Identity

“I’m sorry I didn’t keep in touch more, visit more.”

“You had a life to build. And you did keep in touch. Sweetie, I have friends who only hear from their grown kids when they make the effort, only see them when they travel. You called every couple of weeks, you emailed, you visited every Christmas. Don’t be sorry. I’m so proud of you.”

“That makes one of us.”

“You stop that. If I’d been in your place, I’d still be hiding under the covers. You’re a doer, Morgan. You always have been.”

“So were you,” Morgan realized.

“Me?” Audrey laughed, sipped wine. “I was more of a going-alonger.”

“I don’t think—” She broke off as the phone in her pocket signaled. “That’s my email tone. Who could that be? It’s after eleven.”

“Find out.”

Morgan pulled out the phone, swiped, stared. “Oh God. I have an interview Sunday at eleven at Après.”

“Oh! That’s great! That’s wonderful! Now we can both be nervous wrecks. Oh! Let’s top off this wine, take it up, and pick out what you’re going to wear. That’s what I’m good at.”

“I—sure. Yeah. I never expected to hear anything so fast.”

“Lydia Jameson? In the race between the turtle and the hare, she’s the hare. And she always wins. Let’s play shop your closet.”





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.”