“What bonfire when we were—oh no.” Meg groaned. “The wind.”
“THE WIND,” Anna confirmed with glee. “You spent the entire night holding your skirt down while trying to look casual. Tyler still has photos.”
“He does not.”
“He absolutely does. They’re in his ‘Blackmail Material’ folder.”
Meg shook her head. “Well, I didn’t pack anything like that, so problem solved.”
“Okay, new plan,” Anna said. “Go to my house. The key’s under the third flowerpot on the left side of the porch—the one with the dead plant because I forgot to water it before I left.”
“Anna, I can’t just?—“
“Yes, you can. Just grab something comfy from mycloset,” Anna said. “Middle shelf. Anything but the sequined caftan—unless you’re feeling bold.”
“Anna...”
“Just go get it. And there are photos all over the house if you want to see them. I may have gone a little overboard with the family picture thing.”
“You always were sentimental,” Meg said, but her voice was warm.
“One of us had to be.” Anna smiled. “Go. Have fun. Flirt with Luke. Report back tomorrow.”
“What about Bea’s painting?”
“She’s actually asleep. I was lying about hiding from her. I just like this stairwell—it’s got the best light for video calls.”
Meg looked back at the notebook, then at her sister’s encouraging face on the screen. The child’s drawing on the cover now seemed less ominous, more hopeful—like Rick had once believed he could help make the Beach Shack better.
“Bea’s painting, huh?”
Anna smiled. “She painted an orange. She says it’s symbolic, but I think she just likes the shape.”
“Smart girl.”
“She still won’t say hi,” Anna added. “But she stood behind me during the last call, so... progress.”
Meg smiled. “Tell her I’ll bring her something from the bonfire. Maybe a shell or a secret.”
Anna tilted her head. “You going, then?”
Meg paused, then nodded. “Yeah. I think I am.”
“Good. And Meg?”
“Yeah?”
“Whatever you figure out about Margo’s situation, whatever Rick’s worried about—it doesn’t all have to be your responsibility. You’re allowed to just be Margo’s granddaughter, not her financial advisor.”
The call ended. Meg sat for a long moment, laptop closed on her knees, the quiet thrum of the ocean carrying through the open window.
Anna’s house was only a ten-minute drive from Tyler’s, tucked into a quiet neighborhood above Main Beach. Meg had been there a handful of times over the years, usually for quick family gatherings. But walking up the front path now, using Anna’s hidden key, felt different. More intimate somehow.
The house was dark but welcoming, filled with the lingering scent of Anna’s paintings and the herbs she grew in pots along the kitchen windowsill. Meg flipped on a lamp and immediately understood what Anna had meant about going overboard with family photos.
They were everywhere. Photos of Bea at various ages, school pictures and candid shots and artistic poses. Photos of Margo at the Beach Shack, Tyler surfing, the whole family at holidays and birthdays. And scattered throughout—photos of Meg. Meg at college graduation, Meg at one of Tyler’s birthday parties, Meg as a teenager, Meg as a child.
Meg paused at one particular photo on the mantle—the three of them at the Beach Shack when Meg was about twelve. She remembered the day vaguely. Anna had just learned to make grilled cheese and wasproudly showing off her technique. Tyler was probably ten, grinning with a mouth full of braces. And Meg... Meg was rolling her eyes at something, but she was smiling.
