Page 59 of The Beach Shack
Meg wanted to press further, to finally get clear answers about the family tensions that seemed to surround the Beach Shack like invisible currents. But something in her grandmother’s posture—a slight stoop to the shoulders that hadn’t been there at the start of the day—made her hold back.
“Get some rest,” she said instead. “I’ll lock up.”
As Margo left through the back door, Meg completed the final closing tasks on autopilot, her mind churning with observations and questions. The elderly couple’s story of decades of Saturday visits. Luke’s ease in a space that made Meg feel like an outsider despite her family connection. The mysterious financial arrangements that didn’t align with any business model she’d studied.
She looked up at the shell mosaic once more before turning out the lights. Each small piece had been placed with intention, creating a whole that was more meaningful than its individual parts. Perhaps that was the key to understanding the Beach Shack as well—seeing the connections rather than just the components.
Maybe she’d been looking at her family’s legacy through the wrong lens all along.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Meg stepped out onto Tyler’s porch with a glass of wine and her laptop, the sun just beginning to set over the ocean. The evening air still held the salt-sharp edge of the day, but it was softened now by birdsong and the rhythmic hush of waves below. Somewhere behind the neighbor’s fence, a sprinkler kicked on with a hiss.
She hadn’t planned to call Anna. The last thing she wanted was to rehash how her grand plan for streamlining the Beach Shack had gone over like a lukewarm sandwich.
But when she opened her inbox, there was a message from her sister waiting.
Subject: For the ceiling. Bea picked it. Don’t overanalyze.
Attached was a photo of a shell—iridescent and blue-green, spiraled like a galaxy. In the background, Bea’s sketchbook lay open to a loose drawing of the same shape.
Meg stared at it for a long moment.
Then clicked the video icon.
Anna picked up almost immediately, her face framed by soft Florence twilight and the cracked-open windows of their flat. Somewhere offscreen, church bells were ringing.
“Wow,” Anna said, blinking. “I expected a reply tomorrow, not your actual face. What time is it there?”
“Late,” Meg said. She adjusted the laptop slightly. “You’re not at the studio.”
“Home day,” Anna replied. “Bea and I had pasta for lunch and argued about gelato flavors like proper locals. She says pistachio is for babies.”
Meg smiled, settling back in the Adirondack chair. “She’s not wrong.”
Anna tilted her head. “You okay? You look like someone who got feedback they didn’t enjoy.”
“The Shack staff were... diplomatic,” Meg said, rubbing a hand over her forehead. “Let’s just say no one jumped to adopt my new systems.”
“They said no to Meg Walsh’s color-coded flow charts? Shocking.”
Meg rolled her eyes, but the teasing was welcome. “Apparently they prefer chaos. Or intuition. Or... I don’t know, ritual?”
Anna watched her for a beat, expression softening. “Maybe it’s a language thing. Like how Bea thinks in metaphors now. You can’t just drop new systems in the middle of an old story.”
Meg glanced down at the shell photo still open onher screen. “You know Margo adds shells to the ceiling herself? One at a time. With a tiny brush and everything.”
“That sounds like her.”
“She was cleaning a new one when I got there earlier today. Said it was from New Zealand. Said it mattered.”
They sat in silence for a beat, the conversation pressing into a quieter place.
“Speaking of which,” Anna said, “please tell me you’re not surviving on grilled cheese and energy bars.”
Meg laughed, but it sounded a little guilty. “Tyler’s fridge is a bachelor’s dream—two kinds of mustard and leftover takeout containers I’m afraid to open.”
“Meg.” Anna’s voice carried that particular mix of amusement and concern that only sisters could manage. “You used to cook. Remember? Those elaborate weekend breakfasts you’d make in college? You had that one pasta dish—the one with lemon cream sauce that you perfected after like fifteen attempts.”
