CHAPTER ELEVEN
Stella stood outside Margo’s back gate, clutching the empty basket Meg had handed her like it was a lifeline. “Just grab a big handful from the herb garden,” Meg had said, like it was no big deal to send her to raid her great-grandmother’s garden alone.
The gate was unlocked—of course it was. This whole town seemed to operate on some kind of honor system that would get you robbed in Sydney. She pushed through, following the stone path around the side of the house.
The garden hit her senses all at once. Not just the size of it—though it was bigger than their entire yard back home—but the smell. Layers of green scents she couldn’t identify, flowers she didn’t know the names of, and underneath it all, something that made her think of cooking and comfort and things she couldn’t quite name.
“The basil’s over there,” a voice said calmly.
Stella jumped, nearly dropping the basket. Margo stood near the back door, wearing paint-stained jeans and holding what looked like a wet brush.
“I didn’t—sorry. Meg said you were at the Shack.”
“Just got home. Wanted to get some painting in before the light faded.” Margo studied her with those sharp eyes that seemed to see everything. “The basil’s in the raised bed by the lemon tree.”
Stella moved toward the herbs, trying not to feel like she was trespassing. The basil plants were huge, nothing like the sad little pots at the grocery store. She pinched off leaves the way Meg had shown her, the scent making her stomach growl despite the Pop-Tart she’d demolished earlier.
“You paint?” she found herself asking, glancing at Margo’s stained clothes.
“Trying to again. It’s been a while.” Margo set the brush down on a small table. “Used to paint all the time when Tyler was young.”
“Was he always into photography?”
“Always noticed light, that one. From the time he could talk—pointing at shadows, fascinated by how things looked different in morning versus afternoon.” Margo moved closer, not crowding but clearly not leaving either. “Drove us all crazy asking why the kitchen looked gold at breakfast but blue at dinner.”
“Yeah,” Stella said without thinking. “The light here. It’s different than Sydney. Softer or something.”
Margo’s smile was small but pleased. “You have the eye too, then. Runs in the family.”
Stella focused on the basil, not sure what to do with that information. “He’s always going on about golden hour this, blue hour that.”
“That’s my fault, I’m afraid. Used to take him out with my paints, trying to capture morning colors. He complained every time but never missed a session.” Margo moved to a different plant, deadheading flowers with practiced movements.
“He offered to teach me,” Stella said, trying to sound casual. “Photography stuff.”
“And?”
“And... I don’t know. Maybe.”
They worked in silence for a moment, Stella picking basil while Margo tended her flowers. It should have been awkward, but something about the garden made the quiet feel natural.
“You want to see something?” Margo asked suddenly.
Stella looked up, wary. “What kind of something?”
“Photos. From when Tyler was your age. If you’re interested.”
She should say no. Should grab the basil and flee back to the safety of Tyler’s too-small house. Instead, she heard herself saying, “Okay.”
Margo’s living room was exactly what Stella expected—comfortable, lived-in, walls covered with family photos. What she didn’t expect was how many featured Tyler.
“That’s him at sixteen,” Margo said, pointing to a gangly kid with sun-bleached hair holding a surfboard. “Same age as you.”
Stella stared. It was Tyler but wasn’t—all knees and elbows, grinning at the camera with none of the careful distance she was used to seeing in him.
“He looks happy,” she said without meaning to.
“He was. Most of the time.” Margo pulled out a photo album, sitting on the couch and patting the space beside her. “Come on. I’ll show you his unfortunate middle school phase. Every thirteen-year-old boy thinks longer hair makes them look like a surfer.”
