Page 76 of The Beach Shack
"Me too," Meg said. "I didn't want to forget this part. The in-between. Before I know how it all turns out."
They talked for another few minutes—about Anna's final gallery visits in Florence, about Bea's latest sketchbook filled with street art, about the specific kind of pasta Anna wanted to teach Meg to make. When they finally hung up, Meg sat in the swing for a while longer, watching the stars emerge one by one.
She felt something she hadn't experienced in years—the simple pleasure of having good news to share with someone who loved her enough to really listen.
She gathered her empty bowl and headed inside, already looking forward to whatever came next.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Meg wasn’t sure what she expected when Luke texted, “Meet me at the lifeguard station on Pearl Street beach. Bring shoes you don’t mind ruining. Trust me.”
But it probably wasn’t an overstuffed tote bag, a clipboard, and Luke, already half-sandy and sunburned, grinning like he’d just discovered gold.
“This is your idea of fun?” she asked, stepping cautiously down the wooden stairs toward the beach. Her sandals crunched on sun-baked sand, and her hair—freshly washed, now frizzing—already smelled faintly of salt.
Luke held up the clipboard like a prize. “Citizen science, Walsh. Sexy, right?”
Meg raised an eyebrow. “That depends. Are there forms involved?”
“Many,” he said, entirely too proud. “Today we’redocumenting beach erosion patterns. And possible microplastic clusters.”
“Be still my heart.”
But the teasing came easily. It felt good, light. Especially after the heavy weight of the last few weeks—the coffee supplier confrontation, the revelation about Margo’s monthly “Standing Obligation,” the memory of Tyler’s sketches and scribbled warnings.
Today, she just wanted to breathe.
She dropped her tote next to his and pulled her hair into a loose bun. “Alright, professor. What’s my first assignment?”
Luke handed her a laminated data sheet and a bright orange flag on a thin metal stake. “We’re marking sample zones every fifteen feet. Then we log tide line height, debris, shell content, and anything unusual—like this.” He bent and retrieved something from the sand, holding it up.
Meg squinted. “Is that… a Barbie shoe?”
“Disturbingly, yes.”
They stared at it.
“I want to judge,” Meg said, “but I think I had that exact pair decades ago.”
“You and half the ocean.”
She followed him down the beach, planting markers as instructed, pausing every so often to sketch quick outlines and log data on the tide line. Luke explained how sea walls, offshore dredging, and even inland construction could accelerate erosion. He pointed out how different patches of sand shifted depending ontime of year, weather patterns, and even the number of tourists.
It was nerdy. And a little messy.
And she loved it.
By the time they reached the final section of beach, her shoes were soaked, she had sand in places she hadn’t realized were accessible, and her clipboard had developed a suspicious smear that might’ve once been kelp. Her cheeks ached from smiling.
Luke paused by a rock formation where a small, shaded alcove protected an overhang of driftwood and seaweed. “We usually find weird stuff here.”
Meg knelt beside him, brushing aside damp grit. Sure enough, buried beneath a thin layer of sand was a plastic comb, a rusted bottle cap, and—of all things—a tiny holiday ornament shaped like a dolphin in a Santa hat.
“Joy to the world,” Meg murmured, holding it up.
Luke chuckled. “You ever think you’d go from spreadsheets and skyscrapers to sand and sea trash?”
She sat back on her heels. “Honestly? No. But I also didn’t expect grilled cheese to become a career turning point.”
