Meg wanted to ask more about this lawyer, but the conversation was already moving on to other memories, other stories that painted a picture of her grandparents as young people building something from nothing.
The evening air grew cooler, and Eleanor appeared with throws for those who wanted to stay longer. Meg was drawn into conversation with Vivian, who had an endless supply of stories about Margo’s artistic side.
“She painted, you know,” Vivian said, gesturing toward the restaurant where the shell ceiling was barely visible through the windows. “Beautiful landscapes, mostly. Seascapes. She had a whole studio set up in the garage behind their first house.”
“What happened to her paintings?” Meg asked.
“Some are still around. Your uncle has a few, I think. But she gave most away when money got tight after Richard died.” Vivian’s expression grew wistful. “Said she didn’t have time for frivolous things anymore.”
The sunset had deepened to crimson and purple when she spotted her uncle arriving. Rick stood at the edge of the deck, a wrapped package in his hands, surveying the gathering with an expression Megcouldn’t quite read. He looked older than she remembered—more gray in his hair, deeper lines around his eyes. But he was here, which seemed significant given what little she knew about his relationship with Margo. Or what little she knew about him at all, for that matter.
Their eyes met across the deck, and he lifted his hand in a small wave. Meg made her way through the clusters of conversation toward him, aware of the curious glances that followed her movement. The Turner family dynamics were clearly well-known in this community.
“Meg,” Rick said when she reached him, awkwardly shifting the gift to offer a quick hug. “You look well.”
“So do you,” she replied, catching the familiar scent of his aftershave—something crisp and woody that had been constant throughout her childhood.
They both awkwardly looked around the room for a moment.
“Quite a turnout,” Rick finally said, gesturing toward the gathered crowd.
“Everyone seems to love her,” Meg observed, watching Margo accept birthday wishes from a couple who’d just arrived.
“She’s built a life here,” Rick said, something complex in his expression—pride mixed with what might have been regret. “Made her choices and stuck with them.”
Before Meg could ask what he meant by that, Margo appeared beside them, moving with the easygrace of a hostess who’d been managing gatherings for decades.
“Rick,” she said warmly, her whole face lighting up. “Right on time, as always.”
To Meg’s surprise, her uncle leaned down and embraced Margo without hesitation, kissing her cheek with genuine affection. “Happy birthday, Mom.”
“Thank you, dear.” Margo accepted his gift, her fingers lingering briefly on his arm.
Meg noticed how Margo leaned slightly against the table as she spoke, as if the evening's hosting had taken more out of her than she'd admit. The bright energy from earlier seemed to flicker, just for a moment.
“Meg’s been helping at the shack. She’s a natural behind the grill.”
A shadow crossed Rick’s face, so quickly Meg almost missed it. “Has she?”
“Just temporarily,” Meg said quickly, sensing undercurrents she didn’t understand. “Until Tyler gets back.”
“Of course.” Rick’s smile seemed forced. “Temporary.”
“Come say hello to Eleanor,” Margo said gently, steering Rick toward where Eleanor was arranging leftover cake. “She was asking about that tax situation earlier.”
As they moved away, Meg felt excluded from decades of family history, conversations and conflicts that had shaped relationships she was only now beginning to understand.
Her phone buzzed insistently in her pocket. Meg pulled it out to find Brad’s name on the screen:
Urgent client issue. Need to discuss ASAP.
She stared at the message, feeling the pull of her other life—conference calls and crisis management, deadlines and damage control. For a moment, she was tempted to step away and handle whatever emergency had erupted. But then she looked around at the gathering, at Margo laughing with her friends, at Rick trying to look comfortable while clearly wrestling with his own complicated feelings about being here.
Meg silenced the phone and slipped it back into her pocket.
From the center of the deck came a burst of delighted laughter. Meg looked up to see Margo holding a small shell, turning it to catch the light from the string lamps overhead. It was beautiful - iridescent white with hints of pink and blue that seemed to glow from within.
“No card,” Eleanor said, examining the simple tissue paper wrapping. “Someone wanted to stay anonymous.”
