curious look. “You’ve got your pick, but we figured you for the master, and it does face the sea.”

  “God, look at these doors!” She ran her hand over the deep carving.

  “Original. Arthur Poole—also the original—had the mahogany shipped over and built them himself.”

  “Really?” Two hundred years, she thought. She’d wanted history, and here it stood, right under her hand. “Well, they’re amazing, and obviously built to last.”

  She stepped inside, and attributed the sudden buzz in her ears, the quick shiver of energy to excitement.

  The floors of the wide foyer gleamed as they led the way to a staircase she could only call grand, as four people could have walked up abreast. A massive iron chandelier showered down light from its three tiers.

  A pair of ladder-back chairs with tapestry seats flanked a long table by the wall between two doorways. It held a collection of pewter candlestands. Above it hung mirrors of varying shapes and sizes.

  Across from the table needlepoint pillows plumped on a curved settee in peacock blue. The painting above it held a woman, young, her pale blond hair worn up and graced with flowers. Diamonds glittered at her ears, and a necklace of teardrop sapphires draped around her neck.

  She wore a long, white, high-waisted gown embroidered at the hem and the cuffs of puffed sleeves. At first glance, Sonya thought her hands ringless. Then she saw a gold band on her left hand, a diamond on her right.

  “Astrid Grandville Poole. The first bride. There’s a fire in the front parlor.” He gestured to the right, to the doorway beyond the portrait. “I’ll get the rest of your things.”

  She nodded and stood where she was, texting her mother and Cleo as she studied the painting.

  You could sense the movement in the skirt, she thought—that was the artist’s skill. Had he meant to paint her with sadness in her eyes? Eyes as blue as the sapphires she wore.

  And the way she stood, the way she held a small bouquet down at her side, the pink and white rosebuds pointing down?

  She felt that sorrow, a wave of it, as it seemed those sapphire eyes looked into hers.

  She turned as he brought the last of her things in.

  “How did she die?”

  Shrugging out of his parka, he looked up at the portrait.

  “She was murdered—stabbed—on her wedding day.”

  “The lost bride,” she murmured. “No wonder she looks so sad.”

  “Her husband had it painted and hung there so anyone coming into the manor would see her, and remember.”

  “I take it he didn’t kill her.”

  “No, a jealous woman. Let me take your coat.”

  “Thanks. Oliver—”

  “Trey,” he told her. “My grandfather’s Ace, my dad’s Deuce. I’m Trey.”

  “Clever.” The wave of sadness passed; amusement followed. “And simpler than Oliver one, two, and three. Trey, did you know Collin Poole—my uncle?”

  “Sure. He was actually a kind of uncle to me, and my sister. He was family. I’m just going to put the coats with your things for now, but there’s a closet in the front sitting room. Collin used it for coats and outdoor gear.”

  “There’s a front parlor and a front sitting room?”

  “If you’re after open concept, you won’t find it here. What you’ve got is a labyrinth. I’ll take you through. Where do you want to start?”

  “Might as well start here.”

  She turned into what he’d called the front parlor.

  She found it surprisingly cozy given its size, and the fire crackling away inside an elaborate dark wood framed fireplace added cheerful.

  A trio of windows offered views of the snow-covered lawn, the stone seawall, and the sea beyond it.

  Another chandelier—iron again, but considerably smaller—dropped from a ceiling medallion. The sofas, chairs, all softly faded, would easily seat twenty. Like the floors, the tables gleamed. As did a piano tucked in a corner.

  “Did he play? Collin.”

  “He did, and pretty well. Do you?”

  “‘Chopsticks’ is the top of my game.” But she ran her hand over the piano as she wandered the room. “Do you?”

  “I can fake some boogie-woogie if I’ve had enough beer. Most of the paintings in here are Collin’s work.”

  He’d painted the sea in myriad moods.

  “Your father was an artist.”

  “Yes. Their styles are very similar. I don’t know if that’s comforting or disconcerting.”

  “It’s a lot to deal with.”

  She heard comfort in his voice, and took it. “Working on it. So, this is a friendly room. I didn’t know what to expect.”

  “Through here’s another, smaller sitting room, then the solarium.”

  He led the way.

  “Oh! The base of the turret. It’s wonderful. They didn’t square it off.”

  The tall, rounded windows poured light into the room. It held deeply cushioned chairs in that same peacock blue, a love seat in that strong blue with rose-colored stripes. Tables she thought must be antique.

  And plants. A potted tree that dripped with what looked like tiny oranges, another with lemons. Another plant with glossy leaves showcased a pair of large white flowers.

  She recognized a jade plant, as her mother had one, but the one gracing a stand was fully three times as big.

  “So much light even on a day like this. Now I’m terrified I’ll kill the plants.”

  “Collin had a knack for them.”

  “I’m sorry.” She straightened from sniffing at one of the white blooms, so fragrant it made her heart sigh. “I should’ve said it before. You were close, and it’s a loss for you.”

  “Thanks. It is.”

  They continued on. Another parlor, another space he called the morning room, a music room with another piano—a baby grand this time, and other instruments including a floor harp, a hurdy-gurdy, a cello.

