Driving back to Tyler’s house, Meg told herself her decision to attend the bonfire was purely strategic—a chance to learn more about the Beach Shack’s history and perhaps gain insight into the financial questions that were beginning to trouble her.
But as she contemplated what to wear—something practical and beach-appropriate, she decided firmly—Meg couldn’t quite ignore the flutter of anticipationthat definitely wasn’t about grilled cheese or spreadsheets. She blamed the ocean air—and maybe Luke Donovan’s completely unfair smile.
Some things you never forget.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Meg had been trying to focus on client emails all afternoon, but her mind kept drifting to her grandmother. The overdue bills she’d glimpsed, Margo’s evasive answers about finances, the way her uncle had avoided discussing the Beach Shack for years—something didn’t add up. She closed her laptop with a frustrated sigh, no closer to understanding what was really happening with the family business.
It was late afternoon when Meg heard the knock at Tyler’s front door. She’d been sitting at the kitchen table with her laptop, trying to focus on client emails, but her mind kept drifting to the conversation she’d had with Margo earlier about the Beach Shack’s finances.
“Meg?” Rick’s voice called through the screen door. “Are you home?”
She looked up, surprised. Her uncle had beenavoiding her calls for days, and now he was standing on Tyler’s porch with what looked like a cardboard box under his arm.
“Come in,” she called, closing her laptop. “I wasn’t expecting you.”
Rick entered, setting the box carefully on the dining table. His usually pressed shirt was slightly wrinkled, and he looked tired in a way that had nothing to do with work.
“I should have called,” he said, then gestured toward the box. “But I’ve been thinking about what you said at Margo’s birthday party. About helping with the business.” He paused, running a hand through his graying hair. “I’m worried about her, Meg. Really worried.”
Meg studied her uncle’s face. In all the years she’d known him, Rick had never been one for emotional conversations. He dealt in facts, figures, practical solutions to clear problems.
“What kind of worried?” she asked gently.
“The kind where I lie awake at night wondering what’s going to happen to her.” Rick’s voice was quiet. “She’s eighty years old, Meg. And as far as I know, she has nothing saved for retirement. Nothing. And lately...” He paused, his expression growing more troubled. “She looked so tired at her birthday party. More fragile than I’ve seen her. I keep thinking about what happens when she can’t stand at that grill anymore? When she can’t manage the long days?”
Rick rubbed his forehead, suddenly looking olderhimself. “That’s what finally made me dig these out,” he said, gesturing toward the box.
He opened the box, revealing file folders and loose papers. “These are some old notes I kept years ago, when I was trying to understand the business better. After Dad died, I wanted to help Margo, but...” He trailed off, pulling out a spiral-bound notebook with a child’s drawing on the front cover—scribbled waves and what looked like a grilled cheese sandwich with eyes.
“I noticed things that concerned me,” Rick said, opening the notebook. Meg could see it was filled with his neat handwriting. “Look at this.”
He pointed to an entry: “Need to ask Richard again about that monthly payment. Margo doesn’t seem to know about it.”
Another: “Same payment going out every month for years. What is this for?”
“Monthly payments?” Meg asked.
Rick nodded. “Fifteen hundred dollars, every single month, going back decades. Money that should have been going into savings, into retirement planning, into Margo’s future.” His voice grew strained. “Instead, it’s just... gone.”
Rick slid into the chair across from her, suddenly looking every one of his sixty-two years. “When Dad died, I tried to help Margo understand the finances. But she’d already made up her mind to continue whatever Richard had been doing. The payments, the way he ran things—all of it.”
Meg frowned. “Did you ask her what the payments were for?”
“Of course I did. Dad had told me it was some kind of business arrangement, something to keep the Shack secure. But the details were vague, and when I pressed Margo about it...” Rick’s shoulders sagged. “She told me it wasn’t my concern. That Richard had handled his affairs properly and she would continue honoring his commitments.”
“And you just accepted that?”
“I tried to push back. I really did.” Rick’s voice carried old frustration. “I told her those payments were preventing her from building any kind of financial security. That she needed to think about her future, about retirement, about what would happen if she got sick or couldn’t work.”
He was quiet for a moment, staring at his hands. “She got angry. Said I was questioning Richard’s judgment, trying to change things that worked perfectly fine. We had a terrible fight, and after that...” He shrugged helplessly. “We stopped talking about money entirely.”
Meg felt her heart clench. “How long ago was this?”
“Ten years? Maybe twelve. Since then, I’ve been completely shut out of her financial life. I don’t know what she has saved, what she owes, whether she’s managing to set anything aside.” Rick met her eyes. “But I’m pretty sure the answer is nothing, Meg. I think she’s been paying that same amount every month for decades, and she has nothing to show for it.”
The pain in Rick’s voice was unmistakable. Meg realized this wasn’t about mystery or business arrangements—this was about a son who was terrified for his aging mother’s welfare and felt helpless to protect her.
