Chapter Seven
Though she’d never attended an actual grand opening, Morgan rated the café’s as pretty damn grand. Sharp at ten the doors opened, and sharp at ten, people streamed in. She helped serve the complimentary mimosas, coffee, tea, and scones offered for the first hour.
She met the mayor, a woman with a bubble of blond hair and a cackling laugh. The police chief, early thirties, handsome, lanky, killer blue eyes, wandered in—black coffee for him.
He also seemed to know everybody, which she counted as a plus in a police chief. When she noticed he left with a shopping bag, she figured he’d seen something he wanted or knew the value of supporting local businesses.
Maybe both, but it earned him another plus.
The new space rang with voices, approval, questions.
Her intention to pitch in for the first hour moved into three.
“You need to take a break,” Olivia told her as Morgan bused another table.
“I’m good. I’m wired for busy, Gram, and feel more like myself than I have in way too long. See those women at the four top over there? Mimosas and scones? College dorm mates, ten years ago. They used to meet up for a week every summer. They all have families now, so they’ve taken it down to a long weekend this time of year. They’re staying at the resort, came into town to shop—it’s their last day.”
“How do you know all that?”
“I’m a damn good bartender. People talk to me. They’ve had a great time, and consider finding this place a bonus. And as you can see from the Crafty Arts bags under the table, they’ll be taking home plenty of memories. You should go say hello,” Morgan added as she wiped down the table. “They’d love it.”
“Then I will.”
Eight hours after the doors opened, they closed. And the entire staff let out a cheer. Given the nod, Morgan popped a bottle of champagne and poured celebratory glasses all around.
Olivia ordered in pizza—who knew it was her grandmother’s go-to?—adding much-appreciated fuel to the end of a successful day.
And at the end of that, when it was just the three of them, Olivia sat, put her feet up on a chair. “Not just resting my aching feet, but basking.”
“We broke our single-day sales record in the shop, Mom.”
Smug powered Olivia’s smile. “So I’m told.”
“And even with our opening-week specials, today’s giveaways, the café pulled in a solid twenty percent more than we projected. Boom! Pow!” Audrey dropped into a seat, lifted her arms high, did enthusiastic jazz hands.
“You see here a woman who, as a child, couldn’t keep a dollar in her pocket if I sewed it to the lining. Now she adds up profit and loss in her head.”
“I was always good with numbers. Just not as much if there was a dollar sign involved.”
She put her boots with their short, skinny heels up on another chair. And with a sigh, pulled out the silver dragonfly clip that had somehow, magically to Morgan’s mind, kept all that hair scooped up and back all day.
“I’m basking, too.” After scooping her hands through her hair, giving her head a toss, all that hair fell as if she’d just had it styled.
Magic, Morgan thought again.
“We didn’t expect you to give us the whole day, Morgan. You were such an enormous help. And you’re so unflappable. Every time I got, well, flapped, I’d look at you and see how you just breezed through it all.”
“Do you want to know what I think?”
“Absolutely.”
“I’m going to make us cappuccinos, and tell you.”
She went behind the bar to the coffee station and began.
“It’s just day one, and you won’t pack them in like this routinely.”
“Oh.” Audrey’s jazz hands dropped with flicks of her fingers. “Bubble burst!”
“But”—amused, Morgan glanced back at the table—“you have an unqualified hit on your hands. And here, as I see it, is why.”
The machine hissed as it steamed milk.
“First, you have a lovely venue and you paid attention to the small details. It matters. You’ve put together a good staff. A couple of the new hires don’t quite have their rhythm, but they’re on the way. You, both of you, treat your employees with respect and, boy, does that matter.”
She trayed the three coffees, added spoons and a sugar bowl, then carried the tray to the table.
“I don’t know your business plan, and don’t need to. But I do know you’re serving an excellent product and doing it with class, casually, as the venue calls for. But.”
“Uh-oh,” Audrey muttered.
“You need one more hire. You’re going to need—especially during high seasons—someone who can transition from business to business. Someone who can serve wine, make coffee, bus a table in a pinch, wait tables in that pinch, and handle retail in the shop. Someone knowledgeable or trained to be knowledgeable enough about the art, the crafts, and those who create them so they can answer questions. There were questions, and the staff—including this volunteer—had to refer the questions to you or one of the staff in the shop.”
