Chapter Nine
Friday night. The end of the workweek for many meant a busy night at Après. And that put Morgan right in her element. As she mixed, shook, stirred, tapped, she decided that despite the horrible last year, she’d rung the bell.
She’d needed a job because she needed to earn a living, and with the first swing, she’d landed one she enjoyed. And one that helped her find Morgan again.
The capable Morgan, the Morgan who made plans and worked toward them. The Morgan who had a knack for bringing a bright spot to a stranger’s day.
Whatever Gavin Rozwell had stolen from her, she still had her skills, and after a bumpy road, she’d relocated her spine. She intended to make good use of both.
At the bar, she served Keith and Martin, a couple celebrating their fifth anniversary—dry vodka martinis, three olives—and listened to their weekend plans.
“He’ll hit the gym.” Keith, adorable in his navy blue glasses, rolled his eyes behind them. “And drag me along.”
“Because I love you.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“Then a swim.” Martin took the first sip of his drink. “Whoa! Now that’s what I call a martini. How about you come back to Burlington with us and make all our Friday night martinis? We’d treat you like a princess.”
“Do I get a tiara?”
“Naturally.”
“Sign me up.”
She slid down the bar to fill a table order from one of the waitstaff.
And she knew Opal—twelve years in—had plenty of reservations about the new manager.
While Morgan filled the order, Opal—forty-three, sturdy build, brown hair in a no-nonsense bowl cut—rang up the check for a second table.
“When you’re slow on the drinks, it cuts into our tips.”
Morgan added an orange slice and cherry to a whiskey sour while she filled a pilsner from the tap.
“Are you getting complaints on the service?”
“Not yet.”
Maintaining pleasant, she poured a glass of Merlot, completed a traditional sidecar. “Let me know when you do.”
“Don worked faster.” With that, Opal hustled off with her drinks.
Couldn’t win them all over, at least not all at once, Morgan reminded herself. But if that kept up much longer, she’d try a one-on-one.
She filled another table order—no bitching about her speed on this one—served bar snacks and drinks to the stools. Flirted harmlessly with Keith and Martin because they liked it, before she cashed them out around midnight.
From the corner of her eye she saw a man slide onto a stool at the end of the bar. Looked like a solo, she thought as he scrolled on his phone, and she worked her way down to him.
“Good evening. What can I get for you?”
“Glass of Cab,” he said without looking up.
She got a red wineglass. Loner, she decided. Conversation not required. Despite the flannel shirt and jeans, the mass of dense brown hair falling over the shirt’s collar, something about him said “suit.”
She set the wine in front of him. “If you’d like anything from the kitchen, they’re closing in about ten minutes.”
Head down, thumbs busily writing a text, he shook his head.
She left him alone with his wine and his phone.
Thirty minutes later, when tables started to thin out and nightcappers wandered in, he was still there, end of the bar, working on his phone, half the pour still in his glass.
Minutes before last call, a group of three men came in. Early forties, she judged, and they’d unquestionably enjoyed any number of drinks already.
Laughing uproariously, they plopped down at the bar. The one in the middle shot a finger at her. “You’re new. I’ve been here three times before, and you were a man. Six months ago—was it six months?—six months ago, you were a man.”
“You’re half right. I’m new.”
He gave her a thoroughly drunken smile. “You’re a whole lot prettier now.”
“Thank you. What can I get you?”
He leaned forward, grinned. “Guess.”
“I guess if you’re not staying at the resort, I’m getting you an Uber.”
He blinked at her while he processed, then slapped the bar and laughed. “An Uber,” he repeated while his companions joined the hilarity. “What’s in an Uber?”
All smiles, she leaned forward to meet his glassy eyes. “You and your friends unless you’re staying at the resort.”
“We got us the presi-fucking-dential on the Club Level.” Since he said it with pride rather than temper, pulled out his key card to wave around, she kept smiling.
“I hear it’s fabulous. What are you celebrating?”
“My divorce. I’m a free man!” He tossed out his arms, clocked both of his friends, who found more hilarity. “How about you come on up and celebrate with me, cutie?”
“Oh, that’s tempting, but how about I serve you your last drink of the night?”
“Aw. We’re drinking boilermakers like men, in solidarity.”
“You got it.”
“She tried to emasculinate me,” he claimed, while Morgan began to mix the drinks.
“Since you’re drinking boilermakers like men, she didn’t succeed.”
“Gave her twelve years.” His companions patted his shoulder on either side, and dug into the almonds she set out.
“Here’s to the next twelve.” She set the boilermakers on the bar. “Drinks are on me.”
“Aw. You know, cutie, if I’d been married to you, I’d still be married.”
