“Perfect,” she muttered, climbing down to retrieve it. The phone was fine, coated in fine sand, already working its way into every crevice.
She brushed it off with her sleeve, but grains of sand clung stubbornly to the screen and case.
Of course. Even her technology was rebelling against her need to control and analyze everything.
Meg sat back down on the rock, phone forgotten in her lap, and finally let herself really absorb what Rick had told her. This wasn’t about legal precedents or business structures. This was about her grandfather—a man she barely remembered—making a promise thathad shaped her family’s life for decades. A promise that Margo had honored even when it meant financial strain, late payments to suppliers, and Rick’s frustrated departure from the family business.
Why? What could Richard have owed that was worth fifty years of sacrifice?
She watched the waves roll in, each one erasing the footprints in the sand and smoothing the beach clean for the next set of marks. Maybe that was the point Rick had been trying to make—some obligations couldn’t be researched or analyzed away. They simply existed, woven into the fabric of who you were and what you owed to the past.
But that didn’t mean Meg had to accept the mystery blindly. If Margo was going to trust her with the Beach Shack’s future, Meg needed to understand its financial reality. Not just the numbers, but the story behind them. The choices that had led to this moment where bill payments were delayed and equipment repairs postponed while mysterious obligations were honored with clockwork precision.
A jogger passed by on the packed sand below, earbuds in, lost in her own rhythm. Meg envied her focus, her simple forward motion that didn’t require untangling decades of family history.
Meg’s phone buzzed with a text from Anna:
How’s the first day of Shack management going? Remembering to eat actual meals?
She smiled despite her confusion. Anna, checking in from Florence. Anna, who might actually know more about the family’s financial history than Meg had ever bothered to learn.
But not today. Today she needed to sit with what she’d learned, let it settle before adding more voices to the mix. Anna was building her own life in Italy, finally getting the artistic recognition she deserved. The last thing she needed was Meg dumping decades-old family mysteries into her peaceful fellowship.
The sun was lower now, painting the water in shades of gold and orange. Meg realized she’d been sitting here for over an hour, her research efforts having lasted all of fifteen minutes before dissolving into the larger questions that couldn’t be answered with Google searches.
She climbed down from the rocks, brushing sand from her jeans. Tomorrow, she would ask Margo more questions. Not confrontational ones, but genuine curiosity about Richard, about the early days of the Beach Shack, about the choices that had shaped the business Meg was now supposed to help manage. She would listen instead of analyzing, try to understand the heart of the mystery before worrying about its financial implications.
But tonight, she would let it be. Some problems couldn’t be solved in an afternoon, no matter how thoroughly you researched them.
As she walked back to her car, Meg’s phone chimed with another email from Brad—something urgent thatrequired immediate attention, as always. She glanced at the subject line, then deliberately slipped the phone into her pocket without opening it.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Back at Tyler’s bungalow, Meg sat curled up on his worn armchair, Rick’s notebook open but untouched in her lap.
Her fingers rested on the old photo he’d shown her—Richard, Rick, and some business associate whose identity didn’t really matter anymore. What mattered was Rick’s worry, echoing in her mind: “She’s eighty years old and has nothing saved for retirement.”
She’d spent the last hour circling the same concerns. The monthly payments Rick had noticed decades ago. His fears about Margo’s future. The realization that her grandmother might be financially vulnerable in ways Meg had never considered.
A quiet weight had settled in her chest, crowding out any confidence she’d felt about helping.
She hadn’t expected this level of complexity. Every conversation seemed to reveal new layers of family dynamics she didn’t understand, and the responsibilityof potentially helping Margo plan for her future felt overwhelming.
Meg stared at the ocean through Tyler’s window, watching the sunlight create a silver path across the water. She thought about calling Brad, diving into work emails, losing herself in the familiar rhythm of corporate problem-solving. At least marketing campaigns had clear objectives and measurable outcomes.
But her family? Margo’s situation? That felt like trying to navigate without a map.
She closed the notebook and reached for her laptop.
The clock in the corner read 6:02 p.m. She hesitated, then typed:
You awake?
The reply came seconds later.
Bea’s painting. I’m hiding in the stairwell with chocolate. What’s up?
Meg grinned despite herself.
