Identity

After parking in front of the garage, heaving a sigh that she’d made it, she got out on her rubbery legs to drag her pair of suitcases out of the car.

The cold cut like knives sheathed in ice, and the moan of the wind crackled through the frozen trees.

But they’d blown the snow off the drive, away from the wide bricked path. At her limit, she bumped the suitcases up the pair of steps to the covered entryway and knocked.

The door opened quickly, told her they’d been waiting. In an instant it hit her, that study in shared DNA. So alike, the slim builds, the bold blue eyes, the beautiful forever bones of their faces.

An instant more enfolded her in female arms, the scent of women.

“Close out that cold, Audrey. Let me get a look at this girl.”

Olivia Nash took Morgan’s shoulders to hold her back and take a good study. “Worn to the nub, aren’t you?”

“Long drive, Gram.”

“Well, get that coat off. We’ll get some stew in you. I’d say whiskey with it, but you never had a taste for it as I recall.”

Her mother took her coat, scarf, hat, then stood holding them, taking her own good study. “How about some wine to go with that stew?”

“That’d be great.” Though she didn’t want either. She wanted bed and a dark room.

But she let herself be handled, taken from the foyer, past the living room with its roaring fire, then the study that had once been her grandfather’s retreat, into what they’d remodeled into a great room with its cozy lounge, its dining area, its spacious kitchen that opened to the snowy yard and woods beyond.

All pin neat and, reflecting the two women who lived there, both practical and female.

“Sit right there at the counter,” Olivia ordered. “Audrey, you get the wine, I’ll get the stew.”

They bustled, working in a way that told Morgan they knew how to work together, be together, live together.

Her grandmother had let her hair go gray as steel—like her spine—wore it short as a boy’s. She didn’t move, in Morgan’s estimation, like a woman who had seventy in the rearview mirror.

From the pot on the shining stove top, she ladled twice as much stew as Morgan could have eaten on her best day.

Audrey put a glass of deep red wine on the counter, ran a hand over Morgan’s hair. “We’ve got fresh sourdough bread, too. I baked it this morning.”

“Baked it?”

“A friend gave me the starter last fall, so I needed to at least try. I like it, and I’ve gotten good at it. I think.”

She cut a generous slice from a round on the cutting board.

She still wore her wheat-field-in-the-sun hair long, pulled back in a neat tail. Her hands—they’d always seemed so elegant, delicate to Morgan—nudged the butter crock over.

“Let me know what you think.”

“Stick thin.” Olivia set the bowl, a spoon, a cloth napkin in front of Morgan. “We’ll fix that. We’ll fix it,” she said, and gave Morgan’s hand a quick squeeze. “Let’s all have some wine, Audrey.”

“Oh yes, let’s.”

As her mother got more glasses—the Waterford, Morgan noted—she spooned up some stew. “It’s wonderful.” Then nibbled at the slice of bread. Surprised she could speak pure truth, she smiled. “It’s all wonderful. Thanks for letting me come.”

“I won’t hear that.” Olivia stabbed a finger in the air, picked up the wine with her other hand. “I’ll hear none of that. You’re my only grandchild. Your mother’s only child. This is home. Whether you make another one down the road, this is always home. It’s the three of us now.”

She lifted her glass. “And here’s to the three of us.”

With a nod, Morgan lifted her own glass, sipped.

“You, ah, put glass fronts on some of the uppers. It looks nice.”

“They light up, too.” Walking over, Olivia flipped a switch that illuminated glassware, the good china. “Decided on it—when was that, Audrey?”

“Last spring, during our spring cleaning. I sent you pictures, didn’t I, Morgan?”

“Yes, but seeing it … I’m sorry I didn’t come for Christmas. I know you both wanted to come to me, but I…”

“Leave that for now.” Olivia took one of the stools. “Leave all that for tonight. We’ll talk about all of it, all you need to talk about, and I’ll say again. We’ll fix it. Tonight, let it be enough you’re here.”

Morgan nodded again, ate more stew. “How’s the shop?”

“Oh, it bustles, doesn’t it, Audrey?”

“Winter people.” Audrey took her own stool. “They love coming into town and finding something local to take home. We’re adding a wine-slash-coffee-slash-tea bar.”

“Really?”

“She talked me into it. Nag, nag, nag.” Olivia rolled her eyes at her daughter, then laughed. “I hate she’s right about it when I dragged my feet. We should have it up and running next week.”

“Fancy coffees and teas, hot chocolate this time of year. Iced coffees and teas, fresh lemonade, that sort of thing for the summer people. And wine all year round.”

“Sounds great.” Even if she couldn’t imagine her mother thinking of it. “Where are you putting it?”

“That’s the dragging of feet.”

“She pushed until I gave in. We bought the dusty old fake antiques shop next door. Had to open up the damn wall between the buildings, fix the dusty old mess. She took advantage of my old age and weak mind.”

“As if. We’re putting in a few tables and booths, offering cookies, scones—simple things. People can shop, have coffee, or have coffee and shop. Or wine and shop more,” Audrey said with a laugh.

“We opened the useless old fireplace in there, had it fixed up, put in an electric insert.”

“That’s—really smart.”

“We went back and forth on it, didn’t we, Mom? A real wood-burner would’ve had that genuine Vermont touch, but this is safer and cleaner.”

They hadn’t told her any of this, Morgan thought as she ate, as she listened to them talk about the details. Because they’d known she’d been mired in her own problems.

Eventually, she nudged the bowl away. “I can’t eat any more. It’s great. So’s the bread, Mom. I’m seriously impressed. I just can’t eat another bite. The drive wiped me out. If it’s okay, I’d like to go up, settle in, and get some sleep.”

“You don’t have to ask for permission.” Olivia rose. “Let’s go get you settled.”

They hauled the bags up to the bedroom she always used—two doors away from the master and across from her mother’s.

But when she walked in, more changes.

No more old-timey rosebud wallpaper. Instead they’d painted the walls a quiet, soothing blue that held soft against the dark trim. The floors gleamed, as always, but now a blue-and-cream rug, a subtle floral pattern, graced them.

They’d changed out the bed to a queen-size with a brass head-and footboard, covered with a white duvet, blue-and-white shams, and a throw folded at the bottom of variegated blues.

Instead of being on the walls, pink rosebuds stood in a vase on the dresser. A chair, with a little round table and reading lamp, nestled in the corner.

“It’s just lovely.”