Chapter 37
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Eleanor’s deck was bright in the late afternoon, the perfect backdrop for post-Festival analysis.
The Circle had gathered earlier than usual—Eleanor, Vivian, Margo, and Meg, who by now was considered a full member rather than honorary.
“Well,” Vivian said, settling into her chair with a glass of wine and looking like she had things to say, “that was quite a summer.”
“Quite a summer indeed,” Eleanor agreed, arranging cheese and crackers carefully. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen the Walsh family dynamics shift so dramatically in such a short time.”
Margo looked up from her own wine, paint still faintly visible under her fingernails despite vigorous scrubbing. “You two have been watching us like hawks.”
“Of course we have,” Vivian said without shame. “It’s been better than cable television. Drama, character growth, artistic crises, and that delightful young woman of yours.”
“Stella,” Margo said, and her voice carried unmistakable pride. “She’s something special.”
“She is,” Eleanor confirmed. “Though I have to ask—how did Anna take losing the Festival? She seemed remarkably cheerful when I saw her at the market.”
“Better than I expected,” Margo said. “I think not winning was a relief. It gave her permission to enjoy the work instead of trying to prove herself.”
“And Bea?” Vivian asked.
“Already painting again,” Meg said with a smile. “Different light, different tone. I think she’s starting to paint for herself, not for comparison.”
Eleanor nodded approvingly. “And Stella?”
Margo’s eyes softened. “Her photographs drew quite a crowd. People stood in front of them for ages. Someone asked if they were for sale, but she said no—they weren’t about selling, they were about showing.”
“Very mature,” Vivian said. “Sixteen going on sixty.”
“She gets that from you,” Eleanor teased.
Margo shook her head. “From all of us, maybe.”
They sat quietly for a moment, listening to the steady sound of waves below.
“Speaking of seeing things,” Eleanor said carefully, “I ran into Patricia Henderson at the post office.”
Margo groaned. “That can’t be good.”
“Actually, it was. She was gracious about not winning. But she mentioned a rumor that Sam Walsh has applied to be a featured artist for next year’s Festival.”
The silence that followed was absolute. The ocean filled it.
“Featured?” Vivian repeated. “As in, front-and-center featured?”
“That’s what Patricia heard,” Eleanor said. “Apparently Sam’s been making quite a name for herself in the Southwest—gallery shows, collectors, the works.”
Meg looked down at her glass. “She hasn’t mentioned it to me.”
Margo’s voice was even. “She hasn’t mentioned it to me either.”
Vivian exchanged a glance with Eleanor. “How do you think everyone would handle it? Sam returning to all that attention?”
Margo exhaled slowly. “A year ago, I would’ve said it would be a disaster. Anna competing, Tyler hiding, Meg trying to manage everyone’s emotions.”
Meg smiled faintly. “Accurate.”
“And now?” Eleanor asked.
“Now,” Margo said, “I think we might actually be all right. Anna’s focusing on her own work, Tyler’s showing up, and Meg’s learning that love doesn’t mean managing everyone else.”
“Still working on that,” Meg admitted.
“And Stella?” Vivian prompted.
“She’d take it as a story,” Margo said. “Observe, document, process. She’s the steady one.”
Vivian leaned forward. “And you, Margo? How would you handle it?”
Margo thought for a long moment. “The way I’ve handled everything this summer—one day at a time, with as much grace as I can manage.”
“That’s very zen,” Eleanor said.
“That’s very survival,” Margo said.
Meg set down her glass. “We’ll handle it,” she said quietly. “All of us. This family’s not the same one she left.”
Margo’s expression softened, proud and sad at the same time. “No,” she said. “It’s not.”
Eleanor reached to refill their glasses. “It’s interesting how much everyone’s grown. Anna learning boundaries, Stella finding her voice, even Tyler choosing to stay.”
“Growth is messy,” Vivian said. “But it’s progress.”
They lingered as the sun began to set, the horizon softening into evening.
When the gathering finally broke up, Eleanor caught Margo’s arm at the gate. “Whatever happens with Sam, you’ve built something beautiful this summer. Don’t let anyone’s choices make you forget that.”
“I won’t,” Margo said.
Walking home through the quiet streets, she thought about family, about change, about the daughter who might soon return to a world that had moved forward without her.
If Sam came back expecting the same patterns, she was in for a surprise.
And maybe, Margo thought, that was the best kind of beginning.
Whatever came next — Sam’s return, the next Festival, the next chapter — they’d handle it.
All of them.