“That’s the point. It builds character.”
They walked another block. The porch light was on at the bungalow, the same way it had been on when she’d left a week ago.
“She’s going to be okay,” Stella said.
“Yeah,” Tyler said. “She just needs to figure it out.”
“What if she doesn’t?”
Tyler put his arm around her shoulder—brief, warm, the walking-home kind.
“Then we make sure she does.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Eleanor’s porch light was on when Margo arrived for the Friday night Circle.
Margo had the Tupperware in one hand and a bottle of the red wine Letty liked in the other, and she stood at the bottom of the steps for a moment longer than usual before going up. The street was still. The lamps along the curb made their small circles. She’d been standing at the bottom of her friends’ steps every Friday for thirty years and she had never once hesitated.
Eleanor answered in stocking feet and looked at the Tupperware. “What is it this time?”
“Cheddar and fig bites. Still warm.”
“You spoil us.” Eleanor took the container—warm through the lid, the fig jam fragrant—and stepped aside. “Vivian’s already into the Sancerre. Nadine brought something in a Whole Foods bag she’s claiming she made.”
“She always claims she made it.”
Eleanor laughed and said, “And we always let her.”
The living room was set—the spread on the low table, the sliding doors cracked for the ocean, the chairs in their places. Nadine sat in her corner with the Whole Foods crackersarranged on a plate she’d brought from home. Vivian was on the settee with her wine and her posture. Letty lounged on the couch and set down the book she’d been flipping through when Margo came in.
“You’re late,” Vivian said.
Margo shook her head. “I’m on time.”
“You’re usually early. Early is your on time. On time is your late.”
“I had things to do.”
Vivian looked at her over her glass but said nothing else, which was Vivian’s way of saying she’d noticed something and was choosing when to deploy it.
Margo took her chair—the armchair nearest the window—and Eleanor poured her a glass of the red without asking.
Vivian poured herself a second Sancerre and started in. Her physical therapist had committed a new offense—he’d asked about her weekend plans, which Vivian considered an invasion of privacy on par with reading her mail. “I’m there for my rotator cuff, not for small talk. The man has no sense of professional distance.”
“He’s being friendly,” Letty said.
“He’s being familiar. Those are not the same thing.”
Eleanor topped off her own glass. “Did you answer him?”
“I told him my plans were none of his concern and could we please focus on the external rotation.”
“Vivian, that poor man,” Letty said.
“That poor man needs boundaries.”
Nadine took a cracker from her plate and ate it without comment, which was Nadine’s version of an opinion.
