Identity

In under ten minutes she broke through the snow-coated trees, crossed the narrow bridge over the frozen whip of river, and turned onto High Street.

Westridge ranked, she supposed, somewhere between big town and small city. Picturesque, certainly, especially in its winter coat. It drew tourists, she knew, in every season. Winter sports, summer sports, fall foliage, spring hikes. Hunting, fishing, birding.

The Resort at Westridge, with its classy cabins and classier hotel suites, drew the well-heeled into the area, offering all those activities along with exceptional food, an admirable wine cellar, two bars—a very casual lodge bar, and the more upscale glass-walled bar with a four-sided stone fireplace that catered to après ski, or après whatever the guests wished.

The town offered a banquet of restaurants, from diner style to five-star fancy, shops, boutiques, sporting goods, Vermont-flavored souvenirs, art galleries, and more.

Many of those nestled together on High Street, including her grandmother’s Crafty Arts. Or, as the sign read now, Morgan noted, Crafty Arts and Wine Café.

Even this late in the winter season and before the spring thaw, it … well, it nearly bustled, she admitted. Since she really wasn’t familiar with the geography, she had to hunt for parking. She remembered a small lot behind Crafty Arts but didn’t know how to navigate around the hilly roads and busy intersections to find it.

Still, street parking—when she found it—offered her a chance to check out the main commercial areas and possible opportunities.

Restaurants, retail, cafés, a bakery, an upscale bar. She could wait tables if she had to, but the bar hit top of her list. On side streets, she spotted a gallery, low-rise apartments, more shops, a doctor’s office, a wineshop—with a small wine bar. Next on her list.

On a less blustery day, she promised herself, she’d explore farther. But for now, she stopped in front of Crafty Arts and Wine Café.

Someone, she thought, had done a crafty and arty job on the display window. Tables and stands of varying heights held blown glass art arranged with wooden bowls, pottery. A soft gray throw draped over the back of a rocking chair.

Inside she found warmth, not just in the air, but the light, in the gleam of the wood floors. Paintings covered the walls. Old cabinets displayed handcrafted jewelry and small pieces of pottery, silverwork, copper. Another highlighted candles. Open shelves sparkled with blown glass.

A long antique bookcase transformed into the checkout counter where a woman chattered away with a customer while she wrapped up purchases. Behind her, a glorious stained glass peacock spread its tail.

The counterwoman glanced up, smiled. “Can I help you find anything?”

“Not yet, thanks. Just taking it in.”

She wandered on. They’d done so much, she realized, since she’d last been in. Wood or ironwork tables held more pottery, lamps, cutting boards, platters.

She walked upstairs. If memory served, the second floor had once been used as storage and her grandmother’s office. No more. Here she found textiles. Handcrafted scarves, gloves, hats, tablecloths, and runners.

Handmade soaps and lotions, more furniture, more art.

It occurred to her if she’d walked into this shop and still had disposable income, she’d never have walked out empty-handed.

When she walked down, she passed a couple heading up, and found the counter clerk just finishing up with another customer.

“Doing okay?”

“Yes. Sorry, I should’ve said, but you were busy. I’m Olivia’s granddaughter.”

“You’re Morgan! Oh my goodness.” Reaching out, she grabbed both of Morgan’s hands. “I went to high school with your mother! It’s so nice to meet you. I’m Sue Newton.”

“It’s nice to meet you, too.”

“They’re in the café—opening this Saturday. Some finishing touches going in. You go right on over. It’s going to be great.”

A sheet of plastic hung over the wide case opening. She pushed through into the light and bright. They’d hung plastic over the wide front window, something she found clever.

Keep people guessing until the big reveal.

She judged it would be big.

They’d carried the same wood flooring through for flow from space to space. The cream walls held more art—never miss a chance for a sale. They’d gone dark and moody on the millwork for contrast, and it worked.

The bar matched the millwork with a countertop of granite that married the cream with streaks of the dark. They’d scattered low tops, high tops, four tops, a few booths in deep blue leather.

And—not to miss a trick—had a small retail section of wine toppers, glasses, corkscrews, mugs, teacups, coffee and tea accessories.

They’d coffered the ceiling, adding the classy and the cozy.

Because she couldn’t help herself, she walked behind the bar.

Shelves, a fridge, an ice maker, a wine cooler, a speed rack, a section for tools, another for bar mops. She pulled out a leather-bound menu and found her eyebrows rising up at the extent of the selection.

Before she could put it back and step out, her ladies came out from the back.

“It’s going to work,” Audrey was saying, then spotted Morgan. “What a surprise! What do you think?” She spread her arms.

“I think I’m stunned. It’s amazing, everything. You changed the upstairs next door, and it’s wonderful. And this? It’s beautiful. Fancy but not fussy. Efficient but not staid.”

“Still needs a few touches, but we’ll be ready for Saturday.” Olivia gestured. “Come look at the kitchen. We’re offering baked goods, and that meant a damn commercial kitchen. But it’ll be worth it.”

She walked through the swinging door.

It shined, as the back of the house should. Stainless steel gleamed; steel shelves held cookware and tools. The big commercial hood over a six-burner stove top, the walk-in refrigerator said professional and impressive. Dishwasher, sink, mop sink, and the biggest, shiniest mixer she’d ever seen added more of the same.

“You’ve got it all. A really good use of the space.”

“And it passed final inspection.” Audrey swiped a hand over her forehead. Then bounced a little on her toes so her shiny tail of blond swung.

“We needed it compact because we needed room for…”

She opened a door.

“Holy crap!”

They’d created a wine cellar, filling three walls with racks, filling racks with bottles.

“You’ve got your whites,” Audrey began, “domestic, French, Italian, and so on, then the reds, then rosés, then sparklings over here. The sommelier at the resort helped us.”

“Because he’s sweet on your mother.”

“Mom.”

“I speak truth.”

The faint flush that rose into her mother’s cheeks left Morgan stunned speechless.

“Maybe a little. Anyway, office and more storage upstairs. We’re using the old office space above the shop for more stock.”

“I saw. I went up. It’s wonderful.”

“It really is. We have a door—locked from the office side—so we can walk over and down if we need to. It’s all so much, so I’m in a constant state of terror and excitement.”