Identity

“You started it,” Audrey reminded her. “A photo book, like a coffee-table book. I can see it! You know who’d be great for the photos?”

“Tory Phelps,” they said together.

“Hive mind.” Olivia held up a hand. “The new hire first. Morgan’s right there. The days of either of us working eight to ten hours a day, seven days a week, are done, Audrey.”

“Agreed. But I can feel Tory out, just see how much she thinks she’d charge for something like this. That way we’d know if it’s even feasible. She’s good,” she told Morgan. “We carry some of her work in the shop, had a showing for her last year. She teaches photography at the community college.”

“Your mother does love a new project.”

“She does.” Morgan looked around the café. “This one turned out really well.”

“Can’t argue with truth.” Olivia gave her daughter’s hand a pat. “Now, let’s get our tired butts home. This one has a job interview tomorrow and needs a good night’s sleep.”

She didn’t get one, not when her mind refused to turn off.

What if she didn’t get the job? She could look elsewhere, of course she could. But …

Should she tell her ladies she’d take that coordinator’s job? She could handle it. She could learn about the arts, the crafts, the artisans and artists and craftspeople. She already knew how to manage staff, how to manage a business.

Maybe it was time to put away her goals and dreams and accept what stood in front of her.

But she wasn’t ready to, not ready to just bury everything she’d worked toward.

Still, if she worked five years, lived here and worked and saved, she might be able to really start again.

Maybe.

She fell asleep on the maybe, then woke early to lie in bed and go over it all again.

When she went down for coffee, her mother sat at the counter with her laptop. She’d braided her sun-kissed hair back this morning and wore a candy-pink robe.

“Good morning. I’m researching how to produce coffee-table books. It’s a lot!”

“I guess it is.”

“It’s such a good idea. Now it’s in here.” Audrey tapped her temple. “I can’t let it go. I want to get as much calculated and organized before I hit your gram with it. That way works best with her.”

Morgan started to reach for a mug and saw the Crafty Arts box beside the coffee machine, and the card with her name on it.

“What’s this?”

“Just a little something from Gram and me, for good luck today. If you hate them … pretend you don’t. I put it there since I wasn’t sure if you’d be up and around before we left for work.”

Prepared to lie if necessary, Morgan opened the box. The diamond etching on the silver, cuff-style earrings made them sparkle.

She didn’t have to pretend.

“They’re beautiful.”

“We thought they’d go well with what you picked out to wear today.”

“I think you picked that out.”

“Well, I helped. But the outfit was in your closet, after all. Do you really like them?”

“I love them.” She put them on to prove it. “How do they look?”

“Like you. Smart, just a little sleek, and very well-crafted. How about some breakfast?”

“Can’t.” Morgan pressed a hand to her belly. “I’m nervous.”

“Of course you are. Who wouldn’t be? But all you have to do is be Morgan. The resort will be lucky to have you, and I’m saying that as a business manager—something I never thought I’d be in my life. I watched you yesterday, baby, and you know just what you’re doing.”

“I used to think so. And I’m not going into this with a negative attitude. I need a boost, I can’t pretend I don’t. I need someone who isn’t my mother or grandmother to tell me I’m good enough.”

“That bastard did a number on you.”

Morgan’s eyebrows lifted. “Listen to the mouth on my mother.”

“Oh, I’ve always had that. You just didn’t hear it. Maybe that was a mistake, me always putting on the everything’s-fine face for you. But I can’t go back and change that now. You go in there today, and you be Morgan. If they don’t give you that boost, they’re idiots.”

Audrey closed her laptop, rose. “I’ve got to get dressed. We’ll probably be gone before you have to leave.” Eyes on her daughter’s, she lifted a hand to Morgan’s cheek. “Will you let us know how the interview goes? Text, even drop by the shop?”

“I will. Thanks for the earrings. I can feel the luck pumping off them.”

She put on the mother-approved outfit. The sage-green shirt, the slim black pants, the tall black boots. Added the butter-soft leather blazer. And had to admit, as usual when it came to fashion, Audrey hit the mark.

She looked professional, confident, and like herself.

Now, she just had to remember to act that way.

Downstairs, she gave herself a pep talk while she donned her outdoor gear.

You know what you’re doing.

Your résumé’s solid.

You may decide you don’t want the job—but you’ll take it because you need it.

Hissing against the cold blast, she walked to Nina’s car. Let out a relieved breath when it started. And knowing the heater wouldn’t do a damn thing until she got out again, shivered her way into town.

A quick glance showed her a couple coming out of the café entrance. Both held shopping bags. Boded well for day two, she thought, and drove through town and out again.

She turned left, bumped over a bridge where the water below shivered its way over rocks the way she shivered at the wheel.

Another turn with snow-drenched woods on either side. She tested the heater as she climbed a hill, and when it coughed out cool rather than cold air, decided to take it.

She spotted the first cabins tucked in those snowy woods and admitted she’d never understand the appeal of a winter vacation that involved winter.

A tropical beach, now, a sun-washed Italian villa, those made absolute sense. But a cabin in the Vermont woods, paying to freeze on a ski lift or skate on a frozen lake?

Forget it.

“And you can just keep those opinions to yourself if you hope to bag this job.”

She followed the signs to the hotel, winding her way.

It stood, white against the white, dignified rather than glamorous, rising four stories with its straight, sturdy lines.

The first story jutted out on either side, which she already knew from poring over their website.

Inside she’d find shops, two restaurants, two bars and lounges, an indoor pool and fitness center, a small spa, meeting rooms, a ballroom for weddings and events, and fifty-two guest rooms, including a dozen suites.

Behind it, the mountains rose up, and the ski slopes streaked down. She decided on the spot she’d have to be dragged up there at gunpoint, and even then, a bullet might be the better choice.

She turned into the parking lot, noted that even on this edge of seasons she had to hunt for a space. They offered valet, but she considered that for guests, so hiked what seemed like a football field from Nina’s car to the front entrance—a wide, stone, heated portico.