Page 90 of The Seven Rings
He handed her the phone.
“Thanks. Thanks, both of you. I was in full panic mode.”
“Didn’t look it.”
“Inside I was.” She wrapped around Trey. “One minute I’m strolling around thinking about having my mom come up for a weekend, and your family over for a barbecue, and the next? Dobbs.”
“You handled it. Both of you.”
“And the cat’s no slouch,” Owen added. He tilted his head toward the refrigerator. “Got some new art.”
“I found it down here before I went outside.”
“It’s pretty great,” Trey said as Cleo came back.
“What’s pretty great? I’m ready for pretty great.”
“Jack painted our fur family.” Sonya gestured.
“Oh! I didn’t even notice. He really got the proportions, the perspective. This shows a lot more skill than you’d expect from a nine-year-old boy.”
She brought the herbs to the cutting board, and Owen nudged her away. “I got it. These potatoes are mine.”
“Fine.” She walked over to take out the asparagus, and Trey stepped closer, studied the painting.
“He’s been around a lot longer than nine years, though, so in some ways… You have to figure he could’ve gotten his hands on paper, pencils, even paints over the years.”
“And practiced,” Sonya realized. “Of course, why wouldn’t he? The drawings of his we found upstairs are good. But the ones he’s done for us? They’re better. He’s practiced, and improved.”
She looked at Trey. “So has Dobbs.”
“It’s different for her.” Owen tossed the potatoes in some olive oil with the chopped herbs, garlic, pepper. “She’s stuck in a loop, jumping off the wall every night at three. I don’t know about the rest of them, but he’s not. Clover’s not. Neither’s Molly, for a start. They adjust, move with the now.”
“That’s a smart take,” Cleo told him. “I like that take.”
“Makes sense to me.” Trey gestured toward the painting again. “Especially when you can see it.”
“The brides. When they show me, bring me into their past, it’s their past—like a loop. But when they speak to me, that past stops, it’s like on hold.”
“And it’s now,” Trey finished.
“I think this matters. I don’t know how yet,” Sonya admitted, “but it feels like a piece of the puzzle.”
When the oven dinged, Owen put the potatoes he’d spread on a baking dish inside, set the timer.
“About twenty, stir them up, give them about another twenty. What’s your spice deal for the fish?”
“That fish is mine.” Cleo walked over, took his face in her hands, kissed him. Then got out a cast-iron skillet. “You can start the grill after the first twenty.”
“I’ll set the table. And add these.” Sonya picked up the flowers. “Oh, Cleo, I forgot. We have three tomatoes.”
“I saw this morning. I took a picture. I’ll pick them tomorrow and figure out what to do with them. A couple more close to ripe, so we’d have five or six.”
“You were right. This was just a big, scary bump, and we’re having a really good day.”
“Before Sonya sets the table, I’m dredging up that sack. We’ll tie the anchor again,” Cleo promised, “but I’d really like to hear how that asshole looked in court.”
“Panic in a designer suit. Don’t ask me what designer, but it had that look.”
