“That’s from your birthday,” Meg said softly. “You painted this already?”
“Sometimes the memory of a moment paints itself before the brush even touches canvas.”
Margo stood, but as she rose, Meg noticed something. Just a slight pause. The way Margo placed her hand on the arm of the chair before pushing up. The moment she stood, she lingered there for a breath too long, like she was waiting to make sure her body had caught up.
“You okay?” Meg asked, voice light.
Margo waved it off. “Just stiff this morning.” But as she turned toward the kitchen, Meg instinctively moved with her, keeping close.
They shared a look that held love, stubbornness, and unspoken understanding.
“I’ve been feeling... less steady lately,” Margo admitted quietly.
Meg hesitated, then offered gently, “Maybe it’s time to see someone about it. I could drive you, whenever you’re ready.”
Margo paused, her hand resting on the edge of the counter. “I’ll think about it,” she said, not meeting Meg’s eyes. “It’s probably just fatigue.”
Meg wanted to press, but something in her grandmother’s voice made her hold back. Not yet.
“Okay,” she said quietly.
Margo reached for the teapot. “Come on. The scones are still warm.”
Meg followed, the smell of warm dough and honey filling the tiny space. Margo poured tea into mismatched mugs and cut the scones in half, butter melting into their soft centers.
They ate at the little mosaic table in the garden. Bees buzzed lazily nearby, and the breeze rustled the vines along the fence.
Meg glanced toward the house, then back at her grandmother. “You know, if this were a painting, I think it’d be about the things people overlook. Thethings that were always there but only noticed once you slow down.”
Margo looked at her, really looked, and smiled. “Good eye.”
Meg smiled back, surprised to realize she meant it.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The morning rush hit at exactly 11:15. One moment, Meg was calmly rearranging the counter display, and the next, a steady stream of customers flowed through the door and lined up at the takeout window.
“Happens every day,” Joey explained as he tied on his apron. “Like clockwork.”
Meg quickly found herself falling into the rhythm of the place—taking orders, calling numbers, managing the flow while Margo worked the grill with practiced precision. Lisa, the college student who handled the register, arrived just in time for the peak of the rush, sliding seamlessly into position.
“The Longboarder, extra crisp,” Margo called, sliding a sandwich toward Meg.
“Longboarder?” Meg frowned at the unfamiliar term.
“Triple cheese on sourdough,” Joey whispered as he passed. “Secret menu.”
Of course there was a secret menu. Meg had spent enough time in trendy San Francisco restaurants to recognize the concept, though she hadn’t expected it from her grandmother’s decades-old beach shack.
The lunch rush was just beginning to let up when a familiar figure appeared at the takeout window. Luke, in a faded blue t-shirt with a marine conservation logo, his hair still damp from what Meg assumed was a morning in the ocean.
“Margo!” he called cheerfully through the window. “Heard the bell all the way from the point.”
Meg watched as her grandmother’s face lit up. “Luke Donovan. Just in time for the second wave.” She gestured toward the growing line of teenagers in wet suits, fresh from what appeared to be a surfing class.
“You need backup?” Luke asked, already moving toward the back door.
“Always.” Margo turned to Meg. “Luke helps out when we get slammed. Tyler’s arrangement.”
