Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
Margo stood in front of her easel first thing in the morning, a cup of coffee cooling on the windowsill and a decision to make about yellows.
Cadmium was too bright. Lemon was too sharp. Naples yellow—warm, soft, the color of morning light on weathered wood.
Naples yellow. Definitely.
She loaded her brush and made the first stroke, adding warmth to the corner of the canvas she’d been avoiding.
The painting had been started years ago — set aside when the Shack demanded more hours than she had, when Richard got sick, when life kept insisting it was more important than art.
She’d found it in her closet last month, buried behind old frames and drop cloths, and something about seeing it again had felt like permission.
Permission to finish what she’d started. Permission to want something for herself.
Through her kitchen window, she could see the Shack a few blocks away. Tyler’s truck was already in the lot. He’d taken over morning prep, arriving before seven most days now, working through the opening routine with a quiet competence that still surprised her.
Six months ago, he would have found an excuse to be somewhere else. Anywhere else.
Her phone buzzed on the counter. Tyler.
Delivery truck’s early. Anna’s handling it. All good here.
Anna was handling some of the deliveries. Margo set down her brush and read the message again, waiting for the follow-up. The one that said Actually, we need you or Small crisis, never mind.
Nothing came.
She set down the phone and picked up her brush again. Maybe it really was all good. Maybe they were figuring it out. Or maybe “all good” was Tyler’s way of not worrying her, and she’d arrive sometime to find the walk-in freezer had died and nobody knew where the backup supplier list was.
Fifty years of running that place. Hard to trust “all good” without seeing it herself.
They were figuring it out. All of them. Tyler showing up for morning prep. Anna learning to channel her energy into systems instead of chaos. Meg building structures that actually worked. Bea covering shifts as she could.
And Stella.
Margo’s brush paused over the canvas.
Stella wanted to stay. She’d said it at the family meeting two days ago, quiet but certain, and Margo had felt something change.
Not a surprise, exactly—she’d been watching Stella all summer, watching the way she settled into the Shack’s rhythms, the way she’d started calling Tyler “Dad” without seeming to notice.
The surprise was hearing it said out loud. Made real.
But wanting and having were different things. Margo knew that better than most.
She worked longer, the coffee going cold, the light shifting from gold to bright white as the marine layer burned off.
The painting took shape under her brush—familiar forms emerging, colors deepening.
She’d forgotten how much she loved this.
The way time disappeared when she was working.
The way her hands knew things her mind hadn’t figured out yet.
A car door slammed outside.
Margo glanced at the clock—nearly ten. She’d lost track of the morning entirely. She set down her brush and draped a cloth over the easel, covering the canvas. The painting wasn’t ready to be seen. Might not be for months. Some things needed to stay private until they were finished.
Tyler appeared in the kitchen doorway, still in his work clothes, a paper bag in his hand.
“Joey’s been stress baking. I thought you might want one.”
Margo accepted the bag, peering inside. The muffin looked slightly lopsided but smelled wonderful.
“You came over here to bring me a muffin?”
“I was in the neighborhood.”
“You were checking on me.”
Tyler shrugged, not denying it. He’d started doing this over the past few weeks—stopping by, finding small excuses to make sure she was all right.
She wasn’t sure when it had begun, exactly.
Somewhere between “visiting occasionally” and “showing up every day,” he’d become someone who checked on his grandmother.
She wasn’t going to complain.
“How’s Stella?” Margo asked, settling into her kitchen chair.
“Good. She’s with Bea today—something about course catalogs and campus tours.” Tyler leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “They’re already planning which classes to take together.”
“That’s optimistic.”
“That’s Bea.”
Margo broke off a piece of the muffin. Still warm. Joey was getting better. “And Fiona? Have you talked to her yet?”
Tyler’s expression flickered—just for a moment, but Margo caught it. She’d been reading this boy’s face for years. She knew what avoidance looked like.
“We’re getting the information together first,” he said. “School requirements, paperwork, all of that. Lindsey gave us a checklist.”
“Lindsey?”
“The guidance counselor,” Tyler said, taking a bite of a muffin.
“That’s not what I asked.”
“I know.”
They sat with that for a moment. Outside, a jogger passed on the street path, ponytail swinging.
“She’s not going to just agree, Tyler. You know that.”
“I know.”
“Gathering information is good. But at some point, you’re going to have to actually talk to her.”
Tyler looked out the window, jaw tight. “I’m aware.”
He turned back to her, and Margo saw something in his eyes she recognized. Fear. Not of Fiona, exactly. Fear of the conversation. Fear of fighting for something and losing anyway.
She’d seen that look before. On her daughter’s face, years ago, when Sam was standing on the edge of something and neither of them knew what would happen next.
“She wants to stay,” Margo said quietly. “Stella. She told you that.”
“I know.”
“Do you know what that cost her? To say it out loud?”
Tyler was silent.
“She chose you.” Margo held his gaze. “She chose this family, this place, this life. Now you have to choose her back. Not by researching requirements. By fighting for her.”
“I will.”
“When?”
“Soon. We’re going to call Fiona this week. Together.”
“Together is good.” Margo softened her voice.
He nodded slowly. Whether he understood, whether he was ready—she couldn’t tell. She’d done what she could. Planted the seed. The rest was up to him.
“The muffin’s good,” she said, changing the subject. “Tell Joey he’s getting much better at this.”
Tyler smiled, relieved at the shift. “I’ll pass it along.”
He stayed a few more minutes, chatting about the morning rush, a difficult customer Bernie had charmed into submission, Anna’s new system for tracking inventory. Normal things. Family things.
After he left, Margo returned to her easel and lifted the cloth.
The light had shifted while Tyler was here—softer now, the harsh brightness easing into something warmer. Better for painting. Better for seeing what was really there.
She picked up her brush and kept working.