“You make a good point. Want the job?”
Morgan shook her head at her grandmother. “It’s not what I’m best at. What you need is a coordinator, a kind of utility player. You’ve got time to find the right fit. And once you have that in place, you really need to do a photo book, with recipes from the café’s kitchen and bar, with some of the arts and crafts included. Photos of wine, for instance, in glasses sold next door. The café’s coffee cake displayed on one of your dishes, biscotti arranged on another, and like that. You have a local photographer do the pictures—that keeps it with your mission statement—and you sell it here, exclusively.”
Olivia sat back. “Listen to you! I’m cursed with clever progeny.”
“You started it,” Audrey reminded her. “A photo book, like a coffee-table book. I can see it! You know who’d be great for the photos?”
“Tory Phelps,” they said together.
“Hive mind.” Olivia held up a hand. “The new hire first. Morgan’s right there. The days of either of us working eight to ten hours a day, seven days a week, are done, Audrey.”
“Agreed. But I can feel Tory out, just see how much she thinks she’d charge for something like this. That way we’d know if it’s even feasible. She’s good,” she told Morgan. “We carry some of her work in the shop, had a showing for her last year. She teaches photography at the community college.”
“Your mother does love a new project.”
“She does.” Morgan looked around the café. “This one turned out really well.”
“Can’t argue with truth.” Olivia gave her daughter’s hand a pat. “Now, let’s get our tired butts home. This one has a job interview tomorrow and needs a good night’s sleep.”
She didn’t get one, not when her mind refused to turn off.
What if she didn’t get the job? She could look elsewhere, of course she could. But …
Should she tell her ladies she’d take that coordinator’s job? She could handle it. She could learn about the arts, the crafts, the artisans and artists and craftspeople. She already knew how to manage staff, how to manage a business.
Maybe it was time to put away her goals and dreams and accept what stood in front of her.
But she wasn’t ready to, not ready to just bury everything she’d worked toward.
Still, if she worked five years, lived here and worked and saved, she might be able to really start again.
Maybe.
She fell asleep on the maybe, then woke early to lie in bed and go over it all again.
When she went down for coffee, her mother sat at the counter with her laptop. She’d braided her sun-kissed hair back this morning and wore a candy-pink robe.
“Good morning. I’m researching how to produce coffee-table books. It’s a lot!”
“I guess it is.”
“It’s such a good idea. Now it’s in here.” Audrey tapped her temple. “I can’t let it go. I want to get as much calculated and organized before I hit your gram with it. That way works best with her.”
Morgan started to reach for a mug and saw the Crafty Arts box beside the coffee machine, and the card with her name on it.
“What’s this?”
“Just a little something from Gram and me, for good luck today. If you hate them … pretend you don’t. I put it there since I wasn’t sure if you’d be up and around before we left for work.”
Prepared to lie if necessary, Morgan opened the box. The diamond etching on the silver, cuff-style earrings made them sparkle.
She didn’t have to pretend.
“They’re beautiful.”
“We thought they’d go well with what you picked out to wear today.”
“I think you picked that out.”
“Well, I helped. But the outfit was in your closet, after all. Do you really like them?”
“I love them.” She put them on to prove it. “How do they look?”
“Like you. Smart, just a little sleek, and very well-crafted. How about some breakfast?”
“Can’t.” Morgan pressed a hand to her belly. “I’m nervous.”
“Of course you are. Who wouldn’t be? But all you have to do is be Morgan. The resort will be lucky to have you, and I’m saying that as a business manager—something I never thought I’d be in my life. I watched you yesterday, baby, and you know just what you’re doing.”
“I used to think so. And I’m not going into this with a negative attitude. I need a boost, I can’t pretend I don’t. I need someone who isn’t my mother or grandmother to tell me I’m good enough.”
“That bastard did a number on you.”
Morgan’s eyebrows lifted. “Listen to the mouth on my mother.”
“Oh, I’ve always had that. You just didn’t hear it. Maybe that was a mistake, me always putting on the everything’s-fine face for you. But I can’t go back and change that now. You go in there today, and you be Morgan. If they don’t give you that boost, they’re idiots.”