  “Collected by various Pooles over the years,” Trey explained. “In a lot of ways the house is a museum of your family history. Formal dining room.”

  “I’ll say. Jeez.”

  A dozen tall, curved-back chairs lined each side of the massive table, while two more stood at each end. Another fireplace, fire simmering. And still the room had space enough for a pair of huge buffets. Art and mirrors ranged along the walls papered with fat white geraniums over deep blue.

  She imagined that the pair of candelabras serving as table centerpieces were actual silver.

  “You know, I was nervous the entire drive up here. Couldn’t even eat any of the snickerdoodles my neighbor gave me for the trip.”

  “You have snickerdoodles?”

  “I do.” He made her laugh a little. “I’ll share as your fee for this tour. But I want to say those nerves disappeared at my first sight of the house. Now they’re back. Big-time back.”

  “Not a formal-dinner-party-for-twenty kind of woman?”

  “More a let’s-order-pizza sort. I don’t suppose the pizza place I saw in town delivers up here.”

  “Ah…”

  “I was afraid of that. It’s a beautiful room. In a terrifying way.”

  He led her through another door.

  “Oh. Hear my sigh of relief.”

  “Family dining room and kitchen. The kitchen was put in sometime in the twenties, I think. Collin updated it. A couple of times.”

  “But it still fits the house, doesn’t it? Not in-your-face modern. And a little fireplace.”

  She moved past the pretty table and its sensible eight chairs into a kitchen with dark wood cabinets, some with pebbled glass fronts, against walls that reminded her of the forest shadows. The white appliances kept it from looking too sleek. He’d contrasted the dark cabinetry with cream on the island. Counters of pale gray covered it, and ran alongside a deep farm sink.

  “He was a hell of a good cook.”

  “Really?”

  “Oh yeah. He and my mom—also a hell of a good cook—used to exchange recipes. You cook?”

  “That depends on your definition of cook.”

  “Yeah.” He slipped his hands into his pockets. “I fall into that category. Fortunately, my friend’s the head chef at the Lobster Cage in the village, and I can mooch off my parents, my grandparents. Anyway, we stocked the fridge and butler’s pantry.”

  “There’s a butler’s pantry.” Overwhelmed, she blew out a breath.

  “With a dumbwaiter.”

  “Get out!”

  She turned into the ell of the main kitchen. More cabinets, another sink, a wine cooler and ice maker under the counter.

  Trey opened one of the lower cabinets.

  “He had it updated, but wanted to keep the original feel. It goes down to what was the original kitchen.”

  He pressed a button, and the bottom lowered with a mechanical hum.

  It made her laugh. “It’s my first dumbwaiter. What did he use it for?”

  “He renovated some of the servants’ area.” After pressing the button to bring it back up, Trey closed the cabinets. “He made use of a lot of the space.”

  “He must’ve loved the house. Thanks for stocking me up. I didn’t expect you to do all that.”

  “No problem. Especially since I’m going to bum a Coke.”

  “Bum one for me while you’re at it.” She walked back into the kitchen, to the window over the sink. “So a deck over the—is it a basement?”

  “Not the actual basement, no. Collin added that, a kind of apartment. Self-contained. He had a couple—housekeeper, handyman—living here until about six, seven years ago, I guess. They retired, and he never had anyone else live in. Want a glass?”

  “No, the bottle’s fine.”

  “I’ve got a list of names for that kind of thing. Cleaning, repair, yard work.”

  “Oh, I wasn’t thinking about hiring anyone.”

  “It’s a big house,” he pointed out. “You’ll probably close some rooms off, but it’s a big house. You’ve got a snowblower and a lawn tractor in the little shed, but it’s a lot of work.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  They wound their way back to the front of the house. Another powder room—she’d made use of the first they’d come to. A den—and the first television she’d seen in the place.

  “Did he game?” she asked, noting the system.

  “Not really. He put that in for me and my sister, our pals.”

  “You spent a lot of time here.”

  “After his wife died…”

  “Another lost bride.”

  “Yeah. Before, Dad says Collin was outgoing. He liked to travel. You’ve seen some of his art is of Europe, or out west, all over. But after, he closed in. He liked having us come—my family, and some of my friends, Anna’s. But he hardly left the house, the grounds, especially in the last few years. If he wanted to go somewhere, he’d go on the internet. That’s what he used to tell me. He used this as his office.”

  She could work here, Sonya thought as she stepped in. A good desk, space for her mood boards, a fireplace for warmth and cheer. Decent light—or it would be on clear days. What she assumed was a closet for storing supplies.

  Then she saw it, over the fireplace.

  The manor in the magical glow of a full moon. Moody and brilliant, the subtle light, the deep shadows, the gleam against glass in the turrets.

  “That’s my father’s work.”

  Her voice felt tight in her throat as she moved closer.

  “Are you sure? I don’t see how—”

  “I know my father’s work. This is his signature. MacT—that’s how he signed his work. Bottom left corner. It’s right there.”