“That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me all night. Enjoy.”
She handled the rest of the stragglers and nightcappers before moving down to the loner at the end of the bar.
“Last call. Would you like another Cab?”
“Ice water, still.” Then he looked up. “You handled that well.”
She went blank. His eyes were tiger eyes, tawny, focused, a little fierce. For an instant that’s all she saw. Then the rest pushed through.
The sharply defined planes and angles, the take-a-punch line of the jaw. Add forty-five, fifty years, change the eyes to blue, he’d be his grandfather.
“Thank you, Mr. Jameson.”
“Miles. That’s how we run here.”
He glanced down the bar at the trio while she got his ice water. “I let Security know. They’ll make sure they get back upstairs safely.”
“They’re harmless. He’s just sad.”
“Is he?”
“Divorce, even when you want it, even when you need it, is bound to make you sad.”
“He’ll wake up with a banger of a hangover tomorrow and be sadder.”
His phone signaled—the first notes of “Bad to the Bone.”
“Hell.” When he picked it up off the bar, she left him alone.
When the trio stumbled out of the bar, Miles got up, left a twenty behind, and followed them out.
She ended her first solo week with a slammed Saturday night—her idea of perfection. On Sunday—a day and night off—she watched her mother bake bread and her grandmother roast a chicken.
Her assignment? Scrub and quarter potatoes, peel carrots.
It felt homey, relaxing, and happy with her mother rhapsodizing about seeing crocuses blooming in the snow.
“It’s going to go up to the fifties tomorrow and Tuesday.”
“Snow showers on Wednesday.”
Audrey sighed at her mother. “I know, but I’m telling you we’re out of it. Snow showers. Spring in Vermont’s only prettier because it takes so damn long to get here. You’re going to do those lavender drinks this week, aren’t you, Morgan?”
“I am, so let’s stick with showers and focus on the crocus.”
Out the window, the snow still blanketed, but she could see thinning patches, even some ground here and there. Shrubs and bushes shook off the white. Icicles dripped and sparkled.
She thought of the pansies she and Nina had planted just about a year ago. She’d buy some, plant some in memory, and to make her ladies smile.
She stepped back from the cutting board. “Did I do these right?”
“They’ll do. Now you’re going to toss them together in that bowl with olive oil.”
“How much?”
“Use your eyes.”
“God.”
“After that, you’re going to add a little honey, zest some lemon. Salt, pepper, oregano. You know how to mix a drink. Figure it out.”
She figured it out—she hoped—then spread them on a baking sheet and stuck them in the oven.
“Mom measured when she made the bread dough.”
“Baking’s different.”
Rather than argue, Morgan changed the subject.
“I forgot to tell you I met the last of the Jameson siblings. Miles?”
“Did you have a meeting?” Audrey asked.
“No, he came into the bar Friday night. Late. Nursed a glass of Cab for about an hour while he sent and answered texts on his phone.”
“Workhorse,” Olivia stated. “Always has been.”
“Takes one to know one.”
Olivia shrugged at her daughter, then chose a bottle of white from the wine cooler. “Show horses look pretty, workhorses get things done.”
“He’s not pretty like his siblings—too much rugged in the face for pretty. But he’s a really good-looking workhorse.” Morgan got out glasses. “They’re all really good-looking.”
“They are. My aunt—on the Nash side—married a Jameson cousin. I was flower girl. I guess I was six or so, and I remember how beautiful it all was,” Olivia said.
“I didn’t know that.”
In her gray sweatshirt with its rainbow peace sign, Olivia looked back.
“Your great-great-aunt and uncle, they’d be. So you’ve got distant Jameson cousins scattered around. I wore a pink organdy dress and pink rosebuds in my hair.” Olivia took the wine Morgan offered. “I remember that, too. And dancing with my father, then with my brother, Will.”
William Nash, Morgan knew, who’d gone to Vietnam, and died there.
“Anyway, the families go back, and both had their share of show horses and workhorses.”
Audrey took her bread out of the bottom oven, gave a little shoulder wiggle of satisfaction as she put it on the cooling rack. “Wasn’t Miles engaged?”
“No. Came close, rumor has it, but didn’t get that far. And Lydia’s pretty closemouthed on personal family business, but I know she was glad it didn’t.”
“Drea never talked about her at yoga, now that I think about it. Who was she anyway? I can’t remember. Not a local, though.”
“Sugarhouse princess from down in Brattleboro.” To rest her feet, Olivia slid onto a stool. “All show horse. Edgar Wineman’s granddaughter. Society page darling. Do they still have society pages? I gave them up for Rolling Stone magazine way back in the day.”
