Page 216 of The Seven Rings
“It’s not October yet.”
“Close enough.” Sonya rose. “I’m going back to work on Maddy’s job.” But she walked over, hugged Cleo first. “Good work, Cleopatra. And get me that second manuscript as soon as it comes. That cliff-hanger’s killing me.”
In the morning, Sonya woke to a simmering fire, and snow.
She stood at the windows staring out with a mix of knee-jerk thrill and simple shock.
“It’s snowing.”
“You’ll have this,” Trey mumbled as he tried for five more minutes.
“But it’s still September.”
“Says the woman who wants to put up ghouls and goblins.”
“It’s so pretty. But I’m not ready for snow. We haven’t got our pumpkins.”
Since five more minutes wasn’t going to happen, Trey got up, walked over. And laughed.
“It’s not snowing. That’s barely a flurry. That’s a snow sprinkle.”
“In Boston, we call white stuff falling out of the sky snow.”
“You’re in Maine now, cutie. It’ll be over before you finish your first cup of coffee. And crap, I need mine. I’ve got court this morning.”
“Lawyer suit.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
Knowing he’d shave it clean for court, she rubbed the two-day stubble on his cheek. “Wear the gray one. It brings out your eyes.”
“That’ll bring the judge around to our side.”
“You never know.”
“It’s also the only suit I have here, so that makes it easy.”
“How many suits do you have?”
“Three. Black, gray, navy pinstripe. That’s enough for anybody. Unless you’re Ace. He collects them like stamps.”
“And no one looks more dashing. I’m going for coffee, and we’ll see if you’re right about the snow.”
A fire already crackled in the library. She’d get there soon enough, as she had a video conference with the Ryder group at nine-thirty.
Downstairs, she paused as she often did now at the music room. But the paintings didn’t change.
In the kitchen, a fire simmered in the little hearth, a warm welcome to the day. She walked over to let the pets out, and stood in the quick wash of cold air.
A man wheeled a barrow toward the shed. He wore a rough brown jacket and peaked cap, scarred brown boots. Both dogs ran over to him, tails wagging. He turned, his lined face creasing deeper with smiles as he gave them both quick rubs.
Then he wheeled the barrow into the shed, closed it. He turned to Sonya, tipped his cap.
And was gone.
“No. No, I’m never going to get used to it. Just never.” Shivering, as much from the moment as the cold, she stepped back into the warmth.
The kitchen tablet broke out with the Beatles’ “Good Morning Good Morning.”