  “I see that. I never noticed before.” As he spoke, Trey laid a hand on her shoulder. “I always assumed Collin painted it. I didn’t read thoroughly through the inventory.”

  “When did he get this? How long did he have this?”

  “I don’t know. As long as I remember. My father may know. I’ll ask.”

  “He had dreams of this place,” Sonya murmured.

  “Dreams?”

  “My mother told me, recurring dreams. She told me after I showed her the photos of the manor. He did sketches. I have them with me. But she didn’t remember him ever painting it.

  “But he did.” She said it quietly. “He did, and it’s here. Right here.”

  She took a step back. “Comforting or upsetting? Somewhere in between.”

  “I didn’t know about your father either, or you, until Collin died. But I have to think he kept that painting in here—his private space—because it mattered. He wanted you to have this, because it mattered.”

  As simple and true as that, she thought, and nodded.

  “I can wish he’d reached out to us before he died, but that doesn’t change anything. I guess … let’s see the rest.”

  He took her through the rest of the first floor, then picked up her suitcases. “In your room?”

  “Yeah, thanks.” She took the weekender. “It’s a lot.” She breathed out. “It’s just a lot.”

  He paused on the landing, pressed a hand to the wall.

  It opened.

  “What! Secret passage?” Sheer delight poured back. “Well, hot damn.”

  “Not exactly. Back when for the servants. The kitchen, their dining hall, their work spaces, downstairs. Their living quarters were up on the third floor, north wing.”

  “Wing,” she murmured. “The place has wings.”

  “You can get more of the history from my father, but I’m pretty sure they stopped using it for that purpose in the thirties. Collin put a media room down below.”

  “A media room.”

  “He liked movies, and the dumbwaiter came in handy there. There’s a gym down there, too. He kept fit. Upstairs is either closed off or used for storage. The Pooles collected a lot over a couple hundred years.”

  He gave her that quiet smile. “I thought seeing this would cheer you up.”

  “Good call. I’m not sad—not really. A little overwhelmed. Bullshit. A lot overwhelmed. What am I going to do with all this space?”

  “Use what works for you, close off the rest.”

  “A practical man.”

  “Mostly. So, second floor, bedrooms, including the main, with its own bath—Collin again. A couple of the other rooms have their own baths, and there’s another full one, a sitting room. And my personal favorite.”

  He opened a set of pocket doors to what she knew would be a turret room. And she gasped.

  Chapter Six

  Under a soaring ceiling, a two-story library had bookcases on its rounded wall full of books. Over the massive stone fireplace, the thick, carved wood of the mantel held candlestands of varying height. Centered between them, a mantel clock, its oval face framed in wood, ticktocked the time.

  Stairs wound up to the second story. Through the arched windows she saw a light snow had begun to fall.

  Window seats offered cozy nooks for reading, deep chocolate–colored leather sofas a place to sprawl with a book or take a nap.

  Centered in the room, a big, beautiful old desk, gently curved, sat on a round carpet of muted pinks and greens.

  “It’s—it’s everything. I could live in here, and I just found my studio.”

  “Graphic art, right?”

  “Mmm. Maybe it’s anachronistic to set a computer on that amazing desk, but that’s just what I’m going to do. I love everything about it. The—what do you call it—millwork? All thick and carved and dark, the soaring ceiling. Jesus, counting the second story, it’s as big—probably bigger—than my entire house. I need a big screen. Not on the wall. I wouldn’t touch these walls. I’ll get a stand.”

  “There’s a big-ass flat-screen upstairs.”

  “Get out!” She ran over and up. “This is it! I figured on taking one of the bedrooms or parlors or maybe Collin’s office to set up. But this?”

  Grinning, she looked over the rail, down at him.

  “Is it?”

  “It is. I’ll make this work. I can make this work. Your favorite?” She turned a circle before coming down again. “My favorite. By a mile.”

  “That’s how you looked when you got out of the car.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Happy. Alive with it.”

  “I fell in love. Boom. When I saw the house. Now I’ve fallen all over again.”

  “There’s still more.”

  “Nothing’s going to top this.”

  Her bedroom—in the twin turret (yay!) with its sweeping view of the sea—came close.

  Her own sitting room, which made her wonder why people sat so damn much, opened into the bedroom with its big four-poster, another window seat. A fireplace simmered. A pair of atrium doors opened to the little balcony with a curved wall. The soft blue walls held art—the quiet sort of misty forests, blooming meadows.

  Fresh flowers sat on the dresser with its oval mirror reflecting the room.

  “It’s just lovely.”

  “My sister switched some of it out. She said it was too much a man’s room.”

  “It’s perfect. Thank her for me.”

  “That’s a fainting couch—according to Anna.” He gestured to the curved sofa in soft blue-and-gold stripes at the foot of the bed. “In case.”

  “If I swoon, I’ll try to hit that. The bathroom’s like the kitchen.”

  “First I’ve heard that one.”

  “It’s got the modern but maintains the character. Claw-foot tub, but a big glass shower. The sweet little washbasin stand, but this old cabinet or dresser converted into a vanity with double sinks. And the tile looks like stone, the sconces like, well, sconces.