The Mirror (The Lost Bride Trilogy #2)

“That’s the word. Smug or not, she didn’t deserve dying on her wedding day. We’ll take her down, and when we get back, hang her portrait with the others.”

As they studied the portrait, Cleo draped an arm around Sonya’s shoulders.

“I hate it makes you sad.”

“I saw her die, and here she is, regal, proud, and yeah, smug. It is sad. And it’s strange and awful knowing if she hadn’t died, I wouldn’t have been born, would I?”

They carried the portrait down and propped it against the wall in the music room.

Being out on a sunny spring Saturday chased the sads away. When they arrived, the yard sale was already in full swing.

Up and down the block cars and trucks lined the quiet little street.People carried lamps, small tables, a toaster, chairs along the sidewalk.

More, a great deal more, milled around the yard, browsing or bargaining for items rigorously organized by type or use.

Corrine, with a floppy-brimmed hat over her hair, stuck orange dots on price tags—SOLD.

Anna sat at a folding table with a cashbox. Money changed hands briskly.

More women worked the crowd, laughing, counteroffering.

Sonya watched Trey and Owen muscle a sofa and carry it toward the sidewalk.

“Hey, cuties. Didn’t expect to see you today.”

“We wanted to see how it was going, and wow. Is there anything we can do to help?”

“Stop talking,” Owen suggested, “so we can cart this damn… damn good-looking sofa,” he amended as the woman leading the way turned, raised her eyebrows at him, “down to Ms. Bridge’s truck.”

“Dolly’s truck,” she said. “You graduated high school some time ago, Owen.”

“Ask Mom,” Trey said to Sonya. “I think they’ve more than got it, but she’d know.”

“You ask,” Cleo told her. “I’m going to browse.”

“Cleo.”

“Browse isn’t buying. Probably.”

Shaking her head, Sonya made her way through the people, the tables, to Corrine.

“What a turnout. Is there anything Cleo and I can do to help?”

“You already did. Word of mouth’s one thing, but those flyers you did? We’ve got people stopping by—and buying—who are staying at the hotel, even just passing through the village. Marlo’s going to have a nice nest egg, and your flyers made a difference.

“That fifty’s firm on those nightstands, Harry, so don’t even try. They’re a set and in good condition. Since Owen and Trey fixed them,” she muttered to Sonya.

“Look at this cute little purse!” Cleo came over with a cross-body bag. “You know I love a red purse. And it’s only twelve dollars.”

“Cleo, in all the years I’ve known you, I’ve never seen you carry a purse that small, except an evening bag. And even then.”

“It could happen. It’s red. It’s twelve dollars.”

“Ten for you,” Corrine told her.

“Sold.”

Sonya spent the next two hours—twice as long as intended—while Trey and Owen hauled nightstands—fifty dollars, firm—and side tables, an easy chair, and more. While Cleo hunted bargains, she chatted with people she knew, with others she’d just met.