“Probably.” Fascinated, Morgan sat beside her. “So what happened?”
“Couldn’t say. But I suspect a grandchild of Lydia and Mick Jameson has more good sense than to tie himself up for long with a show horse who likes to flaunt and prance around instead of getting anything done.”
“Okay. Give me an overview of the family, one by one. I’ve got Lydia Jameson, but the rest.”
“All right then. Mick, smart, has vision, and isn’t afraid to get his hands dirty. He’d spend all his time outdoors if he could—and he and Steve spent plenty of that time together. Born athlete. I had a terrible crush on him when I was about thirteen.”
“Get out!”
“Lucky for you I got over it, or you wouldn’t be here drinking that wine. Rory, firstborn, went into law. He handles the family’s legal business. Got his own firm, and one of his sister’s daughters works with him. His sister, Jacie—she’s about your mom’s age—studied architecture, and met her husband in college. They’ve got their own business in New York, but you’ll see them at the resort a couple times a year. Second daughter there’s in interior design and works with them.”
“The families stick tight.”
“So they do. You should have a sense of Drea from your meeting. She’s a sharp one.”
“And kind,” Audrey added.
“She is, has Job’s own patience, and I imagine needs it with handling the events. If you’ve got something sticky to handle, Drea’s the one to ask for advice. Diplomats could take a lesson. Stir up those vegetables, Morgan.”
She rose to obey. “And the third generation?”
“We’ll start with the youngest. Liam’s not just a pretty face, though, jumping Jesus, he’s got one. Takes after his grandfather—athletic, outdoorsman, and they were smart enough to let him play to his strengths. More like his mother in that patience, I’d say. Cheerful sort of young man in my experiences with him.”
“That’s how he struck me,” Morgan agreed as she sat again.
“Nell, a chip off her grandmother’s steely back. Solid as a rock, suffers no fools. Doesn’t flaunt, and makes sure she frequents the local businesses.
“Now, Miles.” Olivia took a thoughtful sip of her wine. “Not as easy to figure, that Miles. He’s got the family home now, all to himself. Lydia and Mick decided the place was too big for them—and it’s big—and passed it to him. I’m thinking Rory and Drea are happy in their own, so they went down a generation. Where Liam has that cheerful nature and can—as I’ve seen it—talk to anyone about anything, his brother’s more the quiet type. Polite, well-mannered, as I’ve noted, but keeps more to himself. Then again, with Mick and Lydia about half-retired, Rory with his law firm, he’s running the ship, or will be.”
“It’s a layered and detailed ship.”
Olivia nodded. “Lots of decks on it and a proud legacy to keep afloat. Are you happy there, Morgan?”
“I really am. It’s not what I planned, but I feel like I’ve stuck the landing. It’s a good place to work, and I can’t ask for more than that.”
“Of course you can.” Olivia patted her hand before she rose to baste the chicken. “But it’s a start.”
* * *
Once a month—three o’clock sharp on Sunday—the Jamesons held a family meeting. Tradition decreed the meeting took place at the rambling Victorian where Miles’s grandparents had lived more than a half century of their married lives.
Though the house had come to him, he still considered them the hosts and the head. As a child, he’d spent the meeting portion of that Sunday in the library with a book, or playing in the backyard, alternately torturing or ignoring his sister when Nell came along, lording over or joining forces with Liam when he arrived.
Good times.
At sixteen, he’d sat proud at his first meeting, and learned the responsibilities and challenges of running a family business that not only sustained family but brought revenue and employment and interest to the community.
Decades of family meetings meant they ran smooth, had structure, even as the dynamics of that family ran through them like a river.
He couldn’t imagine it any other way.
He prepped for the meeting, reviewing spreadsheets, ledgers, reports, and projections in his office on the second floor of the east turret. It overlooked the front yard, the hills, and the little apple orchard where he’d once climbed branches and thought the long thoughts of childhood.