Page 60 of The Beach Shack
Meg felt something tighten in her chest. “That was a long time ago.”
“Not that long. And you were good at it. You’d drag me to farmer’s markets and spend an hour picking the perfect tomatoes.” Anna leaned closer to the camera. “What happened to that?”
Meg looked out at the ocean, watching a pelican skim the surface of the waves. “Life got efficient, I guess. Meal delivery services, protein bars, grabbinglunch between meetings. Who has time to shop for the perfect tomato?”
“Apparently you do now.”
“I’m here temporarily,” Meg said automatically.
“Right,” Anna said, but her tone suggested she wasn’t entirely buying it. “Well, while you’re there temporarily, maybe try cooking something that doesn’t come in a wrapper. Margo has that herb garden—I bet she’d love to share.”
Meg found herself thinking about the small plot behind the Beach Shack, rows of basil and rosemary and something that smelled like summer when Margo brushed past it.
“I was thinking of Mom,” Meg said, changing the subject but not really.
“Me too,” Anna said. “Every time Bea asks where the ocean ends.”
Meg swallowed. “Margo said Mom helped with the shell ceiling. That she understood the patterns before anyone else did. I don’t remember that.”
“You weren’t supposed to,” Anna said gently. “You were in motion back then. Always on the next thing.”
Another silence stretched between them—comfortable, this time. The kind that existed only between people who’d been far apart and were slowly, carefully, knitting the threads back together.
“Bea’s doing okay?” Meg asked.
“She is.” Anna smiled, but her eyes had that distant-mother look—half pride, half exhaustion. “She told me yesterday that maybe she wants to come back toLaguna someday and open a bookstore that also serves focaccia.”
“Ambitious.”
“She asked if you’d be there.”
Meg blinked. “Why? She doesn’t know me.”
“She’s been watching those videos I showed her—Mom’s old beach clips. You’re in a few of them. You looked happy. That made an impression.”
Meg shifted, uncomfortable with how easily that pierced.
Anna didn’t push. Instead, she reached offscreen and held up a paint-smeared cup. “To evolution, not revolution.”
Meg raised her glass. “To messy kitchens and abandoned spreadsheets.”
They drank.
A sound came from offscreen—footsteps, maybe, and a young voice calling something in what might have been Italian.
“That’s Bea,” Anna said, glancing over her shoulder. “She’s practicing her Italian on the neighbors. They’re very patient.”
“Does she know you’re talking to me?”
“She’s been hovering,” Anna admitted. “I think she wants to say something but keeps changing her mind.”
“No pressure,” Meg said quickly. “I’m just glad she’s not completely horrified by my existence.”
Anna laughed. “She’s not horrified. She’s curious. She asked if you still make those little origami cranes you used to fold when you were nervous.”
Meg’s hand stilled on her water glass. “You told her about that?”
“She noticed me doing it during a particularly stressful faculty meeting. Apparently it’s genetic.”
