Identity

“Didn’t expect you until four,” Olivia commented.

“Darlie recovered, with apologies. What are we drinking and why?”

“We’re Morgan’s official judges for the fall specialty drink.” Olivia sipped, considered as ordered. “That is very, very tasty.” She sipped again. “Excellent, and I’m not a big fan of the pear.”

“I am, and I could use a drink. We were absolutely slammed this morning, Mom. A group of day-trippers—twenty-three of them.”

“Two sips,” Morgan told her mother. “Because there are two more to come.”

“Oh, that’s really good. Sweet, but zingy. Am I really only allowed two sips? It was a morning. We had two sisters from the group who got into an argument—the edge of a serious fight—over who would buy Lacy Cardini’s Secret Garden for their mother’s birthday.”

“That Cardini painting’s priced at eight seventy-five.” Olivia pumped her fists in the air. “Woo!”

“I convinced them to split it, but it took work and every ounce of diplomacy I own.”

“Once I make the other two, you sample and judge, I’ll make your favorite.”

“What are you making now? I’m going to sit down.”

“This one has a vodka base. I’m muddling pear, simple syrup, and nutmeg. Martini glass for this one, chilled. Now the vodka, some Tuaca, and B&B—Bénédictine and brandy mix, well shaken—so you’re going to taste vanilla, citrus, but herbal notes that say fall. Garnish,” she said as she poured and did so, “with three thin crescents of pear, unpeeled.”

Olivia sipped. “Our girl knows her stuff. I can see the leaves changing.”

“Let me.” Audrey snagged the glass. “Mmm. Time to start the fire. It’s just lovely, Morgan. I don’t know which I like best.”

“Don’t decide yet. We’ve got one more in the running.

“This time, I’m muddling pear—peeled—honey, and lime juice into a thick syrup.”

“It already sounds good,” Olivia said.

“Bourbon makes it better.” She poured it into the shaker, added ice, capped it, shook.

“All of them seem like a lot of trouble.”

Morgan smiled at her mother. “That’s why they’re special.”

She poured the drink into a wide-mouthed lowball glass. “We top it off with some ginger ale for effervescence, garnish with a pear slice.”

“You go first this time, Audrey.”

“I don’t usually drink bourbon, but I’ll try it.” One sip and she closed her eyes, said, “Mmm. I think I hear kids at the door, trick-or-treating.”

“My turn.” Olivia’s comment was: “Well, well, well.”

“Okay, consider all three, and if you need another sip, go ahead. I want you to hold your hand below the counter, then lift it up with your fingers signaling one, two, or three. There is no wrong answer. Obviously, one of them goes out of the running.”

Amused, Morgan watched them take one more sip of each candidate.

“Hands down, fingers ready. And reveal! Number three, both of you? Really?”

“It was hard to choose,” Audrey admitted. “But that last sip did it for me. They all say autumn, but I thought that one almost sang it.”

“I leaned toward three myself, so it’s unanimous. Well, that was easy.”

“From this side of the counter anyway. And as the oldest in this panel, I’m taking the winner for myself.”

“I’ll make you one, Mom.”

“No, no, both the others are terrific. I just have to decide which one to claim. I’ll take the middle one. Middle ground, that’s me. And I can’t believe I’m sitting here drinking a cocktail at, what, two-forty-five-ish in the afternoon. I was going to make bread. And we still have to make dinner.”

“Let’s drink cocktails and order pizza instead.”

Audrey laughed at Morgan. “That sounds … really wonderful. What do you say, Mom?”

“I say: cheers.”



* * *



While the Nash women sat on the patio with cocktails, the Jamesons sat around the dining room table holding their family meeting.

Nell studied her tablet. “All right, last item on my agenda is Après’s specialty cocktail, virgin option, and coffee for the fall, which we’ll introduce right after Labor Day. Morgan hasn’t decided on the cocktail, but assures me she’ll have that for my approval early next week. For the coffee she’s going to do what she calls Coffee Incompearable—get it?”

“Har har,” Liam said.

“It’s a combination of coffee, poached pear, cinnamon, cloves, and so on. I said complicated, then she made me one. I’m sold. I thought we’d bold and italicize the pear in ‘incompearable.’ We can price it at four dollars.”

“It’s clever,” Drea commented. “But she’s a clever woman. We’ve got the Stevenson wedding in October, and the bride’s using pears in her decor. I’m going to ask Morgan to come up with a signature pear cocktail, something other than whatever we use for Après, and nudge the bride toward it. Has she told you what she’s going to offer, Miles?”

“No.”

She hadn’t told him about the coffee either, which didn’t sound like something he’d say “sold” on. But he didn’t doubt it would sell.

They did talk about work, some, he thought, while his mother gave her Events report. But when it came down to it, their time together was … compressed.

That’s how they’d worked it. So far.

He pushed it off, tuned back in, reminded himself this was work, and not the time to think about Morgan.

But wasn’t she right here, in the flowers she’d put on the table Saturday morning?

The table passed from his mother to Liam and fall activities. Nature hikes, photo groups, team building, kids’ weekends, fall packages. And from there to fall landscaping, to fall maintenance, safety checks, seasonal inventory.

Once business concluded, food took center stage. He’d made the pulled pork as requested—a lot of damn trouble in his book, but it spared him from doing anything else for the family meal.

And Morgan was there, too, as she’d told him the Sunday forecast called for a perfect afternoon and evening. So he should use the colorful dishes again. And damned if she hadn’t sat at the counter and fancy folded a pile of napkins, and made another big-ass pitcher of sangria.

“This looks so pretty.” After one look at the table, his mother gave him the eye. “I sense a feminine touch.”

“Apparently, Morgan has a thing about napkins. And sangria.”

“I’m going to try it.” His grandfather poured a glass. “One for you, Lydia?”

“All right. I don’t think I’ve had any since we went to Spain. What’s that, ten years ago?”

“Must be. Don’t know what I think about poached pears in coffee, but this is damn good. Tastes like summer, and it won’t be here much longer. Well, look at that. Rory’s taught Howl to fetch.”

Morgan had, Miles thought. And that damn dog still wouldn’t go after a ball for the one who provided him with room and board.

She was here, in the damn dog, in the stupid napkins, in the flowers on the table. The woman was everywhere.

They ate pulled pork, his father’s coleslaw, his grandmother’s potato salad, corn on the cob his grandfather tossed on the grill.