Identity

“It gets better.”

Olivia opened a door into an attached bath. A generous shower, a dark blue vanity with a white top veined with blue. Open shelves holding fluffy towels and the female touch of glass jars filled with bath salts, oils, cotton balls.

“It’s so— You didn’t have to do all this.”

“Enough of that. Nash women—and you’ve got plenty of Nash in you,” Olivia added, “do what they want to do. Maybe not at first or every time, but eventually and most times.”

“We just took the room next door for the bath and closet. We still have plenty of bedrooms if we have a guest. It’s nice we all have our own bathrooms.”

“Easier to live together that way,” Olivia finished. “Still got the full bath at the other end of the hall, and the powder room downstairs. This big old house needed some changes.”

She narrowed her eyes at her daughter. “That doesn’t mean we’ll be tearing up the other baths anytime soon.”

Audrey just smiled. “Eventually. Can we help you unpack, baby?”

“No, no, it’s not that much.”

“We’ll let you get some rest.” Olivia stepped forward, kissed her cheek. “There’s bottled water in that cabinet under the shelves in the bathroom if you’re thirsty. You know where we are if you need anything.”

“I do. And you’re going to have to accept me saying thank you. Thank you, both of you. This is really beautiful.”

Audrey gathered her in, pressed cheek to cheek. “Good night, Morgan.” They went out, closed the door.

Needing to get it done, she unpacked first without giving much thought to what should go where. Just get it all put away, out of sight, along with the suitcases.

Because it felt as if she’d worn her clothes for a year, she stripped down, pulled pajama pants and a shirt out of the dresser where she’d just put them.

She got in the shower, let the water rain down. Warm, so warm.

She had her crying jag while the steam rose and the water struck the tiles.

She’d lost, she’d failed. She had nothing left of her own.

She wept for Nina, her beautiful friend.

She wept for the home someone else now lived in. For the jobs she’d loved, the life she’d built, and the future she’d hoped for.

Emptied out, she turned off the taps, put on her pajamas.

As she’d been taught, she hung her towel to dry before going into her nighttime routine.

Then she sat on the side of the bed, listening to the wind, the settling of the house.

A house where she lived, had this lovely, lovely room, because of the generosity of two women who loved her.

“What now?” she wondered. “What do I do now? Where do I start?”

Tomorrow, she told herself as she climbed under the crisp sheets, the fluffy duvet. She’d figure it out tomorrow. Or the day after that.

Or, she thought, and turned off the light, shut her eyes.

And fell into sleep like a stone into a river.





Chapter Six



She woke disoriented, and for a moment thought she dreamed. The pretty room with all the soothing blues, the way the light slid through the windows, all seemed so strange and unfamiliar.

Then she remembered and had to fight the deep desire to just close her eyes, just escape into sleep again.

Not the way, she told herself. Hiding in sleep solved nothing. When she woke, Nina would still be dead, the life she’d built still in ruins.

She needed to move forward—somehow, somewhere. The only choice was to move forward. Move.

She got up, dressed. Out of ingrained habit she made the bed, fluffed the pillows before wandering downstairs.

Olivia sat at the kitchen island, wearing a black sweatshirt. Its white lettering said simply:

i dissent

She sipped from an oversize mug of coffee while she worked a crossword on her tablet.

Morgan pointed at the lettering. “To what?”

“Whatcha got? Let me fix you some coffee. We went for that fancy machine when we redid things around here.”

“I can get it. I’m a bartender—was,” Morgan corrected. “Coffee machines can’t defeat me. I’m sorry I slept so late.”

“After the drive you had, I expected you to sleep longer. How about some breakfast?”

“No, nothing now, thanks. Please don’t fuss over me.”

“Grandmothers are designed to fuss over their grandchildren. It makes us happy. Don’t you want me to be happy?”

“Coffee machines don’t defeat me,” Morgan muttered as beans ground, as coffee streamed into the mug she’d set below, “but grandmothers do.”

“Because we’re so wise, and wisdom hones sneaky. And I see you still take some coffee in your cream and sugar.”

“I thought you’d be in town, at the shop by now.”

“Your mother’s taking the morning shift. She only just left.”

Sipping, nodding, Morgan leaned back against the counter. “Meaning you’re taking shifts keeping an eye on me.”

“Looks that way,” Olivia said easily. “And I asked for this morning because I think it may be easier for you to tell your grandmother what’s in your heart and mind right now than your mother. If I’m wrong—though when am I wrong?—I can switch with Audrey.”

“What’s in my heart and mind.” Morgan closed her eyes. “I lost everything, most vitally my closest friend.” She opened her eyes again. “Nina’s mother told me you wrote her, so did Mom. It meant a lot to her.”

“We only knew Nina through you, but that made her part of the family to us.”

“After Nina … Well, I lost everything else. My savings—gone—my home—someone else’s now. My car, and I know that’s nothing really, but I loved that damn car. My plans, my goals, my pride, my sense of security and self. Poof.” She flicked her fingers in the air. “A year ago, just one year ago, I had everything under control, everything lined up. Now? I’ve got nothing, literally nothing, and I’m living in my grandmother’s house.”

“All right.” Olivia lifted her mug, sipped. “You’re entitled to feel all of that. In fact, in your place, I’d have myself a first-class rage party.”

Not pity party, Morgan noted. No self-pity for Olivia Nash. “I’ve had a few.”

“Good, that’s healthy. You deserve them. You’re entitled to feel all that,” Olivia repeated, “even when you’re wrong.”

“Where am I wrong?”

“You say you have nothing? You have Morgan Nash Albright, damn it, and don’t ever forget it. And this is not your grandmother’s house, this is the Kennedy-Nash family home. I’m giving your grandfather first billing on it.

“Now, you can take as much time as you need to wallow, to sleep late, to rage, to curse whichever deity works best for you. You were victimized, and for a strong, smart woman—and you’re both—that’s devastating as much as it’s a pure pisser. When you’re finished, you’ll figure out what to do next.”

“It is a pisser. It is a pure pisser. Why hasn’t anyone said just that before now?”

“Because no one else is your gram. Haven’t you said it yourself?”