Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The last three days had been a blur of logistics and anxiety. Margo had claimed Fiona for the guest room before anyone could argue. Meg had offered backup. Even Bernie had texted, which Tyler hadn’t expected.
John Wayne Airport was not designed for awkward reunions.
He’d offered to bring Stella. She’d said no.
“I can’t be the first thing she sees,” Stella had said that morning, pacing the kitchen while Tyler failed to make coffee. “She’ll start crying or yelling and I’ll start crying or yelling and it’ll be a disaster before we even get to the car.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I absolutely know that. We’re the same person. That’s the problem.”
So, Tyler was here alone, watching travelers stream past with their rolling suitcases and their reunions that looked nothing like his was about to look.
A toddler ran shrieking toward a woman in a sundress. “MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY.”
Tyler’s stomach turned.
He checked his phone. Margo had texted.
Spare room is ready. Fresh towels. I made scones.
You didn’t have to do that.
I wanted to. She’s had a long flight. And I remember what it’s like to feel like you’re losing your daughter.
Tyler stared at that last line for a long moment. Then dropped his phone in his pocket as the doors from customs opened and passengers began to trickle through.
He spotted Fiona immediately.
She looked... tired. Which was fair—she’d just spent seventeen hours on a plane. But it was more than travel fatigue. Her shoulders were tight, her jaw set, her eyes scanning the crowd with the wariness of someone walking into enemy territory.
Their eyes met.
Neither of them smiled.
Tyler raised a hand. Not a wave exactly. Just acknowledgment. I see you. I’m here. Let’s get this over with.
Fiona walked toward him, pulling a large suitcase and carrying a leather tote that probably cost more than anything he’d ever seen in real life.
She stopped about three feet away—close enough to talk, far enough to maintain distance.
“Tyler.”
“Fiona.”
Silence.
“How was the flight?” Tyler asked, because someone had to say something.
“Long.”
“Right. Yeah. Seventeen hours.”
“Eighteen, with the layover.”
“Right.”
More silence. Behind them, the toddler was still shrieking about Mommy. Tyler had never envied a toddler before, but at least that kid knew what to say.
“Is that all your luggage?” he asked, nodding at the suitcase.
“I have another bag coming.”
“Okay. I’ll just—” He gestured vaguely toward the carousel.
They stood side by side, watching suitcases circle. Not talking. The awkwardness was almost impressive in its density.
“There.” Fiona pointed to a matching suitcase, same expensive leather as the first.
Tyler grabbed it. It weighed approximately nine hundred pounds.
“What’s in here?”
“Clothes. Toiletries. I didn’t know how long I’d be staying.”
Neither do I, Tyler thought. But he just nodded and started walking toward the exit.
The drive back to Laguna was forty-five minutes of extremely careful conversation.
They covered the weather—warm—the traffic—moderate—and whether Tyler had heard about some Australian politician’s scandal—he hadn’t. Safe topics. Surface topics. The conversational equivalent of two diplomats negotiating a ceasefire.
Fiona stared out the window, her expression unreadable.
“Stella’s excited to see you,” he offered.
Fiona’s jaw tightened. “Is she.”
“She is. She’s nervous, but she’s excited.”
“She hung up on me.”
“I know.”
“She told me she was staying whether I agreed or not.”
“I know that too.”
Fiona turned to look at him. Her eyes were red-rimmed. From the flight, maybe. Or from crying. Tyler couldn’t tell.
“This isn’t what I wanted, Tyler. It was supposed to be temporary.”
“I know.”
“Do you? Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like you’ve won. Years of me doing everything alone, and now you get to be the hero.”
Tyler gripped the steering wheel. Breathed. Remembered what Margo had said. She’s grieving what she thought would happen.
“I’m not trying to be a hero,” he said carefully. “I’m just trying to be her dad.”
“You’ve had sixteen years to be her dad.”
“And whose rules made that impossible?”
The words came out sharper than he intended. Fiona flinched.
Silence again. Heavier this time.
Tyler took the exit toward Laguna Beach, winding down through the canyon. The ocean appeared and disappeared between the hills.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “That wasn’t—I don’t want to fight.”
“Then what do you want?”
“I want Stella to be happy. I want you to be okay. I want us to figure this out like adults.” He glanced at her. “Is that possible?”
Fiona didn’t answer. She turned back to the window.
Tyler’s bungalow looked even smaller than usual.
He pulled into the driveway, suddenly aware of every flaw—the peeling paint on the mailbox, the bougainvillea that needed trimming, the surfboard propped against the porch railing because he’d never gotten around to building proper storage.
“This is it?” Fiona asked.
“This is it.”
She didn’t say anything else, but her silence was deafening.
Stella was waiting on the porch. She stood as they got out of the truck, arms wrapped around herself, looking younger than sixteen.
“Hi, Mum.”
Fiona’s composure cracked. Just for a second—a flash of something raw and desperate crossing her face before she pulled it back under control.
“Stella.”
They hugged. Brief, careful. Two people who loved each other and didn’t know how to show it right now.
“Come inside,” Stella said. “I’ll show you around. It won’t take long.”
It didn’t.
The tour lasted approximately four minutes. Living room. Kitchen. Bathroom. Tyler’s room. Stella’s room.
Fiona stood in the hallway, taking in the cramped space, the surfboard in the corner, the books stacked on every available surface.
“I assumed I’d stay here,” she said. It wasn’t a question, but her eyes were doing the math — two bedrooms, two people, one couch that looked like it had survived the Reagan administration.
Tyler and Stella exchanged a look.
“We wanted to offer,” Tyler started. “But—”
“There’s nowhere to put you,” Stella finished. “Dad slept on that couch for three weeks when I first got here. His feet hung off the end.”
