“Anna?” she answered, wedging the phone between her shoulder and ear as she continued slicing cheese for the day’s service. “Isn’t it the middle of the night in Florence?”
“Actually, it’s 3 p.m. here,” Anna replied, her voice carrying the slight static of an international connection. “I’ve been in the studio all day. Just took a break and realized I never called Margo for her birthday.”
Meg measured coffee into the industrial brewer. “She had a nice celebration. Small gathering at the shack.”
“Vivian sent me pictures. You were there.” Anna’s tone held a note of surprise. “In Laguna. Bea saw the pictures too. She recognized you from the last birthday box you sent and said, ‘Oh, that’s the aunt with the really neat handwriting.’”
Meg laughed, surprised by how much that tiny detail meant. “She remembered that?”
“She notices everything. And she’s been asking about Tyler too—this is the first summer she hasn’t worked at the shack. She’s worried about Margo handling everything alone.”
Meg paused in her cheese slicing. “You both usually work summers there?”
“Every June and July since I started teaching. Gives me something to do during break, and Bea loves helping with the customers. It worked perfectly when Tyler wanted to travel for his photography work.” Anna’s voice carried a hint of surprise. “You didn’t know?”
Meg felt heat rise to her cheeks. “No. I... Tyler never mentioned it.”
“Well, now you know why Bea’s so attached to the place. And why she’s worried.”
Anna smiled tiredly. “I smell like oil paint and despair. What’s wrong?”
Another pause. Through the phone, Meg could hear the background noises of an Italian café—espresso machines hissing, muted conversations, the clatter of cups.
“How is she?” Anna asked finally, her voice softening. “Really?”
Meg hesitated, thinking of Margo’s insistence that she was “perfectly fine” despite Tyler’s concerns. The way her grandmother had deftly changed the subject when Meg mentioned hiring more help.
“She’s fine,” Meg said confidently. “Busy as always, but managing. You know Margo.”
“That’s what she always says.” Anna’s tone carried a note of skepticism Meg couldn’t quite understand. “But is she really okay?”
“Of course,” Meg replied, slightly defensive at the implication she might have missed something. “I think Tyler was overreacting, honestly.”
“You’ve only been there a couple days,” Anna said quietly.
“I know my own grandmother.” The comment stung more than Meg expected.
Meg considered the question, thinking of Margo’s trembling hands over the grill, the careful way she climbed steps, the quiet fatigue that settled over her face when she thought no one was watching.
“She’s working too hard. Trying not to show it.”
“Sounds like Margo.” Anna sighed. “I should be there.”
“You’re doing exactly what you should be doing,”Meg found herself saying. “That fellowship took, what, seven applications?”
“How did you know that?”
Meg paused, surprised by her own recollection. “Tyler mentioned it.”
“I didn’t think you listened when I talked about my art.”
The accusation hung between them, not entirely unfair. How many of Anna’s emails about exhibitions and applications had Meg skimmed while multitasking on client calls?
“You didn’t think I’d been paying attention all these years, huh?”
“Honestly? No.”
“Fair. But I’m trying to change that.”