“Probably.” Fascinated, Morgan sat beside her. “So what happened?”
“Couldn’t say. But I suspect a grandchild of Lydia and Mick Jameson has more good sense than to tie himself up for long with a show horse who likes to flaunt and prance around instead of getting anything done.”
“Okay. Give me an overview of the family, one by one. I’ve got Lydia Jameson, but the rest.”
“All right then. Mick, smart, has vision, and isn’t afraid to get his hands dirty. He’d spend all his time outdoors if he could—and he and Steve spent plenty of that time together. Born athlete. I had a terrible crush on him when I was about thirteen.”
“Get out!”
“Lucky for you I got over it, or you wouldn’t be here drinking that wine. Rory, firstborn, went into law. He handles the family’s legal business. Got his own firm, and one of his sister’s daughters works with him. His sister, Jacie—she’s about your mom’s age—studied architecture, and met her husband in college. They’ve got their own business in New York, but you’ll see them at the resort a couple times a year. Second daughter there’s in interior design and works with them.”
“The families stick tight.”
“So they do. You should have a sense of Drea from your meeting. She’s a sharp one.”
“And kind,” Audrey added.
“She is, has Job’s own patience, and I imagine needs it with handling the events. If you’ve got something sticky to handle, Drea’s the one to ask for advice. Diplomats could take a lesson. Stir up those vegetables, Morgan.”
She rose to obey. “And the third generation?”
“We’ll start with the youngest. Liam’s not just a pretty face, though, jumping Jesus, he’s got one. Takes after his grandfather—athletic, outdoorsman, and they were smart enough to let him play to his strengths. More like his mother in that patience, I’d say. Cheerful sort of young man in my experiences with him.”
“That’s how he struck me,” Morgan agreed as she sat again.
“Nell, a chip off her grandmother’s steely back. Solid as a rock, suffers no fools. Doesn’t flaunt, and makes sure she frequents the local businesses.
“Now, Miles.” Olivia took a thoughtful sip of her wine. “Not as easy to figure, that Miles. He’s got the family home now, all to himself. Lydia and Mick decided the place was too big for them—and it’s big—and passed it to him. I’m thinking Rory and Drea are happy in their own, so they went down a generation. Where Liam has that cheerful nature and can—as I’ve seen it—talk to anyone about anything, his brother’s more the quiet type. Polite, well-mannered, as I’ve noted, but keeps more to himself. Then again, with Mick and Lydia about half-retired, Rory with his law firm, he’s running the ship, or will be.”
“It’s a layered and detailed ship.”
Olivia nodded. “Lots of decks on it and a proud legacy to keep afloat. Are you happy there, Morgan?”
“I really am. It’s not what I planned, but I feel like I’ve stuck the landing. It’s a good place to work, and I can’t ask for more than that.”
“Of course you can.” Olivia patted her hand before she rose to baste the chicken. “But it’s a start.”
Once a month—three o’clock sharp on Sunday—the Jamesons held a family meeting. Tradition decreed the meeting took place at the rambling Victorian where Miles’s grandparents had lived more than a half century of their married lives.
Though the house had come to him, he still considered them the hosts and the head. As a child, he’d spent the meeting portion of that Sunday in the library with a book, or playing in the backyard, alternately torturing or ignoring his sister when Nell came along, lording over or joining forces with Liam when he arrived.
Good times.
At sixteen, he’d sat proud at his first meeting, and learned the responsibilities and challenges of running a family business that not only sustained family but brought revenue and employment and interest to the community.
Decades of family meetings meant they ran smooth, had structure, even as the dynamics of that family ran through them like a river.
He couldn’t imagine it any other way.
He prepped for the meeting, reviewing spreadsheets, ledgers, reports, and projections in his office on the second floor of the east turret. It overlooked the front yard, the hills, and the little apple orchard where he’d once climbed branches and thought the long thoughts of childhood.
The dog Miles never intended to have slept in front of the fireplace—one of the dozen the house boasted.
The dog Miles eventually called Howl, because he did, had laid claim to Miles and the house the winter before as a stray of questionable origin and quirky manners.
Review done, Miles took his laptop, his file of hard copies, and switched off the fireplace his grandparents had converted to gas along the way. Howl opened one eye, grumbled in his throat.
Ignoring him, Miles continued out, took the back stairs down to the kitchen.
The dog, as he always did, followed. He watched, a hulk of bushy gray fur with a sweeping tail and long, floppy ears, as Miles set his laptop and file on the dining room table, switched on the dining room lights, lit the fire.
Miles walked back into the kitchen, opened the French doors, said, “Out.”
