Identity

Inside, more white in the sparkling spread of marble floors, a four-sided roaring fire where people in cushy chairs or sofas enjoyed a late-morning coffee. A round table simply smothered in a gorgeous flower arrangement that smelled of spring.

Breathing in, breathing out, she crossed the lobby, walked through a wide archway and into Après.

She’d studied the website; she knew what to expect. But all she could think when she stepped in was: Oh God, oh God, I want this job.

A glass wall opened the bar to the world outside. The mountains, the slopes, a slice of the lake, the woods and trails, what she supposed would be gardens around a generous patio outside when winter loosened its grip.

Tables gleamed, dark wood, again dignified, and each held a small glass-domed tea light and a bud vase. The chairs and booths invited lingering on the soft, stone-gray leather.

The bar spread along the side wall, giving those behind the stick a full view of the room. Dark wood like the tables, it looked antique with its deep carving, its four-columned backbar with mirrored arches.

She instantly coveted it for her own.

The coffee maker—copper and elaborate—stood on its own counter beside the backbar, with the cash-out in a discreet alcove on the other side; swinging doors would go to the back of the house behind it.

She made mental notes for her future—the decor, all class; the flow, excellent.

She really wanted to get behind that bar, check out the setup, check the taps—a half dozen of them on either side of the bar. She crossed to it—maybe just a quick peek—but a man came through the swinging doors carrying a tub.

Tall, on the gangly side, hair in short, neat twists. He wore a white shirt, black vest and pants. The brass tag on the vest read NICK.

“Good morning.” He flashed a smile. “Après doesn’t open until eleven-thirty, but they serve coffee, tea, hot chocolate in the lobby. I’d be happy to take an order for you.”

“No, thanks. I’m here to meet Ms. Jameson. Nell Jameson. I’m a little early.”

“Morgan Albright?” His smile widened as he set the tub on the bar, then walked over, hand extended. “Nick Tennant. I’m the day man. You’re here for the manager’s slot. Nice to meet you.”

“You, too. Really nice bar.”

“I’ll say.” His look read pride as he glanced around. “Of course, I’m biased. Worked here ten years—in Après. Four years more for the resort summer and holidays.”

“Ten years.”

“Yep.” His deep-set brown eyes stayed on her face, assessing. “And I’ll answer what you’re too polite to ask. Didn’t want it—the manager’s slot. I like putting in my eight, going home for dinner. We just had a baby.”

“Oh, congratulations. Let’s see.”

Grinning now, he pulled out his phone to display the screen saver, an infant with her father’s soulful eyes and a curly cap of hair. The pink bow in it and frilly pink dress said girl.

“Looks like her daddy. What’s her name?”

“Shila. Got her mama’s mouth, but otherwise, that’s me all over. You got kids?”

“No.”

“Changes everything.”

He gave the baby on his screen saver a last smile before he tucked his phone away.

“I thought about managing, taking the evening work that comes with it. Or the coming in when a problem hits. The scheduling, the paperwork. Bump up the paycheck, but … Nope, ten-thirty to six-thirty suits me. Come in at ten-thirty, check the stock, check the keg levels, make the garnishes. Hell, you know the drill.”

“I do.”

“Open her up, then man the stick, get her done, and clock out, so most nights home by quarter to seven to my girls. Best of both.”

“It sounds like it.”

“Have a seat at the bar. I’ll draw you a soft drink.”

“I’ll take it. Could I … I’d really like a peek.”

“Come on through.” He led her around, got a glass.

Clean, shiny, organized, she noted—as it should be. Ice maker, speed rack, sink shining clean, cooler, shakers, corkscrews, knives, swizzle sticks, bar mops, cocktail napkins, all as pristine as the bottles and glassware on the backbar.

“Whatcha think?”

“I think the people who run and work in here know what they’re doing.”

He shot a finger at her, then put her drink on the bar. “I can text up to Nell’s office, let them know you’re here.”

“That’s okay. This gives me time to see the layout and gear up.” She went around, took a stool. “I’m not used to sitting on this side.”

“How long you been running the stick?”

“Nearly seven years. I started my last year in college, and knew that was where I belonged. I don’t have to ask if you like working here. You don’t strike me as someone who’d put in a decade—plus the four years of summers and holidays—if you didn’t.”

“It’s a great place to work. I met my wife here. Corrine’s in Reservations. Well, she’s on maternity leave, but she wants to come back at least part-time when Shila’s six months old. Made good friends here, get treated fair here. Hal? He’s head butler on the Club Level? Twenty-seven years in. And that’s not the record.”

“It’s not?”

“Mrs. Finski—and everybody, even the Jamesons, called her Mrs. Finski—thirty-six years when she retired, head of Housekeeping.”

“That says staff loyalty.”

“Earned it. The Jamesons are good people.”

“Thanks, Nick.”

Morgan’s first thought was Nell Jameson—photo on the website—filled the air with energy.

She hit about five-four in her stylish boots, and presented a gym-fit figure in a knee-skimming dress of rusty red. She wore her beautifully highlighted brown hair back in a casual twist.

And though she took a damn good photo, Morgan concluded, she looked better in the flesh. Maybe it was that energy, or the depths of her soulful brown eyes.

She walked with utter confidence. “Nell Jameson.”

“Morgan Albright.”

They shook, and sized each other up.

“Am I late?”

“I was early.” Be yourself, Morgan thought. “I wanted to get a feel for the bar before the interview.”

“And what’s your feel?”

“The actual bar?” Morgan ran a hand over the surface. “I want it for my own.”

“Can’t blame you. My grandfather had it shipped over from Dublin.”

“I thought it was the real thing. The rest? It’s wonderful. Classy, but comfortable with it. Organized, a good flow—things guests won’t necessarily pinpoint, but they’ll feel it. And the view, well, that’s a gift.”

“Thermal windows, tinted to cut glare. You can watch the slopes—do you ski?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Okay then. Spring, summer, into the fall, there’s a view of the ninth tee over toward the lake. Do you golf?”

“No. But I’ve sat in gardens, even planted some, and I assume the view of those when they’re not buried in snow is pretty spectacular.”

“They are. Well, we’ll take a table and get started.” Nell held up a finger. “Before the table, why don’t we start with you showing me some practical application. How about you make me a Kir Royale?”

“I’d be happy to. I need to see your ID.”

She heard Nick suck in a quick gasp, but kept her eyes on Nell.

“Are you serious?”

“I can’t serve you otherwise.”