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“Lydia Jameson. She and I go back, farther than either of us care to remember, and her husband was good friends with your pa. She keeps her hand in—hell, both hands in. You can send in your résumé, and they’ll take a look before they start the job-open process.”
“At the resort. I’ve never been in Après, but I checked out their website, and it was on my list. Thank you.” She pulled Olivia into a hug.
“It doesn’t mean you’ve got the position.”
“I know. That’s up to me. But it’s a chance, and a chance to do what I’m good at.”
“You send your résumé to Lydia. I’ve got her email. Like I said, we go back. Write yourself a solid cover letter.”
“I will. Thank you, Gram. I’ll still pitch in here as much as I can, whether or not I get this job.”
“We’re counting on it.”
That evening, she googled Lydia Jameson to get a sense, and saw why Lydia and Olivia went way back. Both born and raised in Vermont, both from New England stock. Educated, cultured women, rock-ribbed and steel-spined.
Businesswomen, both. Lydia’s business dwarfed her grandmother’s, but business was business.
She spent a solid hour drafting, revising, and refining a cover letter. Formal and respectful, she decided, with a personal touch in her thanks for the consideration.
After a deep breath, one hand on that lopsided green cup, she hit send.
A new chance. And she had others, she reminded herself. Maybe she hadn’t landed where she’d expected, but she had opportunities here.
An opportunity to transplant those roots she wanted so much.
Restless, she went downstairs. Hair loose around her shoulders, Audrey stood in the kitchen pouring a glass of wine.
There came that light flush again.
“Caught me.”
“How about I join you?”
“I’m so nervous. I thought a glass of wine might help me sleep. I can’t believe we’re opening the café tomorrow. It was an idea, then it was the planning, then the work and more planning. And now?”
She handed Morgan a second glass. “It’s here, and I’m nothing but nerves. Your gram’s up there sleeping like a baby. She has no nerves, I swear.”
“Because she knows you’ve got a hit on your hands.”
“You really think that?”
“No. I know that. Listen, retail, art—like the shop—that’s not in my wheelhouse. But a wine bar is. I slipped into the wineshop a few blocks down, and its wine bar’s lovely. Small, dark, and moody, well run, heavy wood, deep colors. Yours? Airy, arty, a different vibe. And the way you’ve opened it—or will tomorrow—to the very well-established shop? It’s just damn smart. Like adding the coffee services, the tea options is smart. The baked on-site pastries and scones? It’s all there, Mom.”
“I keep telling myself that, but it sounds better when you say it.”
She’d always considered her mother on the flighty side. A woman who couldn’t settle down, couldn’t make a decision and see it through. But she didn’t see that now.
“I’m sorry I didn’t keep in touch more, visit more.”
“You had a life to build. And you did keep in touch. Sweetie, I have friends who only hear from their grown kids when they make the effort, only see them when they travel. You called every couple of weeks, you emailed, you visited every Christmas. Don’t be sorry. I’m so proud of you.”
“That makes one of us.”
“You stop that. If I’d been in your place, I’d still be hiding under the covers. You’re a doer, Morgan. You always have been.”
“So were you,” Morgan realized.
“Me?” Audrey laughed, sipped wine. “I was more of a going-alonger.”