Howl plodded out onto the deck, down the steps, and into the yard, where he’d spend some time guarding the property from squirrels, rolling in the patchy snow, and howling with the wind.
Through trial and error, fits and starts, Miles had trained him to come to the mudroom door when he wanted in. And Howl had trained him to keep a supply of old towels in the mudroom or deal with tracks of snow, mulch, mud, depending on the season.
Since his mother would bring a ham, he only had to provide the coffee, soft drinks for the meeting, the wine for the post-meeting meal. They rotated the food contribution, which required another spreadsheet and a calendar, but it worked.
He made the coffee, prizing what he prized most—the silence and solitude. He loved the house, for all its size and quirks. He loved the warren of rooms even while he appreciated his grandparents’ decision to take down the wall between the kitchen and dining room to open the space. Just as he understood the practicality of converting all the fireplaces above the main level from wood-burning to gas.
Since he’d moved in, he’d changed little. Why change something when it suited you just fine? And change, he knew, rarely meant one thing. The dominoes kept tumbling.
Now he carried the coffee service, the cups into the dining room, set everything on the walnut sideboard. He poured himself a cup and stood at one of the windows watching the dog roll in a patch of snow as if it were a summer meadow.
But he also saw buds forming on the trees, swaths of green—anemic yet, but green—spreading on the ground. Before long, maintenance would switch from snow blowers and shovels to lawn tractors and fresh mulch.
Which the dog would roll in.
The trillium would burst color in the woods and along the hiking trails. The redbud would show its neon blooms before leaves unfurled back where, long before he was born, his father and grandfather had built a tree house.
Jamesons built to last, he thought, then heard the voices and footsteps of his parents—first arrivals—who’d come in while he’d been daydreaming.
“You can smell spring coming,” his mother said as his father set the big platter on the kitchen island.
“I smell ham.”
At home, his mother slid baking dishes into the ovens, set them on warm.
“It does smell good, but spring lasts longer.”
“Where’s that dog?” Rory held up a rawhide bone the size of a redwood.
“Outside, getting wet and dirty.”
“As a dog should.” Rory set down the bone before taking his wife’s coat. He hung his and hers in the mudroom. “Want coffee, babe?”
“No, thanks. Hi, stranger.” She gave Miles a hard hug. “I hardly saw you all week.”
“Busy days.”
“Don’t I know it.”
While Drea set up her laptop and files, Rory wandered to the door to look out. Tall, lean, he stood with his hands in his pockets. He wore a red corded shirt Miles assumed his mother had picked out, and jeans going white at the knees, his usual when lawyer garb wasn’t required.
His hair had gone gray at the temples, and a few stray strands wandered through his thick brown hair.
“How long’s that dog been out there?” he asked Miles.
“Oh, two or three days. I let him fend for himself.”
Rory sent a look over his shoulder.
“Maybe ten minutes, and he likes it out there. Obviously.”
“He likes it in here, too. I’m going to let him in. I’ll wipe him down, Mr. Fussy.”
“He misses Congo,” Drea murmured when Rory went into the mudroom to call the dog.
“I know.”
If he’d had the choice, Rory would’ve taken the old Boston terrier to court with him. As it was, he’d taken the beloved Congo into his office every day as his Silent Partner.
“I do, too. Seventeen years is a long time, and it’s hard to say goodbye. I know we did the right thing, poor little guy was suffering. But until your dad’s ready for another dog, he’s going to lavish that love on yours.”
He heard his father talking to the dog and the dog’s howls of delight.
“So I hear.” And since he also heard his grandparents come in and knew their habits, he went to pour more coffee.
At three, the family sat around the dining room table, his mother with spring water, Liam with a Coke, and the rest with coffee.
They ran through reports, projections, closed old business, outlined new. One of the new Liam presented was a ropes course.
“I did the cost analysis for the build, the insurance cost, and Dad’s looked into the legal. Should be on your screens now.”
“I know they’re popular,” Drea began, “but I honestly don’t see why people want to climb around on ropes and swinging platforms.”
“For the same reasons they want to go down hills on a pair of skis or snowboard. It’s fun. And it would add to our warm weather Adventure revenue.”
“Used to be hiking, canoeing, kayaking were enough for that.” Peering through her reading glasses, Lydia studied the projections.
“Times change, darling of mine.”
She glanced across the table at her husband. “Yes, they do.”
“The climbing wall we put up five years ago worked. During the summer season, it’s booked solid on weekends and between forty and seventy percent of running hours weekdays. The zip line kills it. We’re going to incorporate them into an Adventure package this season. Add the climbing wall or zip line to your hiking or biking, kayaking. Complete three adventures, get fifteen percent off a purchase at Outfitters. We could add the ropes course this season if we build it in time. Or next.”
