Chapter Fifteen
When she hit another lull—Morgan credited the party in the Presidential and the dinner hour—she called over one of the more experienced servers.
“I’m taking a break.”
“You never take a break.”
“I’m taking one. Cover the bar, watch your own section. Ten minutes. Things are slow right now.”
She went out to the floor, tapped Opal’s shoulder. “I need you for a few minutes.”
“Do I look like I have a few minutes?”
“Yes. Suzanne, cover Opal’s section. Ten minutes.”
Though she followed Morgan out, she grumbled about it. “I need to keep an eye on the new hires. The patio’s full.”
“Yes, but the floor and the bar aren’t.” She went outside, kept going until they were out of eye- and earshot. “I want to talk to you about Bailey.”
Opal went immediately on the defensive, hands on hips, eyes hot under bowl-cut bangs.
“She’s doing fine. If you’ve got a problem—”
“She’s doing more than fine. I want to train her on the bar.”
“I barely got her trained the right way as a server. I can’t spare her. You oughta know that if you know how to manage.”
“I do know how to manage, and we can discuss your problems with me another time.”
And since there were problems, Morgan thought, they needed to be dealt with.
“I can come in before shift any day you like and we’ll sit down on that. Meanwhile, I can use another on-call bartender, and I see Bailey as someone with the ability and the energy to cover the bar and the tables, as needed. It would give her a small pay raise and another skill set. Nell wants your input.”
The hands on Opal’s hips balled into fists. “You went over my head?”
“No, I went to my direct supervisor to make this recommendation. That’s my job. You head up the floor, so now our boss wants your input. Bailey wants to learn. I want to give her the opportunity. If you can’t spare her and she’s willing, I can train her on her days off. We’ll coordinate the schedule.”
“Could be the girl has a life.”
“If it doesn’t suit her, she can say no. Ask her yourself.”
Now Opal folded her arms. “She says no, then you write in her eval how she’s uncooperative and lacks ambition.”
“Why the hell would I do that? Jesus Christ, Opal.”
“Don’t you swear at me.”
Screw that, Morgan thought. Just screw that.
“Don’t you accuse me of undermining one of the team. If she doesn’t want the training, she says thanks but no thanks, and that’s the end of it. It’s her choice. Put up roadblocks if that’s how you feel about it, but don’t point fingers at me.
“Pick a day, half hour before shift. We need to have this out.”
“I do my job.”
“You do. If we can’t resolve this, we’ll both keep doing our jobs and rubbing each other the wrong way. I can live with that. Be sure to give Nell your input on Bailey.”
Morgan walked back in, took over the bar, and tried not to steam.
In about ten minutes, Bailey came up to the bar.
“Opal said since we’re slow right now you might have time to work with me.”
“Sure.” Satisfied Opal hadn’t put up those roadblocks, Morgan gestured Bailey back. “Until you’re needed back on the floor, you’re going to backbar. Assist,” Morgan explained. “Keep the ice well full, prep garnishes, replace bottles, clear and replace glassware. Right now, the stools are empty, so it’s table service. It’s well bartending, and for that you need good communication skills with the servers.”
“I get that.”
“Back here, it’s clean, sanitary, organized, and calm—even when things get rushed and you fall behind, you need calm. If you stay organized, the calm won’t be so hard to find. After you use a bottle, put it back where it goes. Every time, whether it’s premium or on the speed rack.”
She gestured under the bar. “Unless a customer calls the brand or label or specific mixer, these are your common go-tos. The two women just coming in? They’re old friends taking a few days. They’re going to take stools.”
When they did, Morgan moved to greet them. “How were the massages?”
“Heavenly.” The one on the left—about fifty, red-framed glasses, blond hair in a messy tail—sighed. “I’m surprised either of us can sit upright.”
Her companion—dark mop of curly hair, sleepy brown eyes—laughed. “But we’ll manage, because we’re topping things off with those delicious apricot coladas.”
“Got you covered. Charge to your room?”
“Please.”
Morgan nodded approval when Bailey handed her a dish of bar snacks. “We use brandy snifters for these,” she told Bailey as she added ice to the blender. “Build and blend. Apricot halves in heavy syrup. Pineapple juice concentrate, coconut milk, rum, and light crème de cacao.”
“You didn’t measure any of it.”
“I did, but by eye and count.” She hit the switch.
“Love that sound,” the brunette said. “Pretty quiet in here tonight.”
“Midweek quiet, and a private party on the Club Level.”
