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When she opened a free-standing cabinet, she found decanters inside—whiskey in one, brandy in the other, according to her sniff test. Lowball, highball glasses and snifters stood on a pair of shelves.
She could clean it out, use it for more supplies, but she could soeasily see the man with her father’s face sitting by the fire with a book and a glass of whiskey.
She didn’t have the heart.
Neither did she have the heart to set her printer next to that gorgeous desk. No question she’d find a sturdy table or stand somewhere, but it would just ruin the look of the room.
She could network with the printer in the office, but… inconvenient.
Wandering the room, she looked for options. Set another log on the fire, then went up the curving stairs.
More books, another killer view, a smaller, more feminine desk, a big wine-colored leather sofa. The big flat-screen, and a cabinet under it.
She opened one of the doors and found a DVD player, along with an impressive collection of DVDs. Add these to the ones she’d seen in the media room, and yes, Collin had loved movies.
All sorts of movies, she mused as she browsed through them.
Books, movies, art, antiques. Children? He’d put in a gaming system for his friend’s kids, so yes, children.
“So much like Dad. Really, I think you were a lot alike. And I think… I think you’d have enjoyed each other. You should’ve had the chance to find out.”
On her tablet below, the music stopped, then started again with what she recognized as The Byrds’ “Turn! Turn! Turn! (To Everything There Is a Season)” because her father had often played it and, to her, other ancient records on his old turntable in his studio.
“I guess that suits the moment,” she muttered.
But more to the point, she could make room in the cabinet, set up her printer, her letterhead, a ream of paper.
Of course, that meant hauling the printer—and its considerable weight—up those curving steps. So that could wait, as much as it pained her to admit, until she had someone with more muscle and a strong back to carry it up.
By early afternoon, she’d done all she could do both personal and professional office–wise.
Time for a break, she thought, and debated grabbing something to eat or cleaning up a bit more and venturing down to the village.
Before she could decide, a trio of bongs all but boomed up the stairs. By the time her heart stopped jumping and she realized it had to be the doorbell, they sounded again.
“Okay, Jesus!” Hoping it was Trey or John Dee—muscles, strong backs—she jogged downstairs to answer.
A woman with a varicolored knit cap over short black hair stood on gorgeous knee-high boots in the portico. She held a cake carrier.
“Hi! I’m Anna. Anna Doyle. Welcome to Poole’s Bay.”
“Oh, thanks.” She should’ve noted the resemblance, but the eyes were more blue-gray, the face more heart shaped. “Come in.”
“I hope you’re not working. Trey said you’d probably be working or setting up your work area.”
“I just finished setting up. Or enough.”
“This is for you. Coffee cake. I bake when I’m thinking.”
“I eat when I’m thinking. Can I take your coat?” The fabulous red suede coat.
“If you don’t mind me pushing in for a few minutes.”
“I don’t. At all.”
Anna handed over the coat, the hat, and the amazing scarf of butter-soft wool.
Beneath she wore a winter-white tunic and chocolate leggings that set off the boots Sonya wanted for her own.
