Page 87 of The Beach Shack Summer
“Same thing.”
“It’s not the same thing at all.” Meg looked between them, seeing mirror images of panic barely concealed. “I’ll literally be closer than the Beach Shack. You can walk over anytime. We’ll probably be together for dinner most nights anyway?—“
“But you won’t be here,” Tyler said quietly.
The pasta water boiled over, hissing on the stovetop. Stella turned to deal with it, movements sharp.
“No,” Meg agreed softly. “I won’t be here. But maybe... maybe that’s okay? Maybe you two need to figure out how to be father and daughter without me as a referee.”
“We don’t need a referee,” Stella protested, stirring the pasta with unnecessary force.
“Mediator?” Meg tried.
“We’re fine,” Tyler insisted, gesturing at the chaos of papers, the cramped kitchen, the obvious lie.
“Look,” Meg said gently. “We all knew this was temporary. My work is exploding, you need your space back, and there’s a perfectly good house just sitting empty?—”
“Why does Margo own Mom’s house?” Tyler interrupted. “How long has she owned it? Why didn’t anyone tell us?”
“I don’t know. She wouldn’t explain. Just said it was a longer story.”
“Everything in this family is a longer story,” Stella muttered. “Secret daughters, secret house ownership, what’s next?”
“Do you want to see it?” Meg asked suddenly. “The house? We could go after dinner.”
Tyler and Stella exchanged glances, a moment of wordless communication that gave Meg hope. They were learning each other’s signals.
“Might as well,” Tyler said finally. “If Margo’s beenkeeping family real estate secrets, we should probably know what we’re dealing with.”
They ate pasta with no garlic but extra hot sauce—Tyler’s compromise—the conversation stilted and careful. Stella asked about the house layout. Tyler wondered about utilities. No one mentioned the elephant in the room—that Meg’s presence had been the glue holding their awkward arrangement together.
After dinner, they walked down the quiet street, Meg between them like she might disappear if they didn’t flank her. The key felt heavy in her hand as she unlocked Sam’s door.
“Whoa,” Stella said as they entered. “It’s like a time capsule.”
Tyler moved through the space like a sleepwalker, touching furniture, staring at photos. “She kept all our stuff.”
He stopped at the mantel, picking up a small trophy.
“Margo?” Meg asked, though she knew he meant Sam.
“Look at this.” He stopped at the mantel, picking up a small trophy. “My first surf competition. I was eight. I can’t believe she kept it.”
Stella explored with the curiosity of someone discovering family history. “Is that you?” She pointed to a photo—three kids covered in flour, grinning in a destroyed kitchen.
“Baking disasterof ’03,” Tyler said. “We tried to make Mom a birthday cake. Anna added salt instead of sugar.”
“On purpose?”
“She claimed it was an accident, but...” Tyler shrugged. “Anna was going through a phase.”
They moved through the house, memories surfacing with each room. Meg showed them the office space, trying to keep her voice professional as she explained how it would work for her business. But when they reached the primary bedroom, she hesitated.
“Margo says I should take this room. Not my old bedroom.”
“Mom and Dad’s room?” Tyler looked as surprised as she’d been.
“She was pretty insistent.”
