Identity by Nora Roberts
To family
The one you’re born with
and the one you make
PART I
Plans
It’s a bad plan that can’t be changed.
—PUBLILIUS SYRUS
To be happy at home is the ultimate result of all ambition.
—SAMUEL JOHNSON
Chapter One
Her dreams and goals were simple and few. As a former army brat, Morgan Albright spent her childhood moving across countries and continents. Her roots, directed by her father’s work, grew short and shallow to allow for quick transplanting. From base to base, from house to house, state to state, country to country for her first fourteen years, before her parents divorced.
She’d never had a choice.
For the three years following the divorce, her mother had pulled her from place to place. A small town here, a big city there, looking for … Morgan had never been sure.
At seventeen, closing in on eighteen, she’d dug those roots up herself to plant at college. And there she’d explored those goals and dreams and choices.
She studied hard, focused in on a double major. Business and hospitality—choices that led directly to her dream.
Planting herself. Her own home, her own business.
Her own.
She studied maps, neighborhoods, climate, while narrowing her choices on just where to plant those roots once she’d earned those degrees. She wanted a neighborhood, maybe old and established, close to shops, restaurants, bars—people.
And one day she’d not only own her own home, but her own bar.
Simple goals.
With those degrees hot in her hand, she settled on a neighborhood outside of Baltimore, Maryland. Old houses with yards, and, as yet to be gentrified, so affordable.
She’d worked her way through college, waiting tables, then tending bar when she’d hit twenty-one. And she’d saved.
Her father—the Colonel—didn’t make her graduation. And though she’d graduated with honors, he sent no acknowledgment of her accomplishments.
It hadn’t surprised her, as she knew she’d simply ceased to exist for him even before his signature on the divorce papers dried.
Her mother and her maternal grandparents attended. She hadn’t known it would be the last time she’d see her grandfather. A robust seventy, an active man, a healthy man, he died the winter after her graduation. He’d slipped off a ladder. One slip. Here, then gone.
Even in her grief, it was a lesson Morgan took to heart.
He left her twenty thousand dollars and memories, as precious, of hiking the Green Mountains of Vermont on summer visits.
With the money, Morgan moved out of her tiny apartment and into a small house. Her house. One that needed work, but had a yard—that needed work.
The three small bedrooms, two tiny baths meant she could take in a housemate to offset the mortgage, help pay for that work.
And she worked two jobs. She tended bar five or six nights a week at a neighborhood bar, a happy place called the Next Round. Considering homeownership, she took a second job as office manager at a family-owned construction firm.
She met her housemate at the local garden center as she puzzled over foundation plants. Nina Ramos worked in the greenhouses and knew her stuff. Handy with a yard that needed help, Nina turned puzzlement into joy, and, in that first blooming spring in a house of her own, Nina moved in.
They enjoyed each other’s company, and knew when to give the other quiet and space.
At twenty-five, Morgan had achieved her first dream, and by her calculations would reach goal number two before her thirtieth birthday.
Her one splurge sat in her narrow driveway. The Prius would take her a few years to pay off, but it would get her to work and back dependably and economically.
In good weather, she rode her bike to her day job, but when she needed a car, she had one. Nina called the car Morgan’s subgoal.
The little house on Newberry Street boasted a pretty yard, fresh white paint, and a new front door she’d painted a soft, happy blue.
Her boss at Greenwald’s Builders helped her refinish the old hardwood floors, sold her paint at cost, and guided her along the path of repairs and maintenance.
She’d planted those roots, and felt herself blooming.
It made her smile to see daffodils playing their bright trumpets along her newly paved walkway. Late March brought changeable weather, but all those lovely signs of spring. She and Nina had planted a dogwood in the front yard the previous fall, and she could see the buds wanted to burst.
Soon, she thought as she walked her bike to its rack and locked it.
A good neighborhood, but she didn’t see the point in tempting anyone.