Page 108 of The Seven Rings
“It’s hard to believe you didn’t cook before you came to Poole’s Bay,” Corrine commented.
“I can verify that.” With her wineglass, Winter gestured at Cleo, then Sonya. “Neither of them had the slightest interest. Oh, they’d pitch in.”
“I’m an excellent chopper/stirrer,” Sonya claimed. “And that’s what I did a lot of for this spread, as that’s what Cleo assigned to me. There’s a lot of my knife work in that potato salad.”
“Which is excellent. Zippy,” Paula said as she took another bite.
“Creole. I had to order the Creole mustard, as you Yankees don’t stock it locally.”
“And what makes it Creole mustard?” Deuce wondered.
Cleo winked at him. “The zip.”
He laughed. “Works. And your chopping, Sonya, really polishes it off.”
“You have a flair for it,” her mother said. “And you, to your credit—or mine, since I raised you—never failed to clean up after a meal.”
“Now we have Molly.”
“Oh boy.” Seth hunched his shoulders at the mention of ghosts.
Anna patted his arm. “I’ll keep you safe.”
“Molly’s a jewel.” Sonya smiled over at Seth. “And as benign as they come.”
“She is,” Winter agreed. “I can’t say I’m used to all of it, but there’s something about coming out of the shower in the morning, finding your bed made. And your clothes laid out.”
“Something creepy” was Seth’s opinion.
“She takes good care of the wood.” Owen glanced toward the house as he sipped his beer. “She might have some help with it, who knows, but the furniture, the millwork, the floors? You’ve got to have some love in you to take that kind of care.”
“There’s one who waters the pots. Eleanor, right?”
“Right, Mom. Jerome—he stacks wood, I think he weeds, as we never have to. And we would. There’s Rita—”
“You actually give them names?”
“Those are their names,” Sonya told Seth.
“How do you know?”
“Clover told us.”
“And it just gets creepier.”
“Her musical stylings.” Never one to pass up teasing his brother-in-law, Trey took out his phone, set it beside his plate. “Give Seth a tune, Clover.”
Willing to play, Clover went with Blue Öyster Cult. “(Don’t Fear) The Reaper” sang out.
“That’s just… I don’t know what that is.”
“Communication,” Owen told him. “Like the Creole mustard, it’s got a zip that works.”
“There’s a kid,” Trey pushed on. “Jack. He plays with the dogs, and the cat. Draws pictures. They’ve got one on the fridge.”
“You’ve got a ghost drawing on your refrigerator?”
“He’d have been an artist if he’d lived.” Cleo bit into a slice of Winter’s bread. “He has talent.”
