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“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 somerooms 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.”
