They hugged. Brief, careful. Two people who loved each other and didn’t know how to show it right now.
“Come inside,” Stella said. “I’ll show you around. It won’t take long.”
It didn’t.
The tour lasted approximately four minutes. Living room. Kitchen. Bathroom. Tyler’s room. Stella’s room.
Fiona stood in the hallway, taking in the cramped space, the surfboard in the corner, the books stacked on every available surface.
“I assumed I’d stay here,” she said. It wasn’t a question, but her eyes were doing the math — two bedrooms, two people, one couch that looked like it had survived the Reagan administration.
Tyler and Stella exchanged a look.
“We wanted to offer,” Tyler started. “But?—”
“There’s nowhere to put you,” Stella finished. “Dad slept on that couch for three weeks when I first got here. His feet hung off the end.”
“So, there’s no room.”
“Not really.” Stella shrugged. “It’s tiny.”
The silence that followed was excruciating. Fiona looked at the couch. Looked at the narrow hallway. Looked at Tyler like this was somehow his fault, which — it was.
His phone buzzed. Margo.
Scones are getting cold. Send her over whenever she’s ready.
“Actually,” Tyler said, relief flooding his voice, “Margo offered her spare room. She has more space. And she wanted to meet you properly.”
Fiona’s eyebrows rose. “Margo. Your grandmother.”
“She’s got a cottage a few blocks away. Ocean view.Private bathroom.” Tyler tried for a smile. “Better than the couch.”
“She wants to meet me properly,” Fiona repeated.
“She’s a very welcoming person.”
“I’m sure she is.”
But some of the tension had left Fiona’s shoulders. Maybe the prospect of a real bed after eighteen hours of travel. Maybe just the relief of not having to share walls with Tyler.
“Okay,” she said. “Take me to Margo’s.”
Margo’s cottagesmelled like butter and lavender.
She met them at the door wearing her painting smock, a smudge of yellow on her cheek that she’d clearly forgotten about. Tyler watched Fiona take in the sight—eighty years old, five foot nothing, covered in oil paint and radiating the kind of warmth that made strangers tell her their life stories.
“You must be exhausted,” Margo said, taking both of Fiona’s hands in hers. “Seventeen hours on a plane. Criminal. Come in, come in.”
Fiona let herself be led inside, looking slightly dazed. Tyler knew the feeling. Margo had that effect on people.
“I’ve put you in the blue room. Best light in the morning. The bathroom’s through there—fresh towels on the rack. And I made scones, thoughthey’re not as good as they used to be. My wrist gets tired.”
“You didn’t have to?—“
“Of course I didn’t have to. I wanted to.” Margo squeezed Fiona’s hands. “You’ve come a very long way for your daughter. The least I can do is feed you properly.”
Something flickered across Fiona’s face. Not quite gratitude. Something closer to confusion—like she’d prepared for battle and found a tea party instead.