“And they didn’t invite us,” the blonde said.
“Their loss, our gain.”
Morgan poured the drinks into the snifters, garnished each with a slice of pineapple. “Enjoy.”
Quick on the uptake, Bailey washed the blender. “I get the by eye, but not the by count when you’re pouring.”
“I use a four-count. With my pours, four seconds an ounce. You should take home one of the empties, and you can borrow a jigger. Use water. Measure it first, an ounce, ounce and a half, two ounces into a glass. Use another glass to practice your free pour. By eye and count.”
“Like one-Mississippi, two-Mississippi.”
“That’s it. You’ve got people skills from serving. They’re not much different behind the stick, but you need to study, get familiar with different types of alcohol, different kinds of drinks, and basic lingo.”
“I know some of it just from serving.”
“You’ll pick up the rest. If you have a question, ask.”
“I have one. How did you know they’d sit at the bar?”
“They were in last night and told me they liked to sit at the bar because you can meet interesting people.”
They filled table orders, with Morgan talking Bailey through the process.
A quick study, Morgan thought again, and had to stop herself from her ingrained habit of backbarring as she went.
She caught a glimpse of Liam in the archway with a woman who had about a yard of red hair and what looked like barely a yard of black dress.
And heard Bailey’s mumbled, “Shit.”
She glanced over. “Problem?”
“No. I—I know her, the one coming in with Liam Jameson. We went to high school together.”
“Let me guess. Mean girl.”
“Oh God, so much mean in that girl. At least I know I won’t be working her table.”
“Calm,” Morgan reminded her. “They’ll come to the bar first, give me an order, then move to a table. That’s Liam’s way.”
They did just that.
“Hey, Morgan, how’s it going?”
“Moving right along. It’ll probably start moving faster soon. The party upstairs should be breaking up. What can we get you?”
“What’ll you have, Jessica?”
“A very dry martini, Hanger One and Carpano Bianco, three olives. I prefer picholine olives.”
Automatically, Morgan chilled a martini glass.
“Sounds too sophisticated for me,” Liam decided. “I’ll stick with the usual.”
“We’ll have these sent to your table. Inside or out tonight?”
Before he could speak, Jessica let out a little laugh. “Bailey? Bailey Myerson? I almost didn’t recognize you with what you’ve done to your hair. You’re bartending now?”
“Hello, Jessica. It’s been awhile.”
“It really has. Bailey and I went to high school together.” As she looked up at Liam, Jessica slid her arm through his. “So you moved back to Westridge?”
“For the summer.”
“I’m just visiting for the week. I live in New York now. We really should catch up, shouldn’t we, when you’re not working. We should get that table, Liam, and let them get back to work.”
“Sure. See you later.”
“We’re going to make her a perfect martini,” Morgan began, “even though we don’t like her.”
While she had Bailey draw Liam’s draft, she demonstrated.
“I’ll take the drinks out.” Bailey lifted the tray. “High school’s over, and I’m a big girl now.”
Within the hour, things started to pick up, as predicted. Opal sent word she needed Bailey back on the floor in fifteen.
“I learned so much already. Thanks, Morgan.”
“Anytime. I mean it.”
Liam slid, solo, onto a stool.
“Another round?”
“No, just a Coke. I’m heading home soon.”
“And your date?”
“Not a date, just a drink. By the way, Bailey, I like your hair.”
“Oh.” Flustered, she brushed at it. “Thanks. I’ve got to get back to my station.”
“Take your break first. You’ve still got ten coming.”
“She’s not working the bar?” Liam asked when Bailey hurried off.
“Training. Bailey’s a summer hire, in grad school. You didn’t go to high school with her?”
“We went to Lincoln—different districts. One of my friends dated Jessica back then for a while, so I knew her a little. We ran into each other in town earlier today.” He lifted his Coke, rolled his eyes. “Some people just don’t change. I like cats, but not the two-legged ones.”
Now he winced. “That was probably really sexist.”
“In this case, you get a pass. How’d she like her drink?”
“She said it was fine, the way you say ‘fine’ when you’re tolerating something substandard. Before, when Bailey brought the drinks out, she needled her. You know?” With his thumb and forefinger together, he twisted them sharply. “And Bailey just smiled and said, like, it was so interesting to come home for the summer and run into someone from high school who hadn’t changed a bit. All smiles, but it wasn’t a compliment.”
“Good for her. Awkward for you.”
“Kind of fascinating really.”
“I’d say you could chalk this up to a fortunate escape.”
