“Miles. That’s how we run here.”
He glanced down the bar at the trio while she got his ice water. “I let Security know. They’ll make sure they get back upstairs safely.”
“They’re harmless. He’s just sad.”
“Is he?”
“Divorce, even when you want it, even when you need it, is bound to make you sad.”
“He’ll wake up with a banger of a hangover tomorrow and be sadder.”
His phone signaled—the first notes of “Bad to the Bone.”
“Hell.” When he picked it up off the bar, she left him alone.
When the trio stumbled out of the bar, Miles got up, left a twenty behind, and followed them out.
She ended her first solo week with a slammed Saturday night—her idea of perfection. On Sunday—a day and night off—she watched her mother bake bread and her grandmother roast a chicken.
Her assignment? Scrub and quarter potatoes, peel carrots.
It felt homey, relaxing, and happy with her mother rhapsodizing about seeing crocuses blooming in the snow.
“It’s going to go up to the fifties tomorrow and Tuesday.”
“Snow showers on Wednesday.”
Audrey sighed at her mother. “I know, but I’m telling you we’re out of it. Snow showers. Spring in Vermont’s only prettier because it takes so damn long to get here. You’re going to do those lavender drinks this week, aren’t you, Morgan?”
“I am, so let’s stick with showers and focus on the crocus.”
Out the window, the snow still blanketed, but she could see thinning patches, even some ground here and there. Shrubs and bushes shook off the white. Icicles dripped and sparkled.
She thought of the pansies she and Nina had planted just about a year ago. She’d buy some, plant some in memory, and to make her ladies smile.
She stepped back from the cutting board. “Did I do these right?”
“They’ll do. Now you’re going to toss them together in that bowl with olive oil.”
“How much?”
“Use your eyes.”
“God.”
“After that, you’re going to add a little honey, zest some lemon. Salt, pepper, oregano. You know how to mix a drink. Figure it out.”
She figured it out—she hoped—then spread them on a baking sheet and stuck them in the oven.
“Mom measured when she made the bread dough.”
“Baking’s different.”
Rather than argue, Morgan changed the subject.
“I forgot to tell you I met the last of the Jameson siblings. Miles?”
“Did you have a meeting?” Audrey asked.
“No, he came into the bar Friday night. Late. Nursed a glass of Cab for about an hour while he sent and answered texts on his phone.”
“Workhorse,” Olivia stated. “Always has been.”
“Takes one to know one.”
Olivia shrugged at her daughter, then chose a bottle of white from the wine cooler. “Show horses look pretty, workhorses get things done.”
“He’s not pretty like his siblings—too much rugged in the face for pretty. But he’s a really good-looking workhorse.” Morgan got out glasses. “They’re all really good-looking.”
“They are. My aunt—on the Nash side—married a Jameson cousin. I was flower girl. I guess I was six or so, and I remember how beautiful it all was,” Olivia said.
“I didn’t know that.”
In her gray sweatshirt with its rainbow peace sign, Olivia looked back.
“Your great-great-aunt and uncle, they’d be. So you’ve got distant Jameson cousins scattered around. I wore a pink organdy dress and pink rosebuds in my hair.” Olivia took the wine Morgan offered. “I remember that, too. And dancing with my father, then with my brother, Will.”
William Nash, Morgan knew, who’d gone to Vietnam, and died there.
“Anyway, the families go back, and both had their share of show horses and workhorses.”
Audrey took her bread out of the bottom oven, gave a little shoulder wiggle of satisfaction as she put it on the cooling rack. “Wasn’t Miles engaged?”
“No. Came close, rumor has it, but didn’t get that far. And Lydia’s pretty closemouthed on personal family business, but I know she was glad it didn’t.”
“Drea never talked about her at yoga, now that I think about it. Who was she anyway? I can’t remember. Not a local, though.”
“Sugarhouse princess from down in Brattleboro.” To rest her feet, Olivia slid onto a stool. “All show horse. Edgar Wineman’s granddaughter. Society page darling. Do they still have society pages? I gave them up for Rolling Stone magazine way back in the day.”