And Stella.
Margo’s brush paused over the canvas.
Stella wanted to stay. She’d said it at the family meeting two days ago, quiet but certain, and Margo had felt something change. Not a surprise, exactly—she’d been watching Stella all summer, watching the way she settled into the Shack’s rhythms, the way she’d started calling Tyler “Dad” without seeming to notice. The surprise was hearing it said out loud. Made real.
But wanting and having were different things. Margo knew that better than most.
She worked longer, the coffee going cold, the light shifting from gold to bright white as the marine layer burned off. The painting took shape under her brush—familiar forms emerging, colors deepening. She’d forgotten how much she loved this. The way time disappeared when she was working. The way her hands knew things her mind hadn’t figured out yet.
A car door slammed outside.
Margo glanced at the clock—nearly ten. She’d lost track of the morning entirely. She set down her brush and draped a cloth over the easel, covering the canvas. The painting wasn’t ready to be seen. Might not be for months. Some things needed to stay private until they were finished.
Tyler appeared in the kitchen doorway, still in his work clothes, a paper bag in his hand.
“Joey’s been stress baking. I thought you might want one.”
Margo accepted the bag, peering inside. The muffin looked slightly lopsided but smelled wonderful.
“You came over here to bring me a muffin?”
“I was in the neighborhood.”
“You were checking on me.”
Tyler shrugged, not denying it. He’d started doing this over the past few weeks—stopping by, finding small excuses to make sure she was all right. She wasn’t sure when it had begun, exactly. Somewhere between “visiting occasionally” and “showing up every day,” he’d become someone who checked on his grandmother.
She wasn’t going to complain.
“How’s Stella?” Margo asked, settling into her kitchen chair.
“Good. She’s with Bea today—something about course catalogs and campus tours.” Tyler leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “They’re already planning which classes to take together.”
“That’s optimistic.”
“That’s Bea.”
Margo broke off a piece of the muffin. Still warm. Joey was getting better. “And Fiona? Have you talked to her yet?”
Tyler’s expression flickered—just for a moment, butMargo caught it. She’d been reading this boy’s face for years. She knew what avoidance looked like.
“We’re getting the information together first,” he said. “School requirements, paperwork, all of that. Lindsey gave us a checklist.”
“Lindsey?”
“The guidance counselor,” Tyler said, taking a bite of a muffin.
“That’s not what I asked.”
“I know.”
They sat with that for a moment. Outside, a jogger passed on the street path, ponytail swinging.
“She’s not going to just agree, Tyler. You know that.”
“I know.”
“Gathering information is good. But at some point, you’re going to have to actually talk to her.”
