“I’m glad.”
“I’m going to teach her all my grandmother’s recipes. The whole box.” Fiona smiled. “She asked about the pavlova specifically. Apparently I’ve mentioned it’s terrible.”
“Is it?”
“My grandfather’s version? Horrific. But we’ll make a good version. He wouldn’t mind.”
“That sounds perfect.”
The door opened behind them. Stella appeared, silhouetted against the warm light from inside.
“There you are. Everyone’s asking if there are more biscuits. Joey’s getting territorial about the last three.”
“There might be more dough in the fridge,” Fiona said. “We could make another batch.”
“Really? Now?”
“Why not?” Fiona pushed off from the railing. “Teach me how to use Margo’s oven properly. I think I burned the bottoms slightly this morning.”
“You did not. They were perfect.”
“The bottoms were a little dark.”
“That’s character.”
They disappeared inside together, bickering about biscuit bottoms, leaving Margo alone with the garden and the stars.
She thought about the painting waiting in her studio. The figures she’d added — Rick, Tyler, Meg, Anna, Bea, Stella. And Sam, at the edge, looking in.
Maybe she’d add one more. Fiona, somewhere in the frame. Part of the story now, whether she lived here or not.
Family didn’t run out. The table just got bigger.
And there was always room.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The bungalow felt different now.
Tyler stood in the kitchen doorway, coffee in hand, watching Stella eat cereal at the counter. She’d colonized the space over the months—her photography books stacked by the window, her prints taped to the fridge, her jacket perpetually draped over the back of the couch.
It didn’t feel small anymore. It felt like home.
“Stop staring,” Stella said without looking up. “It’s creepy.”
“I’m not staring. I’m... observing.”
“That’s what creepy people say.”
“I’m observing my daughter eating breakfast in my kitchen. That’s allowed.”
“Barely.” She took another bite of cereal. “You’re thinking something. I can hear it from here.”
Tyler sat down across from her. The morning lightcaught the side of her face, and he noticed—not for the first time—how much she looked like him. The same jaw, the same way her eyebrows drew together when she was concentrating. Walsh features, Margo called them.
“Your mum’s flight is this afternoon,” he said.
Stella’s spoon paused halfway to her mouth. “I know.”
