Stella opened the door. Her mother was sitting on the couch, laptop closed for once, staring out the window at Margo’s garden. She looked tired. Older, somehow, than when she’d walked out after their argument.
“I want to show you something,” Stella said.
Fiona turned. Her eyes were wary, braced for another confrontation. “What?”
“Something I made. Something I’ve been working on.” Stella held up her car keys. “Will you come with me?”
“Where?”
“It’s a surprise.”
Fiona’s mouth twitched—not quite a smile, but close. “You hate surprises.”
“I know. That’s how you know it’s important.”
They looked at each other across the guest room, the space between them heavy with everything that had been said and everything that hadn’t.
“Okay,” Fiona said finally. “I’ll come.”
Fiona stopped dead on the front path when Stella headed for the driver’s side.
“You’re driving.”
“I have my license. Remember? Dad taught me.”
“I remember youtellingme that. I didn’t think—” Fiona stared at the truck like it might bite her. “You’re actually driving. On American roads. On the wrong side.”
“It’s therightside here. That’s the whole point.”
“Semantics.” But Fiona walked around to the passenger door, her movements stiff with barely contained anxiety. “How long have you been doing this?”
“Weeks. I’m good at it.”
“Define ‘good.’”
“No crashes, no tickets, no screaming passengers.” Stella started the engine. “Well. Minimal screaming.”
Fiona’s hand found the door handle and gripped it like a lifeline. “That’s not as reassuring as you think it is.”
The drive took them through town, past the gallery district, toward the Festival of Arts grounds. Stella drove carefully — not because she needed to, but because she could feel her mother’s tension radiating from the passenger seat like heat from a sunburn.
“You can let go of the door,” Stella said. “It’s not going to eject you.”
“I’m fine.”
“Your knuckles are white.”
“I said I’m fine.” Fiona loosened her grip slightly. “It’s just strange. Watching you do this. You were learning to ride a bicycle five minutes ago.”
“That was twelve years ago.”
“Same thing.”
They pulled into the festival parking lot. Fiona’s death grip finally relaxed as Stella navigated into a spot and cut the engine.
“You drove very well,” Fiona admitted. “I should have said that sooner.”
“You were too busy leaving fingerprints in the door handle.”
