“It’s perfect,” Margo said, her voice soft with genuine pleasure. “I know exactly where it belongs. Whoever left this knows my ceiling well.”
Something about her grandmother’s expression—the quiet joy over such a simple gift—made Meg’s decision for her. She looked down at her phone once more,then deliberately powered it off and slipped it back into her pocket. Whatever crisis Brad was managing could wait until morning. Tonight belonged to Margo.
The night rolled on with that easy rhythm you only get when people have known each other forever. Someone topped off the wine. Vivian launched into this wild story about a road trip she and Margo took in their thirties, and Eleanor kept chiming in with side comments that made it pretty clear the family-friendly version had been seriously cleaned up.
“Tell them about the karaoke bar in Barstow,” Eleanor prompted, grinning wickedly.
“Weagreednever to speak of the karaoke bar in Barstow,” Margo said firmly, but her eyes were sparkling.
Meg laughed, caught off guard by the image—her grandmother, on some dusty desert road trip, singing karaoke and probably charming the whole bar. It was a version of Margo she’d never really pictured before. One that existed beyond the Beach Shack and dinner prep and carefully clipped coupons.
Rick appeared beside her, slipping a full glass of wine into her hand. “They’ve been recycling those stories for decades,” he said, but his voice was warm, not annoyed.
Meg glanced over at him, the firelight softening the hard lines of his face. The tension between him and Margo still hung there, quiet but undeniable. But so did something else—something like loyalty, maybe even love.
“What happened with you two?” she asked gently. “With the Shack?”
Rick’s face shifted—just enough to notice. “Ancient history,” he said, and took a sip of his drink like that was the end of it.
“That still affects the present, apparently.”
He sighed, taking a sip of wine. “Your grandfather made some decisions I didn’t agree with. Financial arrangements that I thought were... unwise. When I tried to address them after he died, your grandmother made it clear the business wasn’t my concern.”
“What kind of arrangements?”
“Ask her,” Rick said, nodding toward Margo. “If she wants you to know, she’ll tell you.”
Before Meg could press further, Margo approached, her cheeks flushed from wine and laughter, looking more carefree than Meg had ever seen her.
“Are you interrogating your uncle, Meg?” she asked lightly, but her eyes were sharp.
“Just catching up,” Meg replied diplomatically.
Margo’s gaze seemed to see right through the evasion. “Well, don’t believe everything he tells you. Especially about me.”
“I never tell stories about you,” Rick protested with unexpected warmth. “Well, only good ones anyway.”
For a second, Meg caught a glimpse of what was still there between them—something quiet and stubborn, like love that had bent but never fully broken. Whatever had happened, it hadn’t erased the bond between a mother and her son.
By nine, the evening had started to wind down. People hugged Margo goodbye, made promises to stop by the Shack soon. The stars were out now, the kind you only noticed once everything else had gone quiet. A few guests had pulled Eleanor’s throw blankets around their shoulders, laughter fading into that kind of soft silence only beach towns seem to know.
Meg found herself alone with Margo at the deck railing, looking out over the darkened beach where waves caught moonlight like scattered silver.
“Thank you for coming tonight,” Margo said, her voice soft against the ocean’s murmur. “It meant more than you know.”
“Of course,” Meg replied.
Margo’s gaze remained on the horizon. “Tyler didn’t explain much when he called. Just that he had to leave and you were coming to help.”
“That’s Tyler,” Meg said with a small laugh. “Five words or less, if possible.”
“He has his reasons for being private.” Margo turned to look at her then, studying Meg’s face in the soft light. “As I suspect you had yours. For staying away so long.”
The directness of the statement caught Meg off guard. Here, finally, was the conversation they’d been dancing around since her arrival.
“Work has been demanding,” she said carefully.
“Work is always demanding if you let it be,” Margo said simply. “Your grandfather taught me that. He could have worked every hour of every day, but hechose to come home for dinner. Chose to take Sundays off. Chose us over the business when it mattered.”
