She retreated to the guest room. The door clicked shut. Margo rinsed the cups, set them in the drying rack, and stood at the kitchen window looking out at the dark garden.
She thought about Sam, somewhere in Portugal, chasing light.
She thought about Fiona, in the guest room, learning to let go.
She thought about the Shack—her Shack, her fifty years of grilled cheese and community and shells on the ceiling—sitting empty on slow afternoons while she painted in her studio.
Something was wrong there too. She’d heard it from Meg, from Joey, from Bernie’s careful silence. The grilled cheese didn’t taste the same. The customers weren’t finishing their food.
She’d been so focused on letting go. On trusting the next generation. On finally, finally giving herself permission to paint.
But maybe she’d let go of the wrong things.
Soon, she thought. Soon she’d walk down to the Shack. Just to check. Just to see.
Not to fix anything.
Just to look.
She turned off the kitchen light and went back to bed, knowing she wouldn’t sleep.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Margo found Fiona on the porch in the afternoon, staring at nothing in particular.
She looked different. Not softer exactly—that would take time—but quieter. The sharp edges worn down by exhaustion and two AM conversations and whatever she’d been turning over in her mind all day.
“I’m making a cheese plate,” Margo said from the doorway. “Want to help?”
Fiona blinked, pulled out of wherever she’d been. “A cheese plate?”
“For Circle. My friends come every Friday. Wine, cheese, gossip.” Margo shrugged. “It’s been happening for thirty years. I’m not about to stop now.”
“I don’t want to intrude?—”
“You’re not intruding. You’re helping me slice brie.”Margo turned back toward the kitchen. “Come on. The crackers won’t arrange themselves.”
Fiona followed, still uncertain, but she followed. That was something.
They worked side by side at the kitchen counter — Margo slicing cheese, Fiona arranging crackers in the overlapping pattern Margo showed her. The late afternoon light came through the window, warm and golden. Neither of them mentioned last night. Neither of them needed to.
“What are they like?” Fiona asked. “Your friends.”
“Opinionated. Loud. Occasionally inappropriate.” Margo smiled. “You’ll either love them or want to flee within ten minutes.”
“They sound interesting,” Fiona said, with a hint of a smile.
“Eleanor’s an artist—she’ll ask about your creative pursuits, and ‘I don’t have any’ is not an acceptable answer. Vivian owns the vintage shop on Forest—she’ll compliment something you’re wearing and then tell you how to wear it better. Letty will flirt with anything that moves. And Nadine will pretend to disapprove of all of it while secretly enjoying every minute.” Margo arranged the cheese on the board. “I’d like you to join us. If you’re willing.”
“Why?”
The question was genuine, not defensive. Margo considered it.
“Because you’ve been in that guest room for days, dealing with hard things. And sometimes what you need isn’t more processing. It’s just... people. Being normal. Laughing about nothing important.” She met Fiona’s eyes. “You’re welcome at my table, Fiona. That’s all.”
Fiona was quiet for a moment. Then she nodded and actually smiled.
“Okay. I’ll stay.”
