She’d just finished restocking the pantry shelves when Vivian poked her head into the back hallway, sunglasses perched on top of her silver curls and a wine-colored tote bag slung over one shoulder.
“Happy hour,” she announced, as if this were a universally understood summons. “You’re coming.”
Meg blinked. For weeks, she’d watched these women from the sidelines, never imagining she’d be invited in.
“I—what?”
“Every week,” Eleanor’s voice chimed in from behind her. She wore a coral linen top and linen pants that somehow looked both chic and like she’d napped in them. “We gather. We snack. We pour a generous glass or three. You’ve been officially promoted to invitee.”
“And before you say no,” Margo’s voice added from the kitchen doorway, wiping her hands on a towel, “I’ve already closed up. You have no excuse.”
Meg looked between the three women, all wearing expectant expressions.
“Margo said you were off at five,” Vivian interrupted. “You’re not escaping. We’ve been patient long enough. You’ve earned your place.”
Margo smiled, looking pleased. “They’ve been asking about you for weeks. I told them you needed time to settle in first.”
There was no arguing with the Circle—especially when they had Margo’s backing. Not when they deployed coordinated invitations and matching expressions of determination.
Twenty minutes later, Meg found herself climbing the garden steps behind Eleanor’s cottage, a platter of lemon bars in one hand and a bottle of prosecco tucked awkwardly under her arm. Margo walked beside her, carrying a covered dish that smelled of herbs and garlic. The late afternoon sun filtered through bougainvillea vines.
“They used to meet at the Shack weekly after closing,” Margo mentioned as they climbed. “Now they rotate porches like a secret society of good wine and better opinions.”
“How long have you all been friends?” Meg asked.
“Oh, forever,” Margo said with a wave. “Eleanor and I met when we were both pregnant—with your uncleRick and her oldest. Vivian moved here in the seventies. We’ve been through everything together. Marriages, divorces, raising kids, losing parents, starting over.” She paused at the garden gate. “They’re the sisters I never had.”
Tonight, it was Eleanor’s turn to host. Her back patio overlooked a bluff above the shoreline, the view framed by wind-twisted trees and a worn wooden table dressed with a faded batik cloth. Vivian was already pouring drinks, her bangles clinking cheerfully as she moved.
“Meg!” Eleanor waved her over like an old friend. “And Margo, finally! You remember Nadine and Letty.”
Meg did—and didn’t. Their faces looked familiar from the birthday party, though she hadn’t had a chance to talk to them all. Back then, they’d seemed like background characters in Margo’s life—friendly, familiar, but peripheral.
Nadine was small and precise, always in navy cardigans and practical sandals. Letty had dyed-red hair and a laugh that could knock over a potted plant.
“Welcome to the sacred circle,” Letty said, handing Meg a glass while Vivian pressed one into Margo’s hands. “We’re delighted to finally have you. Sit. Eat. We’ve been talking about you for weeks.”
Meg raised an eyebrow. “Should I be nervous?”
“Only if you don’t like unsolicited advice,” Vivian said, settling into the cushioned loveseat. “It’s our specialty.”
“Or gossip,” Margo added with a mischievous smile that Meg had never seen before. “We’re terrible gossips.”
“Speak for yourself,” Eleanor protested, then immediately leaned forward conspiratorially. “Did you hear about the Hendersons’ pool situation?”
The table overflowed with snacks—stuffed dates, hummus with fresh herbs, little triangles of grilled cheese with fancy fig jam (“inspired by the Shack, naturally,” Eleanor said), and Margo’s covered dish, which turned out to be some kind of savory tart. Someone had brought a cold orzo salad with lemon zest and sugar snap peas, and there was a half-empty bowl of pistachios already showing signs of a competitive snacking war.
Meg bit into a triangle of grilled cheese and tasted brie and something smoky—maybe roasted poblano?—and a wave of unexpected emotion rose in her chest. This was how her grandmother lived. Not just working, not just cooking—but gathering. Sharing. Being part of something rich and layered.
“The Hendersons hired that contractor—what’s his name, the one with the terrible Yelp reviews,” Nadine was saying.
“Jerry Mullins,” Margo supplied, taking a generous sip of her wine. “I told Diane not to hire him, but she said he was the cheapest bid.”
“And now their pool is draining into the Kowalskis’ yard,” Letty added with evident glee.
“It’s a complete disaster,” Eleanor confirmed. “Jerrydisappeared after the first payment, naturally.”
Meg watched, fascinated, as her grandmother shook her head with the satisfaction of someone whose advice had been ignored and proven right. This was a side of Margo she’d never seen—relaxed, a little sassy, fully engaged in the local drama.
