Page 115 of The Seven Rings
By midweek, with fewer distractions, she’d caught up on everything work-related.
She stood at the library windows, looking out at the roll and the toss of the sea as Clover played “Here Comes the Rain Again.”
Those who predicted such things said the weather would break by late afternoon. And those forecasters promised a clear, bright day to follow.
So she’d designate that for a trip to the village. Make a hair appointment—it was time. Visit the shops, and her village clients, indulge in some shopping.
Still watching the sea, she pulled out her phone, called the salon.
With that done, no work to pull her in, Cleo tucked into her studio, she considered her choices for the rest of a rainy day.
She could curl up and read. She could give herself a facial, stretch out, and stream a movie. Or she could go up and make some headway in the ballroom.
She loved the idea of somehow clearing it out, making it shine, and holding a big bash of a holiday party. Why have a ballroom if you never had a ball?
Holiday Ball at the Manor.
Go fancy and festive. Like her mother, Collin had stowed enough holiday decorations to outfit a small town. They’d go through all that, pick and choose, get more. Hire Bree—absolutely—to coordinate, and Rock Hard to play.
Months ahead yet, and she didn’t want to rush what was left of summer, but it would take months. And no amount of planning mattered if the ballroom remained crowded with stored furniture.
Decision made, she thought, and texted Cleo.
My desk is clear. I’m going up to the ballroom to see what I can do.
I need about a half hour, then I’ll come give you a hand.
Sonya acknowledged with a thumbs-up.
At the top of the stairs she paused, and so did the bounce of the ball.
“I’m going to the ballroom. Just letting you know.”
At the third floor, she glanced down. All quiet in the Gold Room, and she refused to think: Too quiet. Nothing but the sound of the drumming rain.
Instead, she wondered if Cleo worked on the painting she kept under wraps.
To cut the gloom, she turned on all the lights, then maneuvered through to throw open the ballroom’s terrace doors.
Somewhere in the mass of storage they’d find furniture Owen deemed suitable for the outdoor space. And for the holidays, maybe a couple Christmas trees in pots. Or—
She rolled her eyes at herself.
“Stop it. If you don’t deal with what is, you can’t get to what could be.”
But she stood a moment longer, looking out at the gardens, the blooms heavy-headed with rain. The trees, deep and green, swayed in the wind like dancers.
It felt as if the world filled with their whoosh, the drumming rain, and the pound of the sea.
She breathed in the air, thick, wet, warm.
No, she didn’t want to hurry the last weeks of summer.
She turned back, metaphorically rolled up her sleeves. She studied the forest of white drapes, like ghosts themselves.
“All right. Pick a spot. Get started.”
With booms like cannon fire, the doors behind her slammed shut. The doors ahead of her slammed shut.
