The door closed behind them. Meg stood in the kitchen — messy now, dishes in the sink, the lingering smell of her afternoon’s work filling the space.
She thought about Margo teaching her to cook. About the Shack, struggling without anyoneunderstanding why. About her pesto, which she’d been making for twenty years and hoarding like a secret.
She pulled out her phone and texted Luke.
I’m bringing you soup.
His response came quickly.
I’ll open wine.
She smiled, covered the soup, and started cleaning up.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Rick Turner drove a sensible gray sedan and wore sensible gray slacks and had never, in Tyler’s memory, done a single spontaneous thing in his life.
So when the sensible gray sedan pulled into the Shack parking lot, Tyler knew something was wrong.
“Uncle Rick’s here,” he said to Joey.
“I see him.” Joey didn’t look up. “He’s been here three times this month. That’s twice more than usual.”
“You track that?”
“I track everything. It’s called situational awareness.”
“It’s called concerning.”
“Those are the same thing.”
Tyler wiped his hands on a dish towel and headed for the door. Rick was already out of the car, walkingtoward the entrance with the determined stride of a man about to deliver bad news.
“Uncle Rick.”
“Tyler.” Rick nodded, all business. “Is your grandmother here?”
“She’s painting.”
“Right.” Rick’s jaw tightened. “She’s always painting now.”
“That’s kind of the point. She’s earned it.”
“She’s earned a lot of things. I just want to make sure the Shack is still standing when she’s done.”
“The Shack is fine.”
“Is it?”
They stood in the parking lot, the afternoon sun beating down, neither willing to move first.
“Can we at least go inside?” Tyler finally said. “I’m sweating through my shirt.”
“Fine.”
The Shack was quiet. Three tables occupied — a couple sharing a grilled cheese, an older woman reading a paperback, and Bernie in his usual corner with his tablet and his coffee and his all-seeing eyes.
Joey appeared instantly. “Mr. Turner! Welcome back. Coffee? Water?
