She touched brush to canvas. One stroke. Done.
She stepped back.
The painting looked back at her, complete. Fifty years of the Shack. Four generations of family.Everything she’d built, everything she’d loved, everything she was leaving behind.
Not leaving. Passing on. There was a difference.
Her phone sat on the worktable. She picked it up, typed a message to the family group chat.
Dinner at my place tonight. 6pm. I have something to show you.
The responses came quickly.
Tyler.
Should I bring food?
Meg.
I can handle food. What kind of something?
Anna.
Ooh mysterious. I’m intrigued.
Stella.
Is Bea coming?
Margo smiled.
I hope everyonecan come. Just be here.
She covered the painting with a cloth, hiding it until the right moment. Then she went to shower off the smell of turpentine and prepare for what came next.
They arrived in waves,the way her family always did.
Tyler first, with Stella, both of them carrying grocery bags Meg had assigned them to pick up. Then Anna and Bea, arms full of flowers from someone’s garden—“The Blakes weren’t using them,” Anna said, which probably meant she’d asked permission and possibly meant she hadn’t.
Meg and Luke came last, holding hands in a way that made Margo’s heart beat faster.
“Something smells amazing,” Luke said.
“Meg’s soup. She dropped it off this morning.” Margo ushered them all inside. “Sit, sit. Make yourselves comfortable.”
Her cottage wasn’t large, but it expanded somehow when filled with family. People found seats on the couch, the chairs, the floor. Bea and Stella claimed the window seat, phones out, documenting everything.
“So,” Tyler said, accepting a glass of wine from Anna. “What’s the mysterious something?”
“After dinner.”
“You’re going to make us wait?”
“Anticipation improves appreciation. Your grandfather used to say that.”
“Grandpa also used to say ‘the early bird gets the worm, but the second mouse gets the cheese.’ His wisdom was inconsistent.”
“His wisdom was contextual. There’s a difference.”
