“Delivery for M. Turner,” he said. “International post. Looks like it’s been around the world a few times.”
“Thank you,” Margo said, taking the package. The corners were soft from travel, the edge lined with faded postmarks—Singapore, Kuala Lumpur, Bali.
She watched the driver disappear down the path before returning to the deck.
“That Sam?” Vivian asked, her gaze on the package.
Margo nodded once. She opened it carefully. Inside, nestled in tissue, was a single shell—long, narrow, the colors deep and iridescent, unlike anything found on the local beaches. There was no note.
Eleanor leaned over to peer at it. “That’s a beauty.”
“It is,” Margo said softly. She held it in her palm, feeling the slight texture, the weight.
“She’s sending things?” Vivian asked.
“Now and then.”
Eleanor rested her hand on Margo’s arm. “Do you think she’ll ever come back?”
Margo was quiet for a long time. The ocean roared softly below.
“Not for me,” she said finally. “Maybe for the kids.”
The three of them sat in silence as the sun slipped into the sea, leaving behind a pink-and-gold sky. The years had taught them how to sit with things.
Eventually, Eleanor stood and brushed the crumbs from her lap. “Well. Officially ancient as of tomorrow.”
Vivian grinned. “We’ll bring the good wine.”
“And the not-so-good cake,” Eleanor added.
They hugged Margo on their way out, leaving her with the last of the sunset and the shell in her hand.
Once they were gone, Margo climbed the step stool she kept tucked in the pantry. The ceiling of the Beach Shack—her ceiling—was covered in hundreds of shells, collected and gifted and earned over five decades. No two were the same. Some had names inked on the underside. Some had dates. All had meaning.
She turned the new shell over in her hands, then looked up at the ceiling.
She found the right spot—centered, but quiet—and placed the shell there, securing it gently.
She stepped down, brushed her palms together, and took one last look. So many stories. So many promises.
“Still watching the ocean,” she murmured.
But her gaze lingered a moment longer this time.
She turned off the lights and locked up the Shack for the night.
CHAPTER THREE
“Meg?” Brad’s voice held an edge now. The V.P. committee and San Clemente representatives were all seated in the conference room, visible through the glass walls. “Is there a problem?”
She lowered the phone, mind racing. “My grandmother. There’s an issue at her business. My brother needs to leave town unexpectedly.”
Brad’s expression shifted from concern to barely concealed impatience. “I’m sorry to hear that. Perhaps your other family members can handle it?”
“My sister’s in Europe. My uncle won’t help. My mom’s—I have no idea where she is.” Meg glanced at her phone, where a text was already coming in from Tyler:
Flight leaves at noon. Please, Meg.