“You don’t have to tell me twice.”
She kept an easy conversation with him, and another with the group mid-bar, filled orders, watched the floor.
“You know,” Liam said to her when she worked her way down to him again, “I did the backbar thing one school break.”
“Did you?”
“Law of the Jameson Land. You put time in, in every capacity, so you know how everything runs. Or should. I’m pretty sure I sucked at it.”
“I doubt that.”
“I couldn’t do what you do. I’m sitting here watching you do it, and can’t figure out how you do it.”
She leaned toward him. “I can’t ski.”
“I could fix that next season.”
“You will never have the chance. Weird boots stuck to a couple of skinny boards, a hill of snow? Hard pass.”
“Now you’ve made it a challenge.” He stood, laid some cash on the bar. “I love a challenge. See you later.”
“Have a good night.”
Right before closing, Opal marched up to the bar. “Tomorrow, half hour before shift.”
“All right. Let’s meet in the wine cellar. It’s private.”
“Fine.”
Really angry, Morgan noted. But at least—hopefully—she’d soon find out why.
She arranged her day to make the morning meeting with enough time to swing into Crafty Arts for an early look at the photos for a show her ladies had booked for the weekend. Before she left, she brought in the mail and sorted it into piles.
Though she assumed she’d find a solicitation from the one addressed to her from a credit card company, she opened it and prepared to toss it into the recycling bin.
Then stood, stared as her skin ran cold, then hot.
Three thousand, two-hundred eighty-six dollars and twenty-eight cents. On a card she didn’t possess for purchases she hadn’t made, in two stores in New Orleans, where she’d never been.
Everything inside her began to shake. Her throat slammed shut; her lungs shut down. For a terrible moment, her vision went gray. She didn’t feel herself sliding, but ended up on the kitchen floor, clutching the bill, while her ears rang.
She clawed her way up, stumbled over to the sink, leaning over it until the nausea passed enough for her to splash cold water on her face.
Still trembling, she managed to get to a counter stool and sit. Then just lowered her head to the counter until she could breathe again, could think again.
Pulling out her phone, she scrolled through her contacts, called Special Agent Beck.
“He’s—he’s in New Orleans. Or he was.”
“Morgan.”
“I—he—got another credit card in my name. Morgan Nash Albright. He used my middle name with it this time. I got the bill in the mail. Over—over three thousand dollars.”
“Morgan, I need you to stay calm.”
“I can’t.”
“Stay calm. I want you to text me the bill. Take a photo with your phone and text it to me. We’re going to send someone to pick up the hard copy from you, so don’t destroy it. But text me a copy. Can you do that?”
“Yes.”
“Are you taking the precautions we discussed?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Morgan, I know this is upsetting.”
“Upsetting.” She had to press a hand to her mouth to muffle a quick, hysterical laugh.
“But I want you to hear me. This is another mistake. He’s telegraphed where he is, or more likely was. He’s given us a way to track him.”
“Do you think he’s coming here?”
“He knew you’d get this bill, and he’d know when you’d get it, within a day or two of when. It wouldn’t make sense for him to come there now. He wants you to be afraid, upset, confused. He needs to believe he’s in the front of your mind.”
She closed her eyes. “The way I am in his. That’s what you’re not saying.”
“If you are, it’s causing him to make these mistakes, take these unnecessary risks. We can come to you if you need us to.”
“No, no. Find him.”
“We’re working on it. I promise you. Send me the text.”
“All right. I’ll send it now. I—I have to go to work soon. If someone’s coming to get this bill, they need to come to my work.”
“We’ll arrange that. If we have any new information, we’ll be in touch. That’s another promise.”
She sent the text, then made herself walk to her grandmother’s office for a manilla envelope. She sealed the bill inside, tucked it in her bag.
Instead of going into the shop, she drove aimlessly until she felt as calm as she could manage.
As a result, she was a few minutes late for her meeting with Opal.
“My time’s as valuable as yours.”
“I apologize.” She offered no excuses as they stood facing each other in the cool air of the wine cellar.
Opal’s eyes narrowed as she studied Morgan’s face. “Are you sick or something?”
“I’m fine. You have specific complaints. This is the time to communicate them.”
“Oh, I’ll communicate them. If your grandmother and Lydia Jameson didn’t go back, you wouldn’t have this job.”
“You’re probably right.”
