“I’m willing to listen,” Fiona said. “For now. That doesn’t mean I agree. It means I want to understand what I’m arguing against.”
Stella nodded. Her eyes were bright.
“Okay,” she said quietly. “That’s enough.”
Margo reached over and patted Fiona’s knee.
“You’ve had a very long day. Why don’t you rest? We can talk more tomorrow.” She stood, gathering cups. “Tyler, help me clean up. Stella, show your mother where everything is.”
Tyler followed Margo to the kitchen, leaving Stella and Fiona alone in the living room. Through the doorway, he could see them standing awkwardly, not touching, not quite meeting each other’s eyes.
But not fighting either.
“See?” Margo whispered, running water in the sink. “Tea and scones. Works every time.”
“She said she’s willing to listen. That’s not the same as agreeing.”
“No. But it’s a start.” Margo handed him a dish towel. “Rome wasn’t built in a day, Tyler. Neither are families.”
He dried the cups while Margo washed, the rhythm familiar and soothing. Through the window, he could see the ocean going gold with sunset.
Fiona was here. She was willing to listen.
That was more than he’d expected, honestly.
Now they just had to figure out everything else.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The Shack was quiet in a way it almost never was.
Lunch had been dead again. Bernie and two tourists—that was it. Joey had spent most of the shift reorganizing the walk-in cooler because there was nothing else to do. “Third slow day this week,” he’d muttered. “Weird for summer.”
Stella wiped down the counter for the third time. She wasn’t nervous. She was just... thorough.
“You’re going to rub a hole in that Formica,” Bernie said from his corner booth. He hadn’t left yet, even though they’d closed fifteen minutes ago. He never left right at closing. “Been here fifty years,” he’d told her once. “I’ll leave when I’m ready.”
“I’m just cleaning.”
“You’re stress cleaning. There’s a difference.” Berniefolded his newspaper—an actual paper newspaper. “She’s your mother, not a health inspector.”
“Health inspectors are less scary.”
The front door opened. Stella’s stomach flipped.
Fiona stood in the doorway, backlit by afternoon sun, looking around the Shack like she was trying to memorize it. She was wearing linen pants and a silk blouse—overdressed for Laguna, but that was Fiona. Even exhausted and jet-lagged, she looked put together.
“Hi, Mum.”
“Stella.” Fiona stepped inside, letting the door swing shut behind her. “This is it?”
“This is it.”
Fiona walked slowly through the dining room, taking in the mismatched chairs, the sun-faded booths, the ancient soda machine with the hand-lettered sign that said BANG HERE FOR SPRITE. Her heels clicked on the worn tile floor.
“It’s... charming,” she said.
Stella couldn’t tell if that was a compliment or not.
