Identity

On her first official day as manager of Après, she wore her lucky earrings. And came in an hour before shift for a meeting with Nell and her mother—Drea Jameson, Events coordinator.

They met in Drea’s office, a larger space than Lydia’s that included a rosy-hued love seat and two floral-print chairs.

Morgan thought the feminine touches suited the woman, with her tumble of auburn waves, porcelain skin, and dreamy blue eyes.

She wore a plum-colored sheath with a waist-length jacket. Morgan imagined the slim-heeled gray pumps boosted the petite woman’s height.

“I’m so sorry I haven’t had a chance to come into Après and introduce myself.”

“Two weddings, an anniversary party, a corporate banquet, and the Grototti family reunion over the last couple of weeks wouldn’t leave you much time.”

Drea smiled, and Morgan wondered if the fact her lip shade exactly matched the love seat was deliberate or a happy accident.

She voted deliberate.

“Nell said you pay attention.”

“Events take tables in the bar.”

“They do. So.” She handed Morgan a folder. “Events scheduled for the next four weeks. Don liked both electronic and hard copies monthly. There will be changes. Additions, cancellations, and you’ll see final numbers in red.”

Morgan opened the folder, skimmed the printouts. “Busy. Busy’s good. I’m fine with just e-copies for myself, but I’d like to post the printout in the back of the house—and I can generate that. Updating as needed.”

She looked up. “Is it possible to have the events list four to six months out?”

“Of course. Don liked to keep things more compact.”

“It would give me a bigger scope and more long-range planning for vacation time, requested shift changes, which events require bar setups and bartenders. And with those, full bar or wine, beer, soft drinks.”

She turned to Nell. “I understand that falls under your supervision, but the private bars decrease the tables in Après, at least during the course of the event, but still require staff pulled from Après or the Lodge Bar.”

“True enough.” Nell cocked her head. “More?”

“Well, while corporate meetings are a relatively small part of the resort’s business, attendees use the bar for networking, casual meetings, so six months out there would ensure I had enough stock on hand. We had to borrow a bottle of 1800 Silver tequila from the Lodge Bar last Friday night.”

“Knox Seed and Soil,” Nell said. “Friday night tequila shots. We should’ve been prepared.”

“Don’s head was out the door.” Drea lifted her coffee cup. “And that’s understandable. I can give you six months out on all booked events, with a two-month view, delivered to your resort inbox.”

“That would be perfect, thanks.”

Nell angled her head. “And still more?”

Après might not be her bar, but.

“Since I’m asking, I might as well try my luck with one more. I’d like to feature a seasonal specialty drink, like the spa does with scrubs and lotions for services. Apple’s the state fruit, so we could try featuring a cider—hard and soft—cocktail for fall or winter, or maybe mulled for winter. A sparkling cider mix for spring, sangria for summer, that sort of thing. Or, if you approve, I could coordinate with the spa, play into whatever they’re featuring.”

“And if they’re featuring lavender scrub?” Nell wondered. “That’s coming up next week for the spring launch.” Nell set down her empty cup. “Which I’m betting you already know.”

As she did, Morgan was ready. “Lavender margarita, lavender gin fizz, lavender champagne cocktail. I’d need to know and order the simple syrup, and have the sprigs on hand for garnish. But there’s a lot you can do with it for spring or summer drinks.”

“I’d like a lavender margarita,” Drea decided. “It sounds lovely. What do you think, Nell?”

“Resort-wide, or exclusive to Après?”

“That would be up to you.”

“Yeah, it would. Let’s try the spa coordination. Resort-wide if it takes. You can try it in Après next week.”

“Great. I’ll order what we need.”

“I’ll walk out with you.” Nell rose.

“Welcome aboard, Morgan.” Drea rose as well. “And tell your mother and grandmother I miss them in yoga class.”

“Yoga class?”

“Studio Om, on South Alley off High Street. We try to make the nine o’clock class on Wednesday mornings, but with the new café project and my schedule, we’ve missed class for a month. More like six weeks, for me, I think. Tell them I’m determined to make it this week.”

“I will.”

“She meditates, too,” Nell said when they walked through the outer office with its ringing phones and busy assistants. “Do you meditate?”

“Only when I’m unconscious.”

With a laugh, Nell shook back her hair, left down to skim her shoulders today. A more casual look to go with the gray pants and navy sweater.

“Me, too. I don’t know whether to be fascinated or baffled by the idea of a lavender margarita.”

“Come in next week. I’ll make you one.”

“I just might.” She pulled her buzzing phone from her pocket. “Well, no meditation or margaritas for me. Good luck tonight,” she added, and fast-walked in the opposite direction.

“Busy’s best,” Morgan murmured.

She exchanged waves or nods with some of the staff she’d met as she walked toward the lobby, over the marble floors, and through the archway.

It was, she thought, starting to feel like she’d found her place.

The bar buzzed, as a bar should in her opinion, with people relaxing with a drink before dinner, or settling down for bar food. At a quick scan, she spotted a couple of corporate types, heads together, conversation intense. A trio of women laughing together over glasses of wine.

Then stopped short when she recognized the two men having a beer. More Jamesons, she realized. The patriarch, Michael “Mick” Jameson, the man who, along with his wife, Lydia Miles Jameson, had expanded what had been a handful of cabins and a twenty-room hotel to the Resort at Westridge.

He sat with Nell’s brother Liam, the youngest sibling.

They made a picture, Morgan thought, the generations. The grandfather with his sleek pewter hair topping a craggy face, the younger with a careless mop of brown and a face smooth and unlined.

And yet you wouldn’t mistake them for anything but family as they sat, first generation in a sweatshirt, younger in a hoodie, holding an animated conversation over their evening beer.

Business, pleasure, or both? she wondered as she made her way to the bar and behind it.

“You’re early.” Nick poured another round—Chardonnay, Zinfandel, and a Cab—she identified for the trio of women at table five. “Tabs running, all tables,” he told Morgan.

“Two just sat down on the lobby side as I came in.”

“Lacy’s on it. She’s in the back picking up a cheese plate for that side. Bosses at table eight.”

“Saw that.”