“No probably about it. The Jamesons tend to promote from within, but not this time. You’re not the only one on the resort who can mix drinks. And you’re slow at it because you’re so busy flirting with every man who walks in, coming on to them, especially the Jameson men. It’s disgraceful, and it reflects on all of us.”
“‘Flirting’? ‘Coming on to’? For fuck’s sake.”
“Don’t you swear at me.”
“Oh, fuck that, too. Report me. You’re standing there calling me the next thing to a slut.”
“If it fits. I saw you with Liam just last night, and you’re sure doing whatever you can to snuggle up to Miles. Having him walk you out to your car after closing. It wouldn’t surprise me if you’d try giving Nell a roll if you thought it would get you ahead.”
Morgan let out a laugh at that, couldn’t help it. “I’ll have to tuck that one into my back pocket if I can’t work out a three-way with Miles and Liam.”
Hot color spread over Opal’s face. “Shame on you.”
“No, shame on you and the gutter your mind lives in. I engage with the guests—and the Jamesons—as I read them. Male or female. It’s part of my job. I was not flirting with Liam last night. We were having a conversation, and one that mostly centered around Bailey.”
“After you sent her out there to wait on that bitch.”
“I did not send her out there. She wanted to go out there and she held her own. Just like she held her own at backbarring. Something Liam saw and appreciated, so if he didn’t notice her skills before, he will now.”
“Is he going to start walking you out after closing now? Maybe you figure to pit one brother against the other, playing defenseless woman. ‘Oh, something bad happened to me, protect me.’”
Genuinely shocked, Morgan took a step back. “Yes, something bad happened to me. A lot worse happened to my closest friend. She’d dead. He beat her half to death, then strangled her. She was twenty-six years old.”
A fresh flush worked up Opal’s cheeks. “I’m sorry about what happened to her, but—”
“There’s no but. There’s no goddamn but. If she hadn’t caught a spring cold and ruined his plans, I’d probably be dead. He wants me dead. He wants to kill me.”
“So you say, and—”
“So I say. So the FBI agents say. So would the woman he killed a few weeks ago say if she could, since he left the locket—my grandmother’s locket—he stole from me on her dead body.”
It just erupted out of her now, everything locked inside erupted, hot as hellfire.
“You think this is a game to me? Some sort of game where I use it to get the Jamesons to, what, feel sorry for me? I’m going to warn you once, and only once, whatever problems you have with me, you leave this out of it. You leave this the hell alone.”
“Everybody’s got hardships. It doesn’t mean you get hired out of the blue, get special treatment. And it doesn’t give you the right to make time with another woman’s husband.”
“I haven’t been making time with anyone. And if you’re talking about your version of flirting with Miles or Liam, they’re not married.”
“Nick is.”
“Oh, for— Even you have to know that’s just ridiculous. And now I’ll ask if you’re questioning the Jamesons’ judgment or their right to hire staff as they see fit?”
“No, but I’ve got a right to my opinion.”
“Which you’ve given. As you hold such a low opinion of me, I’ll again offer to switch you to days if you’d prefer.”
“No.”
“All right, then we’ll just have to keep rubbing each other the wrong way.”
She’d dealt with worse, Morgan thought. She was dealing with worse.
“I won’t change who I am or how I work to suit your set of standards. As your manager, I’m sorry we can’t resolve this in a more productive way, but as long as we both do our jobs well, we’ll just deal. As a woman, I’m going to tell you to mind your own damn business.
“Now, is there anything else?”
“I’ve got nothing more to say.”
“Okay then. Let’s get to work.”
She went up to a solid early evening crowd. Part of her relaxed in the familiar as she walked behind the bar. Before she took over from Nick, she drew a couple of drafts while he finished up.
“Talked to the boss last night. Came in, had a meet with Nell. Meet your new assistant manager.”
“Yes!” She slapped high fives. “That’s the good news I needed tonight. You need to go home and celebrate.”
“I called my mom after I signed up. She cried a little. In a mom way.”
“Aw.”
“Then she said how I’d be manager inside six months.”
“Hey!”
Laughing, he cleared a tab. “I said how could I give her more grandbabies if I worked all the time, and she changed that tune fast. Then said to thank you for pushing me a little bit.”
“She’s welcome. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Then she stood at the bar, looked out at the floor, looked through the glass to the patio tables. She’d get through, she told herself.
She’d get through because she had to.
And she had to tell her ladies—no choice there either. When she came down in the morning, it gave her a lift to see the two of them, both dressed for work, sitting out on the patio, surrounded by flowers as they drank their coffee.