“So, there’s no room.”
“Not really.” Stella shrugged. “It’s tiny.”
The silence that followed was excruciating. Fiona looked at the couch. Looked at the narrow hallway. Looked at Tyler like this was somehow his fault, which — it was.
His phone buzzed. Margo.
Scones are getting cold. Send her over whenever she’s ready.
“Actually,” Tyler said, relief flooding his voice, “Margo offered her spare room. She has more space. And she wanted to meet you properly.”
Fiona’s eyebrows rose. “Margo. Your grandmother.”
“She’s got a cottage a few blocks away. Ocean view. Private bathroom.” Tyler tried for a smile. “Better than the couch.”
“She wants to meet me properly,” Fiona repeated.
“She’s a very welcoming person.”
“I’m sure she is.”
But some of the tension had left Fiona’s shoulders. Maybe the prospect of a real bed after eighteen hours of travel. Maybe just the relief of not having to share walls with Tyler.
“Okay,” she said. “Take me to Margo’s.”
Margo’s cottage smelled like butter and lavender.
She met them at the door wearing her painting smock, a smudge of yellow on her cheek that she’d clearly forgotten about. Tyler watched Fiona take in the sight—eighty years old, five foot nothing, covered in oil paint and radiating the kind of warmth that made strangers tell her their life stories.
“You must be exhausted,” Margo said, taking both of Fiona’s hands in hers. “Seventeen hours on a plane. Criminal. Come in, come in.”
Fiona let herself be led inside, looking slightly dazed. Tyler knew the feeling. Margo had that effect on people.
“I’ve put you in the blue room. Best light in the morning. The bathroom’s through there—fresh towels on the rack. And I made scones, though they’re not as good as they used to be. My wrist gets tired.”
“You didn’t have to—“
“Of course I didn’t have to. I wanted to.” Margo squeezed Fiona’s hands. “You’ve come a very long way for your daughter. The least I can do is feed you properly.”
Something flickered across Fiona’s face. Not quite gratitude. Something closer to confusion—like she’d prepared for battle and found a tea party instead.
“Thank you,” she said. “That’s very kind.”
“Kindness costs nothing. Sit, sit. Tyler, help me with the kettle.”
Tyler followed Margo into the kitchen, leaving Fiona perched on the edge of the living room sofa like she might need to flee at any moment.
“Well?” Margo whispered, filling the kettle. “How bad is it?”
“Bad. She thinks I’ve stolen her daughter.”
“Have you?”
“Margo.”
“I’m asking.” She set the kettle on the stove. “Stella chose to stay. That’s not theft. That’s a sixteen-year-old making a decision about her own life.”
“Fiona doesn’t see it that way.”
“No. She sees it as losing.” Margo pulled down three cups, then a fourth. “But losing and letting go are different things. She’ll figure that out.”
“What if she doesn’t?”
Margo looked at him. Her eyes were sharp, knowing.
“Then you fight for your daughter. Politely. But firmly.” She handed him the teapot. “Now go make nice. I’ll bring the scones.”
They sat in Margo’s living room—Tyler and Fiona on opposite ends of the sofa, Stella in the armchair, Margo moving between them like a benevolent referee distributing baked goods.
“These are wonderful,” Fiona said, and she sounded like she meant it. “What’s in them?”
“Lemon zest. And a bit of honey from Eleanor’s bees.” Margo settled into her chair. “Do you bake?”
“Not really. I used to, but not anymore. No time.”
“Mm. Working mother. I remember those days.” Margo sipped her tea. “What is it you do?”
“Photography. Commercial work, mostly. Product campaigns, corporate clients.” A beat. “I used to teach workshops. That’s actually how Tyler and I met.”
“Ah.” Margo’s eyes flickered to Tyler, then back. “So, Stella comes by it honestly. The eye.”
Fiona frowned and looked at Stella. “She does? I suppose.”
“Then you’ll fit right in here.” Margo gestured at Tyler. “Just like Tyler now.”
“Margo,” Tyler said.
“What? It’s true. You’ve changed.” She looked at Fiona. “Having Stella here has been good for him. For all of us.”
The room went quiet. Stella was studying her scone like it contained the secrets of the universe.
Fiona set down her cup.
“I’m not here to take her away by force,” she said. “I know that’s what you’re all thinking.”
No one contradicted her.
“I’m here because my daughter told me she’s not coming home,” she continued, her voice steady, controlled. “And before I respond to that, I needed to see for myself what she’s choosing over us.”
She looked at Stella then—really looked at her.
“I’m willing to listen,” Fiona said. “For now. That doesn’t mean I agree. It means I want to understand what I’m arguing against.”
Stella nodded. Her eyes were bright.
“Okay,” she said quietly. “That’s enough.”
Margo reached over and patted Fiona’s knee.
“You’ve had a very long day. Why don’t you rest? We can talk more tomorrow.” She stood, gathering cups. “Tyler, help me clean up. Stella, show your mother where everything is.”
Tyler followed Margo to the kitchen, leaving Stella and Fiona alone in the living room. Through the doorway, he could see them standing awkwardly, not touching, not quite meeting each other’s eyes.
But not fighting either.
“See?” Margo whispered, running water in the sink. “Tea and scones. Works every time.”
“She said she’s willing to listen. That’s not the same as agreeing.”
“No. But it’s a start.” Margo handed him a dish towel. “Rome wasn’t built in a day, Tyler. Neither are families.”
He dried the cups while Margo washed, the rhythm familiar and soothing. Through the window, he could see the ocean going gold with sunset.
Fiona was here. She was willing to listen.
That was more than he’d expected, honestly.
Now they just had to figure out everything else.