She looked transformed. Gone was the practical work attire Meg had grown accustomed to, replaced bya flowing blue caftan that moved like water in the evening breeze. Her silver hair was swept into a low twist rather than its usual efficient bun, and a delicate shell necklace rested at her collarbone. Her cheeks were flushed—whether from kitchen heat or happiness, Meg couldn’t tell—and in her hands she carried a chocolate cake topped with a single tall candle.
Conversation quieted as people noticed her entrance. Someone began to clap, and the applause spread across the deck like a wave. Margo’s face lit up with a smile Meg had never seen—unguarded and genuinely pleased.
“To our Margo!” Vivian called out, raising her glass high.
“To eighty years of feeding us all!” Bernie added from across the deck.
“To the woman who taught us that simple done right is better than fancy done wrong!” Eleanor chimed in.
“To Margo!” the gathered crowd echoed, glasses raised toward the woman who’d brought them all together.
Meg noticed how carefully Margo set the cake down, both hands gripping the plate as if she didn't quite trust her grip. For just a moment, she swayed slightly, then caught herself.
“You’re all far too kind to an old woman who just shows up and makes sandwiches.”
“Just shows up?” Bernie laughed. “Woman, you’ve been the heart of this town for fifty years!”
Meg watched her grandmother wave off the compliments with practiced modesty, but she could see how much the words meant.
As Margo prepared to blow out her candle, her gaze found Meg’s across the deck. For a moment, everything else faded—the conversation, the music, the sound of waves below.
Meg raised her glass slightly, a small gesture of acknowledgment.
I’m here,she tried to convey.For tonight, at least, I’m really here.
Margo’s smile deepened, and she closed her eyes to make her wish.
CHAPTER SIX
Margo opened her eyes and blew out the candle in one smooth breath, her wish made. The flame vanished, a thin ribbon of smoke drifting into the star-filled sky.
“Speech! Speech!” Bernie called out, raising his wine glass high.
“Oh, no,” Margo protested, laughing and shaking her head. “You’ve heard everything I have to say a hundred times over.”
“That’s never stopped you before,” Vivian teased, and the gathering erupted in good-natured laughter.
“Fine,” Margo said, accepting defeat with grace. “But just this: Thank you all for fifty years of friendship, patience, and pretending my grilled cheese is worth waiting in line for.”
“It is worth waiting for!” the bookstore owner called out.
“Speak for yourself,” Eleanor shot back. “I come for the gossip.”
More laughter rippled across the deck. Meg watched her grandmother’s face in the candlelight, noting how different she looked here—more relaxed, more herself than Meg had ever seen her.
As cake was distributed and conversations resumed, Meg drifted between groups, wine making her bold enough to really listen to the stories being shared. Tales of the Beach Shack’s earliest days, when her grandfather Richard had first opened with nothing but determination and a borrowed grill. Stories of Margo stepping up after his death.
“She never missed a day,” Bernie was telling a younger couple. “Even when Rick was sick with pneumonia and Sam had broken her arm. Margo just brought them both to work and set up a cot in the back office.”
Meg’s ears perked up at the mention of her mother and uncle as children. These were stories she’d never heard, glimpses of her family’s history that felt both foreign and familiar.
“She’s stubborn, your grandmother,” Bernie said, turning to include Meg in the conversation. “Never wanted help. Not even when Richard got sick toward the end.”
“Why not?” Meg asked, genuinely curious.
Bernie shrugged, his weathered face thoughtful. “Something about not wanting to owe anyone, I think.Richard was the same way—proud people, both of them. Independent to a fault.”
He paused, then added, “Except Richard trusted that lawyer fellow with everything. Financial stuff was never Richard’s strong suit.”