Audrey closed her laptop, rose. “I’ve got to get dressed. We’ll probably be gone before you have to leave.” Eyes on her daughter’s, she lifted a hand to Morgan’s cheek. “Will you let us know how the interview goes? Text, even drop by the shop?”
“I will. Thanks for the earrings. I can feel the luck pumping off them.”
She put on the mother-approved outfit. The sage-green shirt, the slim black pants, the tall black boots. Added the butter-soft leather blazer. And had to admit, as usual when it came to fashion, Audrey hit the mark.
She looked professional, confident, and like herself.
Now, she just had to remember to act that way.
Downstairs, she gave herself a pep talk while she donned her outdoor gear.
You know what you’re doing.
Your résumé’s solid.
You may decide you don’t want the job—but you’ll take it because you need it.
Hissing against the cold blast, she walked to Nina’s car. Let out a relieved breath when it started. And knowing the heater wouldn’t do a damn thing until she got out again, shivered her way into town.
A quick glance showed her a couple coming out of the café entrance. Both held shopping bags. Boded well for day two, she thought, and drove through town and out again.
She turned left, bumped over a bridge where the water below shivered its way over rocks the way she shivered at the wheel.
Another turn with snow-drenched woods on either side. She tested the heater as she climbed a hill, and when it coughed out cool rather than cold air, decided to take it.
She spotted the first cabins tucked in those snowy woods and admitted she’d never understand the appeal of a winter vacation that involved winter.
A tropical beach, now, a sun-washed Italian villa, those made absolute sense. But a cabin in the Vermont woods, paying to freeze on a ski lift or skate on a frozen lake?
Forget it.
“And you can just keep those opinions to yourself if you hope to bag this job.”
She followed the signs to the hotel, winding her way.
It stood, white against the white, dignified rather than glamorous, rising four stories with its straight, sturdy lines.
The first story jutted out on either side, which she already knew from poring over their website.
Inside she’d find shops, two restaurants, two bars and lounges, an indoor pool and fitness center, a small spa, meeting rooms, a ballroom for weddings and events, and fifty-two guest rooms, including a dozen suites.
Behind it, the mountains rose up, and the ski slopes streaked down. She decided on the spot she’d have to be dragged up there at gunpoint, and even then, a bullet might be the better choice.
She turned into the parking lot, noted that even on this edge of seasons she had to hunt for a space. They offered valet, but she considered that for guests, so hiked what seemed like a football field from Nina’s car to the front entrance—a wide, stone, heated portico.
Inside, more white in the sparkling spread of marble floors, a four-sided roaring fire where people in cushy chairs or sofas enjoyed a late-morning coffee. A round table simply smothered in a gorgeous flower arrangement that smelled of spring.
Breathing in, breathing out, she crossed the lobby, walked through a wide archway and into Après.
She’d studied the website; she knew what to expect. But all she could think when she stepped in was: Oh God, oh God, I want this job.
A glass wall opened the bar to the world outside. The mountains, the slopes, a slice of the lake, the woods and trails, what she supposed would be gardens around a generous patio outside when winter loosened its grip.
Tables gleamed, dark wood, again dignified, and each held a small glass-domed tea light and a bud vase. The chairs and booths invited lingering on the soft, stone-gray leather.
The bar spread along the side wall, giving those behind the stick a full view of the room. Dark wood like the tables, it looked antique with its deep carving, its four-columned backbar with mirrored arches.
She instantly coveted it for her own.
The coffee maker—copper and elaborate—stood on its own counter beside the backbar, with the cash-out in a discreet alcove on the other side; swinging doors would go to the back of the house behind it.
She made mental notes for her future—the decor, all class; the flow, excellent.
She really wanted to get behind that bar, check out the setup, check the taps—a half dozen of them on either side of the bar. She crossed to it—maybe just a quick peek—but a man came through the swinging doors carrying a tub.
Tall, on the gangly side, hair in short, neat twists. He wore a white shirt, black vest and pants. The brass tag on the vest read NICK.
“Good morning.” He flashed a smile. “Après doesn’t open until eleven-thirty, but they serve coffee, tea, hot chocolate in the lobby. I’d be happy to take an order for you.”
