Page 30 of The Seven Rings
In response, she batted her lashes.
“You’re okay,” he decided.
“Actually, I’d rather go through the mirror than face off against a smoke wolf.”
“Is that what you’re calling it?”
“Why not?”
Hand in hand, they began to stroll.
“When I go through, I see something to put in the file.” She tapped the side of her head with her free hand. “Or hear, or feel or learn. And I did. Since Owen’s on his way, I’ll wait and tell you both. And how did your day go?”
“Productive. Busy and productive, so I’m going to enjoy that adult beverage and a weekend without clients.”
“Problematic ones?”
Since she obviously wanted the distraction, he obliged her.
“Well, there’s the one who brought in a list of changes to her will, most of which negate the changes she made to her will about three months ago and refer back to changes made maybe six months before that.”
“And there’ll be a list coming in another few months?”
“Oh, absolutely.” He said it with a kind of cheerful acceptance that Sonya thought all but defined him. “What’s your productive?”
“Updates, testing, working up the package for Bay Arts. And finishing my mood board for the Ryder additions—and their approval of same.”
With the dogs racing in the yard, and Pye climbing onto her favorite perch on the mansard roof of Yoda’s doghouse, they walked up to the deck.
“We should have wardrobe by the end of next week.”
Reading his expression, she laughed and hugged him. “It really won’t hurt, and it’ll be quick. Your mom’s so good.”
“I’m not going to ask what I’m wearing because I don’t want to think about it.”
“Then we’ll move on. Cleo dropped the photos we put together last night at Poole Shipbuilders, for Clarice. And after work I started in the attic, and found more.”
She watched the dogs bullet toward the front of the house seconds before she heard the truck. Cleo came out with a tray holding four glasses.
“I remember that lemonade,” Sonya said. “Owen just drove up.”
“It’s memorable. I texted for Owen’s ETA before I started mixing. He said five minutes. And I said: ‘No beer, come to the deck.’”
After stepping up and onto the deck, Cleo set the tray down.
“The perfect summer cocktail at the perfect spot on a perfect evening.”
The dogs raced back; eye-patched Jones strutted. Owen followed, and sent an aggrieved look at the group on the deck.
“Why can’t a man have a Friday night beer?”
“Because you’re going to have a Friday night cocktail. And if you don’t like it, you can go get your prosaic old beer.”
When he stepped onto the deck, Cleo handed him the fourth glass. He frowned at it.
“There’s basil in here.”
“And mulled strawberries, and gin added to lemonade. You can knock it, but not until you’ve tried it.”
