“For the dance?”
“For all of it.”
He nodded. Went back to his chair. Settled into it the way he settled into his booth every morning—slow, deliberate, like the chair had been waiting for him.
Margo sat back down. The guests were drifting out. Paige directing her cleanup crew. The November night coming in cool through the railing.
Anna and Michael were still at the railing. As Margo watched, Anna turned to Michael and kissed him. Simple as that.
Bea walked past them on her way inside. She didn’t stop. She didn’t look away either. She walked past and gave Anna a look — not a smile exactly, but close—and kept going.
Margo sat in her chair and looked at the Shack. The windows lit from inside. The family moving through the light. The foreground she’d been trying to paint for months—the building, the windows, the warmth inside them. She’d been staring ata canvas trying to decide what the light looked like from the outside.
Now she knew.
She went home. The studio was dark. The canvas was waiting. She turned on the lamp and picked up her brush and painted the foreground while the wedding was still warm in her hands.
EPILOGUE
The Shack in December was different.
Not the building—the building was the same. But the rhythm had changed. Weekend brunch packed by seven-thirty, Tyler at his station plating eggs like he’d been doing it his whole life instead of three months. Friday and Saturday dinners had regulars. The art nights had a waitlist. And the patio had string lights that stayed up permanently because Anna had stopped pretending they were temporary.
Stella sat in her booth—third from the door, power outlet on the wall—and watched the lunch rush on her last day. Her suitcase was at Tyler’s. Her flight was at six. Three weeks in Sydney with Fiona for Christmas, and she was spending her final afternoon where she spent every afternoon.
Bella was on her usual chair by the railing.
Joey had taken the cat to the vet the week after the wedding and come back outraged that nobody had checked sooner. Female. He’d named her Bella, made a tag for her chair, and adjusted the feeding schedule accordingly. The feeding schedule was laminated.
Stella sat in her booth—third from the door, power outlet on the wall — and watched the lunch rush on her last day. Hersuitcase was at Tyler’s. Her flight was at six. Three weeks in Sydney with Fiona for Christmas, and she was spending her final afternoon where she spent every afternoon.
Anna was behind the counter, humming something off-key. The humming had gotten louder since the wedding — not better, just louder, which was its own kind of information.
Margo was at the grill. Tuesdays and Thursdays she’d started coming in after the wedding, tying on her apron, grilling for the lunch rush. Not because they needed her. Because she wanted to. She flipped a grilled cheese without looking and it landed perfectly and she didn’t acknowledge it because acknowledging it would mean admitting she’d missed it.
Michael sat at the counter. His spot—third stool from the end, the one with the wobble he’d never mentioned and Anna had never fixed. He was eating focaccia and watching Anna the way he watched everything — carefully, precisely, like he was still collecting data on something he’d already decided about.
The front door banged open.
“Miss me?” Joey stood in the doorway with his backpack over one shoulder, apron already in hand.
Anna looked up from the register.
“You were here yesterday, Joey.”
“Felt longer.”
He was behind the counter in three seconds, apron tied, checking the muffin inventory. Rick’s holiday party last week had wiped out the supply and Joey was still recovering from the emotional damage.
“The lemon blueberry needs restocking,” he said. “And someone moved the cranberry walnut to the wrong shelf. I have feelings about this.”
“You have feelings about everything,” Anna said.
“That’s because everything matters.”
Stella smiled and raised her camera. One last shot of Joey mid-inspection. Click.
Bernie was in his booth. He caught Stella’s eye as she put the camera away.