“No, thanks. I’m here to meet Ms. Jameson. Nell Jameson. I’m a little early.”
“Morgan Albright?” His smile widened as he set the tub on the bar, then walked over, hand extended. “Nick Tennant. I’m the day man. You’re here for the manager’s slot. Nice to meet you.”
“You, too. Really nice bar.”
“I’ll say.” His look read pride as he glanced around. “Of course, I’m biased. Worked here ten years—in Après. Four years more for the resort summer and holidays.”
“Ten years.”
“Yep.” His deep-set brown eyes stayed on her face, assessing. “And I’ll answer what you’re too polite to ask. Didn’t want it—the manager’s slot. I like putting in my eight, going home for dinner. We just had a baby.”
“Oh, congratulations. Let’s see.”
Grinning now, he pulled out his phone to display the screen saver, an infant with her father’s soulful eyes and a curly cap of hair. The pink bow in it and frilly pink dress said girl.
“Looks like her daddy. What’s her name?”
“Shila. Got her mama’s mouth, but otherwise, that’s me all over. You got kids?”
“No.”
“Changes everything.”
He gave the baby on his screen saver a last smile before he tucked his phone away.
“I thought about managing, taking the evening work that comes with it. Or the coming in when a problem hits. The scheduling, the paperwork. Bump up the paycheck, but … Nope, ten-thirty to six-thirty suits me. Come in at ten-thirty, check the stock, check the keg levels, make the garnishes. Hell, you know the drill.”
“I do.”
“Open her up, then man the stick, get her done, and clock out, so most nights home by quarter to seven to my girls. Best of both.”
“It sounds like it.”
“Have a seat at the bar. I’ll draw you a soft drink.”
“I’ll take it. Could I … I’d really like a peek.”
“Come on through.” He led her around, got a glass.
Clean, shiny, organized, she noted—as it should be. Ice maker, speed rack, sink shining clean, cooler, shakers, corkscrews, knives, swizzle sticks, bar mops, cocktail napkins, all as pristine as the bottles and glassware on the backbar.
“Whatcha think?”
“I think the people who run and work in here know what they’re doing.”
He shot a finger at her, then put her drink on the bar. “I can text up to Nell’s office, let them know you’re here.”
“That’s okay. This gives me time to see the layout and gear up.” She went around, took a stool. “I’m not used to sitting on this side.”
“How long you been running the stick?”
“Nearly seven years. I started my last year in college, and knew that was where I belonged. I don’t have to ask if you like working here. You don’t strike me as someone who’d put in a decade—plus the four years of summers and holidays—if you didn’t.”
“It’s a great place to work. I met my wife here. Corrine’s in Reservations. Well, she’s on maternity leave, but she wants to come back at least part-time when Shila’s six months old. Made good friends here, get treated fair here. Hal? He’s head butler on the Club Level? Twenty-seven years in. And that’s not the record.”
“It’s not?”
“Mrs. Finski—and everybody, even the Jamesons, called her Mrs. Finski—thirty-six years when she retired, head of Housekeeping.”
“That says staff loyalty.”
“Earned it. The Jamesons are good people.”
“Thanks, Nick.”
Morgan’s first thought was Nell Jameson—photo on the website—filled the air with energy.
She hit about five-four in her stylish boots, and presented a gym-fit figure in a knee-skimming dress of rusty red. She wore her beautifully highlighted brown hair back in a casual twist.
And though she took a damn good photo, Morgan concluded, she looked better in the flesh. Maybe it was that energy, or the depths of her soulful brown eyes.
She walked with utter confidence. “Nell Jameson.”
“Morgan Albright.”
They shook, and sized each other up.
“Am I late?”
“I was early.” Be yourself, Morgan thought. “I wanted to get a feel for the bar before the interview.”
“And what’s your feel?”
“The actual bar?” Morgan ran a hand over the surface. “I want it for my own.”
“Can’t blame you. My grandfather had it shipped over from Dublin.”
“I thought it was the real thing. The rest? It’s wonderful. Classy, but comfortable with it. Organized, a good flow—things guests won’t necessarily pinpoint, but they’ll feel it. And the view, well, that’s a gift.”
