"Why?"
Margo smiled, and for a moment Meg saw not the tired business owner, but the artist who used to paint more, the young woman who had once dreamed of other possibilities.
"Because maybe there are more possibilities than I thought."
She disappeared into the kitchen, leaving Meg standing by the window with the sound of the ocean and the weight of unexpected possibilities.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The sun was still low in the sky when Meg turned onto the familiar gravel path that led to her grandmother’s cottage. She hadn’t planned on stopping by before the lunch rush, but something about Margo’s quiet expression last night had lingered with her.
Not that Margo’s house was unfamiliar. Quite the opposite—it was a place so deeply rooted in Meg’s childhood that walking through the garden gate felt like slipping under an old quilt. The little white cottage with its blue shutters had always been a constant, from scraped knees on the stone steps to stolen cookies from the kitchen counter.
But today, Meg paused just inside the gate, taking it in with fresh eyes. The garden had grown fuller, more layered. The winding beds that once seemed chaotic now had a rhythm to them—clusters of lavender,rosemary, and California poppies, all interspersed with succulents and bursts of color she couldn’t name. A low arch covered in flowering vines led to the front door.
She followed the stone path around to the back, where she remembered a small table used to sit beneath the old pepper tree. It was still there—now flanked by two weathered chairs and a small mosaic-topped side table. Paintbrushes poked out of a terracotta pot, and a glass jar held water the color of murky rainbows. A canvas sat propped against the wall of the cottage, turned away from view.
The back door creaked as Meg opened it. Inside, the cottage was exactly as she remembered and also not at all. The narrow kitchen with its blue tile countertops, the open shelves filled with mismatched dishes, the scent of lemon and wood polish—it was all there. But now she noticed new things. A basket of fresh herbs drying near the window. A stack of sketchbooks on the butcher-block island. The corner nook where the dining table had once been now held a small easel and a clutter of painting supplies.
“Margo?” she called softly.
“In here,” came her grandmother’s voice from the living room.
Meg followed the sound and found Margo in a faded armchair, flipping through an old photo album, a steaming mug on the table beside her.
“Sorry to drop by unannounced. I just... wanted tosee the garden. And maybe the rest. I haven’t been here in a while.”
Margo closed the album and smiled. “You used to run through those rosemary bushes until you smelled like Christmas dinner.”
Meg laughed, settling into the opposite chair. “I remember thinking it was a jungle.”
“It still is, in its own way,” Margo said. “A little wild. A little stubborn. Like its owner.”
Meg looked around. “I never realized how much art you kept up with.”
“It came back to me slowly, over the years. After Richard passed, and the days got quieter. Your mother was very busy with the three of you. The garden helped. Then I started painting again—just little things at first.”
She gestured toward a side table where a small stack of watercolors sat—florals, landscapes, a study of shells in a spiral.
Meg leaned forward, picking one up. “These are beautiful. Why didn’t you ever tell us?”
Margo shrugged. “Everyone had their lives. And the Shack took most of mine. But this place... this is where I remember who I am.”
Meg ran her fingers lightly along the edge of the table. “I used to think you lived for the Beach Shack.”
“I did. But I also lived for mornings like this. Quiet, slow. The way the light shifts across the floorboards. The smell of rosemary on your fingers after a good pruning.”
Meg nodded, a quiet ache blooming in her chest. “I wish I’d seen more of this when I was younger.”
“You weren’t ready to see it,” Margo said gently. “You were a child. Then a teenager. Then a young woman chasing big dreams. That’s how it’s supposed to go.”
They sat in silence for a few moments, the kind that only long familiarity can hold without strain. Outside, a hummingbird darted between blossoms, its wings a low buzz of motion and energy.
Meg glanced toward the canvas leaning against the cottage wall. “May I?”
Margo hesitated, then nodded.
Meg stood and turned the canvas around. It was a painting of the Beach Shack at sunset, viewed from the water’s edge. The sky burned with oranges and purples, and the Shack’s windows glowed. But it was the details that held her breath—the shell ceiling visible through the front window, the string lights twinkling, the silhouettes of figures inside.
