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She still wore her wheat-field-in-the-sun hair long, pulled back in a neat tail. Her hands—they’d always seemed so elegant, delicate to Morgan—nudged the butter crock over.
“Let me know what you think.”
“Stick thin.” Olivia set the bowl, a spoon, a cloth napkin in front of Morgan. “We’ll fix that. We’ll fix it,” she said, and gave Morgan’s hand a quick squeeze. “Let’s all have some wine, Audrey.”
“Oh yes, let’s.”
As her mother got more glasses—the Waterford, Morgan noted—she spooned up some stew. “It’s wonderful.” Then nibbled at the slice of bread. Surprised she could speak pure truth, she smiled. “It’s all wonderful. Thanks for letting me come.”
“I won’t hear that.” Olivia stabbed a finger in the air, picked up the wine with her other hand. “I’ll hear none of that. You’re my only grandchild. Your mother’s only child. This is home. Whether you make another one down the road, this is always home. It’s the three of us now.”
She lifted her glass. “And here’s to the three of us.”
With a nod, Morgan lifted her own glass, sipped.
“You, ah, put glass fronts on some of the uppers. It looks nice.”
“They light up, too.” Walking over, Olivia flipped a switch that illuminated glassware, the good china. “Decided on it—when was that, Audrey?”
“Last spring, during our spring cleaning. I sent you pictures, didn’t I, Morgan?”
“Yes, but seeing it… I’m sorry I didn’t come for Christmas. I know you both wanted to come to me, but I…”
“Leave that for now.” Olivia took one of the stools. “Leave all thatfor tonight. We’ll talk about all of it, all you need to talk about, and I’ll say again. We’ll fix it. Tonight, let it be enough you’re here.”
Morgan nodded again, ate more stew. “How’s the shop?”
“Oh, it bustles, doesn’t it, Audrey?”
“Winter people.” Audrey took her own stool. “They love coming into town and finding something local to take home. We’re adding a wine-slash-coffee-slash-tea bar.”
“Really?”
“She talked me into it. Nag, nag, nag.” Olivia rolled her eyes at her daughter, then laughed. “I hate she’s right about it when I dragged my feet. We should have it up and running next week.”
“Fancy coffees and teas, hot chocolate this time of year. Iced coffees and teas, fresh lemonade, that sort of thing for the summer people. And wine all year round.”
“Sounds great.” Even if she couldn’t imagine her mother thinking of it. “Where are you putting it?”
“That’s the dragging of feet.”
“She pushed until I gave in. We bought the dusty old fake antiques shop next door. Had to open up the damn wall between the buildings, fix the dusty old mess. She took advantage of my old age and weak mind.”
“As if. We’re putting in a few tables and booths, offering cookies, scones—simple things. People can shop, have coffee, or have coffee and shop. Or wine and shop more,” Audrey said with a laugh.
“We opened the useless old fireplace in there, had it fixed up, put in an electric insert.”
“That’s—really smart.”
“We went back and forth on it, didn’t we, Mom? A real wood-burner would’ve had that genuine Vermont touch, but this is safer and cleaner.”
They hadn’t told her any of this, Morgan thought as she ate, as she listened to them talk about the details. Because they’d known she’d been mired in her own problems.
Eventually, she nudged the bowl away. “I can’t eat any more. It’s great. So’s the bread, Mom. I’m seriously impressed. I just can’t eatanother bite. The drive wiped me out. If it’s okay, I’d like to go up, settle in, and get some sleep.”
“You don’t have to ask for permission.” Olivia rose. “Let’s go get you settled.”
They hauled the bags up to the bedroom she always used—two doors away from the master and across from her mother’s.
