Page 62 of The Beach Shack
There was something almost reverent in the way Margo handled each shell, turning it slowly to catch the light, examining every curve and ridge before placing it carefully on the cloth. This wasn’t mere tidying—it was closer to restoration, or perhaps even meditation.
Not wanting to startle her grandmother, Meg deliberately let the door close with a soft click.
Margo looked up, unsurprised. “You’re here early.”
“So are you.” Meg moved closer, drawn by curiosity. “What are you doing?”
“Preparing new pieces for the ceiling.” Margo held up the spiral shell she’d been cleaning. “This one came all the way from New Zealand. A customer brought it back for me last week.”
Meg studied the collection spread on the cloth. Unlike the common local shells she remembered gathering as a child, these were extraordinary specimens—iridescent, intricate, some with vivid patterns she’d never seen before.
“They’re beautiful,” she said honestly.
“They truly are,” Margo replied simply, returning to her work.
Something about her grandmother’s focused attention made Meg hesitate to interrupt further. Instead of heading to the supply closet as planned, she found herself settling onto a nearby stool, watching the careful process.
“How do you decide where each one goes?” she asked after a comfortable silence.
Margo smiled slightly without looking up. “They tell me.”
Meg waited for further explanation, but none came. After another moment, Margo set the brush down and reached for her cup of tea, apparently taking a break from her work.
“Your mother used to sit just like that,” Margo said unexpectedly. “Watching me clean shells before opening. She’d ask all sorts of questions too.”
“Mom?” Meg felt a pang at the unexpected mention of Sam.
“Oh yes. Even as a teenager, she understood.” Margo’s expression turned wistful. “Sam has always had an artist’s eye. She could see the patterns I was creating before I could see them myself.”
The image of her mother as a young woman, interested in the artistic elements of the Beach Shack, felt both foreign and somehow right. Meg had always thought of Sam as practical, focused on the business side of things.
“She helped with this?” Meg gestured toward the shell ceiling.
“For years,” Margo confirmed, a soft smile touching her lips. “Sam would spend hours up on that ladder, adjusting placement until everything felt balanced. She understood instinctively that beauty has its own purpose.”
Meg found herself looking up at the intricatemosaic overhead and wondering which sections bore her mother’s touch.
“What happened?” she asked softly. “Why did she stop?”
Margo’s smile faded slightly. “Life happened. Marriage, children, responsibilities. And then...” She paused, her fingers stilling on the shell in her hands. “After the divorce, Sam needed to find herself again. I think she’d forgotten who she was beyond being a wife and mother.”
“Do you miss her?” The question slipped out before Meg could stop it.
“Every day,” Margo said simply. “But I understand why she needed to go. Sometimes we have to lose ourselves completely before we can find our way back.”
They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, the early morning light growing stronger through the windows.
“Rick never understood the artistic side of things,” Margo continued, selecting another shell. “He wanted certainty. Numbers. Things that could be measured and predicted.” She ran her thumb lightly over the shell’s surface. “When your grandfather died, Rick was determined to put the Beach Shack on what he called ‘solid financial footing.’ As if Richard’s way of doing things had been the problem.”
There was an undercurrent of old pain in her grandmother’s voice that Meg had never heard before.
“What was Grandpa Richard’s way?” she asked carefully.
Margo was quiet for a long moment, her eyes on the shell in her hands. “Richard believed in people first, profit second. Sometimes profit third or fourth, if I’m being honest.” A ghost of a smile touched her lips. “He extended credit to families who were struggling. Traded meals for services when someone couldn’t pay. Gave jobs to people who needed second chances.”
“That doesn’t sound like a sustainable business model,” Meg said before she could stop herself.
To her surprise, Margo chuckled. “That’s exactly what Rick said. Almost word for word.” She set down the shell she’d been holding. “Your uncle wasn’t wrong, exactly. But he missed what Richard understood—that a business can have a purpose beyond its balance sheet.”