Lydia tapped a finger on the table. “Miles, you haven’t expressed an opinion one way or the other.”
“Liam should make his own case, and I think he has. He nagged me until I took a trip to White River Resort to try theirs. It’s challenging, but it’s fun, and it works.”
“White River is three times our size.”
Liam grinned. “Small but mighty, Grand.”
“Obviously, Liam votes for it.” Mick spread his hands. “Miles, I’m assuming you do?”
“I do.”
“Nell?”
“I’m an aye.”
“My darling Drea?”
As she tossed back her hair, she sent her father-in-law a flirty smile. “I’ll tell you, my darling Mick, I’ll never understand why anyone would pay to hang on to a rope, but I’ll vote yes.”
“So does legal counsel,” Rory added.
“And I’ll add my aye. Want to make it unanimous, Lydia?”
“If you don’t bend to changes, you break.” She pointed at her husband. “Don’t think for one minute you’re climbing ropes, Irish.”
“Spoilsport.”
“Yeah! I’ll get started on it with the designer and builder next week. Thanks. You never told me you went to White River.”
Miles shrugged. “Last fall. I wouldn’t have told you if I thought it sucked either. You made your case.”
“Any more new business, Liam?”
“No, Pop. I’m going to take my victory and retire from the field.”
“Drea?”
“Some seasonal changes in packages for Events. And Nell and I are working on the idea, for summer, of a midweek picnic. A set menu, every Wednesday evening, long tables by the lake, two bars, buffet-style food and carving stations, musical entertainment.”
“Picnic by the Lake.” Nell took up the theme. “I’m working with the Lodge chef on the menu—keep it simple, friendly—make sure there are kid-friendly options, vegetarian and vegan options. Basically what we do for Buffet Night in the Lodge on Sundays, but midweek and outdoors.”
“I used to camp out near the lake when we were just the Lodge.” Mick studied the cost projections, and his eyebrows shot up. “Price of these grills is a hell of a lot more than a cookstove or a skillet over a campfire.”
“Times change,” Lydia said, and he laughed.
“That’s a touché. I gotta say, I like it. The long tables, people sitting together. Makes community.”
“We’ll have firm numbers before our next meeting.”
“And the menu—which will be subject to change as needed,” Drea added. “Hospitality is coordinating with the spa on a seasonal specialty drink, beginning with lavender-infused margaritas.”
“What the hell kind of drink is that?” Mick demanded.
“The new Après manager’s idea. I think it’s a clever one. Nell’s not completely sold, but I like it,” Drea continued. “Especially since Morgan made me one.”
“She didn’t make me one.”
Drea shrugged at her daughter. “You didn’t say you wanted to try one. She also claims she can make a special drink with whatever scrub and lotion the spa highlights, and I believe her. In addition, I’ve shifted our policy in order to give her a list of events booked for six months.”
“That I agree with. It keeps staffing more structured. She carded me during her interview. I still can’t get over it.”
“What do you mean ‘carded you’?” Miles asked.
“I wanted to watch her make a drink, and she said she had to see my ID before she served me.”
Rory let out a rolling laugh. “Baby love, take it as a compliment.”
“What it was? Ballsy.” Nell shrugged. “I have to agree with that, too. I hated losing Don, but I have to say she’s better at managing staff. Opal complains she’s slower mixing and pouring—”
“Opal complains water isn’t wet enough when she’s cranky.”
“True,” she said to Liam. “And the fact is, tips are up, and so—marginally, so far—is Après revenue.”
“She’s not slow,” Miles commented.
Now Lydia angled her head. “Oh?”
“I was in there Friday night for a while. About midnight, I guess, and at that point she worked the bar solo. Good crowd in there, and the service was quick enough. I didn’t see any bump in it even when she dealt with a guy over-celebrating his divorce and his two close-to-sloppy-drunk friends. All of them pretty well smashed by the time they sat at the bar.”
Because he’d hit his limit, Miles switched from coffee to water. “She established they were guests of the resort before serving them, but in a way that didn’t put their backs up. And when divorce guy hit on her, she deflected in a way that let him keep his pride.”
“She’s Olivia Nash’s granddaughter, after all,” Mick stated.
“You were at Après when you texted me?”
“You texted me first.”
Nell opened her mouth, rethought. “Maybe.”
“Both of you should be doing something besides work on Friday at midnight.”
“They both texted me, and I was doing something besides work.”
Nell turned to her younger brother. “What’s her name?”
He just grinned.
“And with that, this meeting is adjourned.” Mick winked at his grandson. “Let’s eat.”