Page 65 of The Beach Shack
The thought of Tyler living this rich, complex life while she’d still been picturing him at twenty made her chest tighten.
Meg pulled one of Tyler’s throw blankets around her shoulders and made herself a promise. When Tyler returned from whatever emergency had called him away, she would be different. Not just physically present, but really there.
The house settled around her, quiet except for the distant sound of waves and the soft tick of a clock somewhere in the kitchen. Somewhere in Australia, her brother was dealing with whatever had finally forced this sudden departure.
She fell asleep on the couch, one of Tyler’s photography journals open in her lap, dreaming of underwater cathedrals and coastlines she’d never seen but that her brother knew by heart.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Meg arrived early at the Shack the next morning, the hush before sunrise wrapping the beach in soft gray light. The ocean moved like breath, steady and certain, and for once, she didn’t mind the quiet. There was a comfort to the routine now—the smell of sourdough, the clatter of pans, the filled napkin dispensers on the table.
Margo was already there.
She stood at the prep counter in her apron, sleeves rolled up, sorting through a flat of strawberries like they held answers. The gentle hum of the refrigerator was the only sound until Margo glanced up.
“Couldn’t sleep?” she asked, not unkindly.
Meg shook her head. “I was up late working on the Shack schedule.”
That was a partial truth. She had been working—sort of. But mostly she’d been thinking about Tyler. About everything she hadn’t known.
Margo studied her for a long moment, then nodded to the barstool at the end of the counter. “Sit. Let me make you something.”
Meg obeyed, not quite ready to push. Not after last night’s swirl of revelations. But Margo’s movements were slower this morning, her right hand occasionally pressing to her lower back.
“You okay?” Meg asked.
Margo gave a wry smile. “Just tired. Yesterday was a long one.”
“You were here late.”
Margo paused at the sink, rinsing berries. “Sometimes I come early. Or stay late. It's quieter then. Easier to think.”
“What do you think about?”
There was a beat of silence before Margo answered. “Promises. Choices.”
Meg waited, sensing more.
Margo set down a bowl of cleaned fruit and dried her hands. She didn’t sit, but she leaned against the counter, close enough that Meg could see the fine lines around her eyes.
“I loved painting,” she said, voice soft. “Did I ever tell you that?”
“You mentioned it. And I see you’re doing it now, but you were serious about it? Not a hobby?”
Margo shook her head. “No, not a hobby. I’ve picked it up again but I gave it up then. After Richard died, after the Shack became… everything.” Margo’s eyes drifted toward the shell ceiling. “But I didn’t give up creating. I just changed the medium.”
Meg followed her gaze. “The ceiling.”
“And the kids,” Margo added, a faint smile tugging her mouth. “Every staff member, every summer job, every kid who needed a second chance. They were all brushstrokes too. But I’ve been picking it back up a little bit lately, as you saw at the cottage.”
Meg blinked back a sudden sting behind her eyes.
“You knew Paige and Natalie, right?” she asked suddenly, needing something lighter.
“Of course I did,” Margo said. “They practically lived here in high school. Paige was the one who kept reorganizing the condiment shelf, and Natalie used to sneak scraps of cheese when she thought I wasn’t looking.”
Meg smiled. “I’m going to the art walk with them tomorrow night.”
