Stella found herself almost smiling back. “She gave me this,” she said, holding out the offending Polaroid photo to Meg.
Meg couldn’t stop her laugh when she glanced at the photo. “Oh, wow. He’ll love that,” she said.
“She said he has an old Polaroid camera? That still works?”
“Oh, he definitely does. Won’t let anyone touch it.” Meg paused. “Well, he might let you. If you asked.”
“Maybe. If he offers.” Stella watched Meg work for a moment. “She also said you make the best pesto on the coast.”
“Did she?” Meg looked pleased. “That’s high praise from someone who grows her own everything.”
“Is it really that good?”
“You’ll have to judge for yourself. Want to help? You collected all the basil, might as well learn what to do with it.”
Stella hesitated, then shrugged. “Fine. But if I mess it up, we’re ordering pizza.”
“Deal.”
They worked side by side, Meg showing her how to blend the basil with olive oil, garlic, pine nuts. The kitchen filled with the sharp, green scent, and Stellafound herself thinking about photo albums and boys who noticed light from the time they could talk and great-grandmothers who knew when to give space.
“Hey, Meg?”
“Yeah?”
“Why do you all call her Margo? Instead of, you know, Grandma?”
Meg smiled. “I asked her that once when I was little. She said ‘Grandma’ made her feel old, and she was too busy to be old. It stuck.”
“And Sam instead of Mom?”
Meg’s smile faded slightly. “That... started when she began leaving for longer trips. ‘Mom’ felt like a promise she wasn’t keeping. ‘Sam’ was just... easier. For everyone.”
Stella absorbed this, thinking of Fiona back in Sydney, probably feeding the twins their dinosaur nuggets right about now. At least her mother was there, even if she’d shipped Stella off for the summer.
“Families are weird,” she said finally.
“The weirdest,” Meg agreed. “But sometimes weird works.”
“Tyler’s on his way home,” Meg said, checking her phone. “Luke’s coming for dinner too.”
“The whole gang,” Stella said, then felt strange about including herself in that.
“The whole gang,” Meg confirmed easily. “Now come on, let’s see if Margo’s right about this being the best pesto on the coast.”
And just like that, she was helping make dinner, the afternoon’s revelations settling into her bones like seeds waiting for the right conditions to grow. Not forced, not rushed. Just... possible.
Whatever that meant.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Later that afternoon Meg stood at Tyler's stove, stirring the pesto they'd made earlier. The kitchen still smelled of basil and toasted pine nuts, and the bright zinnias Stella had brought back from Margo's sat in a mason jar on the counter, adding splashes of orange and pink to Tyler's usually austere kitchen.
"Smells good in here," Tyler said, appearing in the doorway. He looked exhausted but lighter somehow, like he'd set down a weight he'd been carrying.
"Just getting the pasta water ready. The pesto turned out well—Stella's got good instincts for proportions."
“She does, does she?” Tyler asked, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Good to know.”