She’d put a damper on that morning ritual, but they’d get through that, too.
After making her version of morning coffee, she went out to join them.
“You’re up early,” her mother commented. “Gram and I were just luxuriating, since we don’t have to go in until eleven. Maybe even stretch it to noon.”
“And I’m thinking we bring home pizza. Should be early enough for you to grab a slice or two if you want.”
“Who says no to pizza?”
Morgan sat and took a moment, just one more moment.
A hummingbird, bright as an emerald in the sun, gorged at the feeder while a downy woodpecker drilled madly at the suet. Flowers they’d planted in the spring bloomed, spiked, spread in cheerful abandon.
Here, in this one more moment, everything held good and sweet and lovely. Gavin Rozwell wanted to spoil that, to end that.
She simply couldn’t let him.
“I spoke with the federal agents yesterday.”
“What happened?” Quickly, Audrey straightened in her chair.
“I want you to know they’re handling it, but I got a credit card bill in the mail. Not my card, not my charges.”
“That creature,” Olivia began, “because I won’t call him a man, is relentlessly evil.”
“No argument. But Agent Beck said he’d made another mistake with this. I believe her. He charged things in New Orleans, so they know he was there on those dates.”
“He wants to scare you.”
“And he did, Gram, but I’m okay now. Honestly, the confrontation I had—no, it was a fight, call it what it was. The fight I had with Opal Reece at Après was almost worse. And with this, the FBI’s handling it, they’ll deal with the credit card company, they’ll track his movements in New Orleans. Maybe, with luck, figure out a way to find where he went after. It’s too much to hope that he’d stay there, but they’ll have a trail. I think.”
“We should plan a little trip. A few days away. Go to the beach,” Audrey continued. “Sit under umbrellas and drink mai tais.”
“Mom.” Morgan reached out to pat her mother’s hand. “The answer isn’t in beaches and mai tais. And it’s way too soon for me to take time off. I’m being careful. Everyone’s being careful, and it’s a pain in the ass. What I want? I want to be able to sit out here just like this, looking at the garden, watching the birds, and knowing Gavin Rozwell is sitting in a cell looking through bars. The day I can do that is going to be a happy day.”
“That’s a day we’ll drink mimosas instead of coffee,” Olivia stated. “Meanwhile, what’s this fight with Opal? She’s the head waitress in Après, right? I don’t really know her.”
“I offered her an air-it-out meeting, and we had it yesterday. For my part, I wasn’t in the best of moods with this credit card thing, but I didn’t feel I could cancel it. Anyway, doesn’t matter. She resents me. Resents that I got the manager slot through connections. She’s not altogether wrong on that, but I’m also qualified, and I’m doing a damn good job.”
“Of course you are.”
“You’d have to say that, Mom, but I am. She bitches I’m too slow behind the stick, which is bullshit, plus the revenue’s actually increased. Then she accuses me of flirting with men who come to the bar—especially the Jameson men.”
“That’s ridiculous!” Outrage shimmered in Audrey’s voice. “And so what if you did? Flirting’s not illegal in this country.”
“If it were, a lot of bartenders would be doing time. It’s not just about mixing drinks but making a connection. Making the customer feel special. Or being invisible if that’s what they want. She’s worked in Après long enough to know that.”
“What are you going to do about her?” Olivia wondered.
“Absolutely nothing. She wants to work while seething over her manager, that’s her problem. Plus, I know she expects me to write her up in her evaluation. I’m actually finishing those up today. Why would I do that? She’s good at her job. More than good. She doesn’t have to like me.”
“Smart girl. In any case, she sounds like a very unpleasant woman.”
“Only to me, apparently. From what I see, the waitstaff loves her, guests relate to her. Repeaters remember her, and the Jamesons value her.” Morgan shrugged. “I can deal with it.”
“Smart girl,” Olivia repeated. “And a Nash-tough woman.”
“Nash tough means tough. I’m actually going to go in and finish up those evaluations. I might as well get them to Nell a day early, since they’re all but done.”
“You could bring your laptop out here, enjoy the day while you’re at it.”
“Now that”—Morgan shot a finger at Audrey—“is a fine idea. I’ll be right back.”
Audrey watched her go inside, then looked over at her mother.
“She’ll be fine, baby. We’re right here.”
“I know she will. Or I almost know she will. But.”
“If worry’s protection, she’s wearing impervious armor.”
“God, that’s the truth. And at least we’re not worrying from a distance.”
“Not anymore.”