“Two weeks,” she added.
“Two weeks,” Morgan agreed. “I love you, Gram.”
“Of course you do. I love you right back. Now eat.”
* * *
So she ate, and she slept. She took walks and sat by the fire with a book. By the third day, she wondered how much longer she could keep it up without losing her mind.
Her grandmother might request two weeks, but Morgan’s wiring demanded busy. On day three, with both Olivia and Audrey at work, she sat down at the secondhand laptop, opened the spreadsheet she’d created months before.
Reality hadn’t changed since the last time she’d gone over it. Broke still equaled broke. But this time she worked on projections. No question she could live in the pretty blue room as long as she wanted or needed, rent free. But wiring also required she pull her weight.
She could take over some household tasks, but her ladies already had a weekly cleaning crew, and the trio of women who tended the rambling old Tudor had done so for a dozen years.
If she took over cleaning, she put people out of a job.
Unacceptable.
Laundry—the cleaning trio already dealt with most of that.
She could do the marketing—something—but she couldn’t subject the ladies to her cooking unless she got a lot better at it.
Marketing, doing the dishes after meals? That should keep her busy for about three hours a week, which didn’t begin to fill the hole.
She needed work. A job. Needed to earn an income.
To start on that? Drive into town, look around, visit the shop. And no, she wouldn’t work there. It steered much too close to living rent free.
She put on makeup, and since she hadn’t indulged in a professional cut and style in months, tried a few snips here and there.
She definitely wouldn’t get a job at a salon, but it wasn’t terrible.
She dressed in something other than sweats. Winter-weight leggings, boots, a red sweater over a thermal shirt. Before she could change her mind and just retreat to her room, again, she dragged on her coat, wool cap, scarf, and stepped out into the frigid, unrelenting grip of winter.
And prayed Nina’s car started.
It coughed a little, wheezed a little more, but turned over.
In under ten minutes she broke through the snow-coated trees, crossed the narrow bridge over the frozen whip of river, and turned onto High Street.
Westridge ranked, she supposed, somewhere between big town and small city. Picturesque, certainly, especially in its winter coat. It drew tourists, she knew, in every season. Winter sports, summer sports, fall foliage, spring hikes. Hunting, fishing, birding.
The Resort at Westridge, with its classy cabins and classier hotel suites, drew the well-heeled into the area, offering all those activities along with exceptional food, an admirable wine cellar, two bars—a very casual lodge bar, and the more upscale glass-walled bar with a four-sided stone fireplace that catered to après ski, or après whatever the guests wished.
The town offered a banquet of restaurants, from diner style to five-star fancy, shops, boutiques, sporting goods, Vermont-flavored souvenirs, art galleries, and more.
Many of those nestled together on High Street, including her grandmother’s Crafty Arts. Or, as the sign read now, Morgan noted, Crafty Arts and Wine Café.
Even this late in the winter season and before the spring thaw, it … well, it nearly bustled, she admitted. Since she really wasn’t familiar with the geography, she had to hunt for parking. She remembered a small lot behind Crafty Arts but didn’t know how to navigate around the hilly roads and busy intersections to find it.
Still, street parking—when she found it—offered her a chance to check out the main commercial areas and possible opportunities.
Restaurants, retail, cafés, a bakery, an upscale bar. She could wait tables if she had to, but the bar hit top of her list. On side streets, she spotted a gallery, low-rise apartments, more shops, a doctor’s office, a wineshop—with a small wine bar. Next on her list.
On a less blustery day, she promised herself, she’d explore farther. But for now, she stopped in front of Crafty Arts and Wine Café.
Someone, she thought, had done a crafty and arty job on the display window. Tables and stands of varying heights held blown glass art arranged with wooden bowls, pottery. A soft gray throw draped over the back of a rocking chair.
Inside she found warmth, not just in the air, but the light, in the gleam of the wood floors. Paintings covered the walls. Old cabinets displayed handcrafted jewelry and small pieces of pottery, silverwork, copper. Another highlighted candles. Open shelves sparkled with blown glass.