“Thermal windows, tinted to cut glare. You can watch the slopes—do you ski?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Okay then. Spring, summer, into the fall, there’s a view of the ninth tee over toward the lake. Do you golf?”
“No. But I’ve sat in gardens, even planted some, and I assume the view of those when they’re not buried in snow is pretty spectacular.”
“They are. Well, we’ll take a table and get started.” Nell held up a finger. “Before the table, why don’t we start with you showing me some practical application. How about you make me a Kir Royale?”
“I’d be happy to. I need to see your ID.”
She heard Nick suck in a quick gasp, but kept her eyes on Nell.
“Are you serious?”
“I can’t serve you otherwise.”
“I’m twenty-seven.”
“That’s what they all say. Sorry. You could pass for twenty. Could be exceptional DNA and bone structure, but it’s not worth the hit to this venue, or to me, to risk it.”
“Is that your personal policy?”
“It is, and I hope it’s your business’s policy or I’m the wrong person for this position.”
“I see.” Nell set her briefcase on the bar, opened it. She took a slim leather case from one of the pockets, slid out her license.
Morgan studied it, smiled, said, “Thank you.”
Her heart hammered as she walked around the bar. Then settled. She knew what she was doing here.
She filled a flute with ice and cold water, set it aside while she located a bottle of crème de cassis, a lemon, a paring knife.
“The website lists you as head of Hospitality.”
“That’s right.”
Morgan took a bottle of champagne from the cooler. “So that’s Après, the Lodge Bar, the restaurants, room service?”
“The juice bar in the fitness center, the snack bar attached to the lift, grocery runs for stocking the cabins per guest requests.”
“A lot,” Morgan said as she opened the bottle with an elegantly muffled pop.
“I have an excellent team.”
“I’ve only met Nick, but if he’s representative, you do.”
She dumped the ice, eyeballed a tablespoon of the crème de cassis into the flute, tipped the glass to pour the champagne.
“Do you think it adds elements of comfort and challenge, working in a family business?”
“I do.” Intrigued, Nell propped her chin on her fist. “Are you interviewing me?”
“Just making conversation.” She used the knife, sliced the lemon, cut out the pulp and made a perfect spiral twist. Topped off the champagne, added the lemon twist, then set the flute on a cocktail napkin. “Enjoy.”
Nell sipped, set the flute down. “Okay, that’s perfect. I wasn’t going to actually drink it, but I’m going to make an exception. Let’s take that table.”
When Nell walked to a booth by the windows, Nick gave Morgan a grin and a thumbs-up.
“I’m going to get this out of the way,” Nell began when Morgan sat across from her. “I’m sorry about what happened to you, what happened to your friend. I’m very sorry.”
“Thank you.”
“Part two of getting out of the way. I was annoyed when my grandmother set up this interview. Stepping on my toes.”
“Oh.” Shit! “I can’t blame you.”
“Grandmothers.” Now Nell shot out a megawatt smile. “Good thing I adore mine.”
“I’m going to say the same for me and mine.”
“All right, we’ll close those doors for now.” Once again, Nell opened her briefcase. This time she took out a portfolio, opened it. “Your résumé’s impressive. But it doesn’t list your managing the Next Round bar in Maryland.”
“I tended bar there. I managed the offices for Greenwald’s Builders.”
“Your employer at the Next Round told me you often handled scheduling, inventory, ordering, even small repairs and maintenance.”
“As needed.”
“Two words to live by. He also told me that you were the second-best bartender he’s had in the thirty-one years of owning the bar.”
“Big Mac. Number one.”
Nell smiled again. “Exactly. Big Mac beat you out because he could sing like an angel and intimidated any potential troublemaker just by his size. But you were more dependable and flexible—so it’s a close call. He hoped to sell you the business when he retired.”
“He—” That hit hard. “I didn’t know that.”
“Apparently, neither did he, until you relocated. Are you planning to stay in Westridge?”
It shook her, the idea she’d been just that close to having her own. She had to put it aside now, because that was gone. And this was the here and the now.
“I want roots. I’ve transplanted them here. I have nothing to go back to, and my family’s here.”
“You’ve lived a lot of places, being in a military family. Any favorites?”
