“He’d approve of that.”
“He absolutely would.”
The oven timer was still beeping. Stella reached over and silenced it while Fiona pulled out the first tray, hands steady now, the biscuits perfectly golden. Edges crisp, centers slightly chewy.
“These are perfect,” Stella said, leaning in to smell them. “Gosh, these are perfect.”
“They’re Nana’s recipe.”
“They’re your recipe now. You’re the one who makes them.”
Fiona stared at the tray for a long moment. Then she set it down and turned to face Stella.
“When you come at Christmas, I’ll have Nana’s recipe box ready. The whole thing. All the cards with her handwriting.”
Stella’s eyes burned. “Really?”
“She would have wanted you to have them. You’re the one who cooks now.” Fiona reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind Stella’s ear — the same gesture she’d made a thousand times when Stella was small. “And when you come at Christmas, we’ll cook through the whole box together. Everything she taught me. Everything I should have taught you.”
“Deal.”
They finished the second batch in silence. Two trays of perfect golden biscuits cooling on the counter, the kitchen warm with butter and coconut and something that felt like peace.
Stella hugged her then. Sudden and fierce, the way she used to hug when she was small, before she learned to hold herself back.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
“For biscuits?”
“For letting me go.”
Fiona held her tighter. Stella felt her mother’s breath catch against her hair.
“That’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done,” Fiona whispered back.
“I know.” Stella pulled away just enough to look at her. “That’s why it matters.”
They stood in the warming kitchen, surrounded by flour and butter and the smell of something baking, holding onto each other and letting go at the same time.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The garden was full of noise, and Margo loved every minute of it.
Sunday dinner had become a tradition over the summer — everyone crowded around whatever table could hold them, food passing in every direction, conversations overlapping until it was impossible to follow any single thread. Tonight they’d pushed together two tables on the patio, strung lights through the bougainvillea, and somehow fit all these people under a sky that smelled like lemon and basil. A late-summer breeze moved through the garden, carrying the scent of jasmine from the fence line.
Margo sat at the head of the table, watching her family.
Tyler and Stella on one side, shoulders touching, sharing some private joke about something on Stella’s phone. Meg and Luke across from them, Luke’s handresting casually on Meg’s knee while she argued with Anna about the proper ratio of garlic to basil. Anna gesturing expansively, nearly knocking over Bea’s water glass, while Bea rolled her eyes. Joey at the end next to Bernie, narrating the meal’s logistics to no one in particular, tracking which dishes needed replenishing with the intensity of air traffic control.
And Fiona.
Fiona sat between Stella and Bea, looking different than she had a week ago. Softer. Present. She’d arrived carrying a tin that she’d set on the table with quiet pride, and now she was laughing at something Bernie said — actually laughing, not the polite performance she’d offered when she first arrived.
“Margo.” Meg appeared at her elbow with a dish. “Try this. New recipe.”
Margo accepted the small plate — some kind of focaccia, tomatoes and what smelled like pesto. She took a bite.
“Oh,” she said. “Oh, that’s lovely. I’d forgotten how much I’ve always loved your pesto.”
