Identity

“Is he?”

“Divorce, even when you want it, even when you need it, is bound to make you sad.”

“He’ll wake up with a banger of a hangover tomorrow and be sadder.”

His phone signaled—the first notes of “Bad to the Bone.”

“Hell.” When he picked it up off the bar, she left him alone.

When the trio stumbled out of the bar, Miles got up, left a twenty behind, and followed them out.

She ended her first solo week with a slammed Saturday night—her idea of perfection. On Sunday—a day and night off—she watched her mother bake bread and her grandmother roast a chicken.

Her assignment? Scrub and quarter potatoes, peel carrots.

It felt homey, relaxing, and happy with her mother rhapsodizing about seeing crocuses blooming in the snow.

“It’s going to go up to the fifties tomorrow and Tuesday.”

“Snow showers on Wednesday.”

Audrey sighed at her mother. “I know, but I’m telling you we’re out of it. Snow showers. Spring in Vermont’s only prettier because it takes so damn long to get here. You’re going to do those lavender drinks this week, aren’t you, Morgan?”

“I am, so let’s stick with showers and focus on the crocus.”

Out the window, the snow still blanketed, but she could see thinning patches, even some ground here and there. Shrubs and bushes shook off the white. Icicles dripped and sparkled.

She thought of the pansies she and Nina had planted just about a year ago. She’d buy some, plant some in memory, and to make her ladies smile.

She stepped back from the cutting board. “Did I do these right?”

“They’ll do. Now you’re going to toss them together in that bowl with olive oil.”

“How much?”

“Use your eyes.”

“God.”

“After that, you’re going to add a little honey, zest some lemon. Salt, pepper, oregano. You know how to mix a drink. Figure it out.”

She figured it out—she hoped—then spread them on a baking sheet and stuck them in the oven.

“Mom measured when she made the bread dough.”

“Baking’s different.”

Rather than argue, Morgan changed the subject.

“I forgot to tell you I met the last of the Jameson siblings. Miles?”

“Did you have a meeting?” Audrey asked.

“No, he came into the bar Friday night. Late. Nursed a glass of Cab for about an hour while he sent and answered texts on his phone.”

“Workhorse,” Olivia stated. “Always has been.”

“Takes one to know one.”

Olivia shrugged at her daughter, then chose a bottle of white from the wine cooler. “Show horses look pretty, workhorses get things done.”

“He’s not pretty like his siblings—too much rugged in the face for pretty. But he’s a really good-looking workhorse.” Morgan got out glasses. “They’re all really good-looking.”

“They are. My aunt—on the Nash side—married a Jameson cousin. I was flower girl. I guess I was six or so, and I remember how beautiful it all was,” Olivia said.

“I didn’t know that.”

In her gray sweatshirt with its rainbow peace sign, Olivia looked back.

“Your great-great-aunt and uncle, they’d be. So you’ve got distant Jameson cousins scattered around. I wore a pink organdy dress and pink rosebuds in my hair.” Olivia took the wine Morgan offered. “I remember that, too. And dancing with my father, then with my brother, Will.”

William Nash, Morgan knew, who’d gone to Vietnam, and died there.

“Anyway, the families go back, and both had their share of show horses and workhorses.”

Audrey took her bread out of the bottom oven, gave a little shoulder wiggle of satisfaction as she put it on the cooling rack. “Wasn’t Miles engaged?”

“No. Came close, rumor has it, but didn’t get that far. And Lydia’s pretty closemouthed on personal family business, but I know she was glad it didn’t.”

“Drea never talked about her at yoga, now that I think about it. Who was she anyway? I can’t remember. Not a local, though.”

“Sugarhouse princess from down in Brattleboro.” To rest her feet, Olivia slid onto a stool. “All show horse. Edgar Wineman’s granddaughter. Society page darling. Do they still have society pages? I gave them up for Rolling Stone magazine way back in the day.”

“Probably.” Fascinated, Morgan sat beside her. “So what happened?”

“Couldn’t say. But I suspect a grandchild of Lydia and Mick Jameson has more good sense than to tie himself up for long with a show horse who likes to flaunt and prance around instead of getting anything done.”

“Okay. Give me an overview of the family, one by one. I’ve got Lydia Jameson, but the rest.”

“All right then. Mick, smart, has vision, and isn’t afraid to get his hands dirty. He’d spend all his time outdoors if he could—and he and Steve spent plenty of that time together. Born athlete. I had a terrible crush on him when I was about thirteen.”

“Get out!”

“Lucky for you I got over it, or you wouldn’t be here drinking that wine. Rory, firstborn, went into law. He handles the family’s legal business. Got his own firm, and one of his sister’s daughters works with him. His sister, Jacie—she’s about your mom’s age—studied architecture, and met her husband in college. They’ve got their own business in New York, but you’ll see them at the resort a couple times a year. Second daughter there’s in interior design and works with them.”

“The families stick tight.”

“So they do. You should have a sense of Drea from your meeting. She’s a sharp one.”

“And kind,” Audrey added.

“She is, has Job’s own patience, and I imagine needs it with handling the events. If you’ve got something sticky to handle, Drea’s the one to ask for advice. Diplomats could take a lesson. Stir up those vegetables, Morgan.”

She rose to obey. “And the third generation?”

“We’ll start with the youngest. Liam’s not just a pretty face, though, jumping Jesus, he’s got one. Takes after his grandfather—athletic, outdoorsman, and they were smart enough to let him play to his strengths. More like his mother in that patience, I’d say. Cheerful sort of young man in my experiences with him.”

“That’s how he struck me,” Morgan agreed as she sat again.

“Nell, a chip off her grandmother’s steely back. Solid as a rock, suffers no fools. Doesn’t flaunt, and makes sure she frequents the local businesses.

“Now, Miles.” Olivia took a thoughtful sip of her wine. “Not as easy to figure, that Miles. He’s got the family home now, all to himself. Lydia and Mick decided the place was too big for them—and it’s big—and passed it to him. I’m thinking Rory and Drea are happy in their own, so they went down a generation. Where Liam has that cheerful nature and can—as I’ve seen it—talk to anyone about anything, his brother’s more the quiet type. Polite, well-mannered, as I’ve noted, but keeps more to himself. Then again, with Mick and Lydia about half-retired, Rory with his law firm, he’s running the ship, or will be.”

“It’s a layered and detailed ship.”