“No. Not really. It’s all temporary, and you know it going in.”
“So don’t get attached.” Nell nodded, and though she had Morgan’s résumé on the table, didn’t look at it. “You worked in college, so you have experience waiting tables, serving the public in that way. Which should give you an understanding of what waitstaff handles. On the managerial side again, your boss at Greenwald’s Builders sang your praises.”
It amazed her they’d already checked her references, but she answered smoothly. “The Greenwalds were wonderful to work for.”
“A family business.”
“Yes, very much so.”
“Your grandmother and mother run a family business.”
“They do.”
“I love Crafty Arts, by the way, and really need to get into town and check out the new café.”
“It’s terrific.”
“But you don’t want to work there?”
“A wine bar’s lovely, but it’s not a full bar. They could use me, but they don’t need me.”
“Do you find family businesses offer levels of comfort and challenge?”
For the first time, Morgan laughed. “Yes, I do.”
Nell sat back, sipped her drink. “Why a bar?”
“I like people. People gather in a bar. When you’re behind one, they look to you to serve them a drink. But you have to know how to gauge the mood. Happy, celebrational, looking to brush off a tough day, sad, pissed off, just looking for company. And that’s what you serve up with the drink. I’m good at mixing drinks, and at gauging moods. I like bars. They’re their own little universe.”
“How so?”
“The world’s revolving out there.” She circled a finger in the air. “But in here, it’s a respite. Your meeting tanked, you didn’t get that raise? Respite. Your kid aced his spelling test, you got a promotion? A place to celebrate and share good news. A resort bar, more transitory clientele, but still some locals dropping in.
“Business meeting over there.” She gestured to an empty table. “A couple of honeymooners mooning over each other there. Two couples, old friends, taking a mini-vacation together. A bridal party celebrating. I can see all of them from behind the bar—it’s a smart layout—and still give my attention to the stool sitters.”
“What do you expect from the waitstaff?”
“The same as I expect from myself. Serve, gauge moods, and play to them. Don’t chatter unless they chatter first. You want tips? Smile, make eye contact, pay attention, and don’t neglect one table for another. Friendly service still has to be efficient. Serve now, bitch later. If you need help, tell me. It’s my job to step in. As needed.”
“Okay. I’ve got about fifteen minutes. Let’s talk terms, then I need to pass you to my assistant to show you around.” She took another sip of her drink. “If we come to terms, you can start training next Monday. I’d want you to have a solid week with Don, our current manager, before you fly solo.”
Morgan put her hands in her lap, folded them together, gripped them tight. “Just like that?”
This time Nell studied her drink before she sipped, before she met Morgan’s eyes straight on. “I know how to gauge people, too.”
Ninety minutes later, still dazed, Morgan walked into Crafty Arts. A half dozen customers browsed while Sue rang up a sale.
“Hey there, Morgan. Your mom and gram just went up to the office.”
“Thanks.”
She made her way up, found them both at the computer and her grandmother hovering over Audrey’s shoulder.
“I think interest in, Mom, rather than experience in. We can train—Morgan!”
Audrey clasped her hands under her chin. “Were the earrings lucky?”
“As lucky as it gets. I’m hired.”
“Of course.” Olivia said it with a shrug, but her eyes shined as Audrey leaped up to grab Morgan and bounce. “The Jamesons aren’t idiots.”
“I start training tomorrow, and I’ll work on a probationary basis for three months. After which? Automatic raise in salary. Jesus, they offered more than I was making at the Round, with benefits. And, and, oh God, I’ll manage a team of twenty-three, including back of the house.”
“We have to celebrate,” Audrey declared. “We’ll take you out to dinner.”
Morgan followed impulse. “I’m going to make pork chops.”
Audrey blinked. “You’re going to cook?”
“It’s Nina’s mother’s recipe. I made it once, I can do it again. I’m going to make pork chops and her spicy potatoes,” she repeated, because it would close out an ugly memory. “And we’ll use the good china and stemware. That’s how I want to celebrate.”
She drew back. “Thank you, Gram, for opening the door. Thank you both for the lucky earrings I may never take off. I’m going to the store, then making dinner.”
She gave them both a squeeze.
“If it tastes horrible? Lie.”