Another sound from offscreen, and Anna turned again. This time, Meg caught a glimpse of movement—a flash of dark hair and what looked like paint-stained fingers.
“Bea says to tell you the Art Walk next weekend has amazing food vendors,” Anna said, turning back. “Apparently there’s one that makes these herb-crusted flatbreads that she’s been dreaming about since last summer.”
“Art Walk?”
“The monthly Laguna Art Walk. First Saturday. Very touristy, but kind of wonderful. You should go with Natalie and Paige—they used to tag along when I was sketching downtown. You were always the practical one who remembered sunscreen and brought the good snacks.”
Meg smiled at the memory. “Someone had to keep you from getting heatstroke while you chased the perfect light.”
“Exactly. And now you can chase the perfect flatbread.”
Another silence. A plane passed overhead on Meg’s side of the world, faint and distant.
“I don’t know how long I’m staying,” Meg said, almost to herself.
Anna didn’t answer right away. When she did, itwas soft. “Stay as long as it takes. No one’s keeping score.”
Meg looked out at the ocean, then back at her sister’s face, flickering slightly on the screen.
“Thank you for that. And for picking up the phone even when you know I’m going to be cagey and avoid anything emotional.”
“Anytime,” Anna said. Then added, “Bea says you should write back to her next time, not just heart her photos.”
Meg smiled. “Tell her pistachio is a power move.”
The call ended a few minutes later, but Meg stayed on the porch, laptop shut now, feet curled under her, watching the light change across the water.
No messages from Brad. No crisis emails.
Just the porch, the breeze, and the faint memory of her mother’s hands helping place shells in the ceiling above a little seaside café that had somehow outlasted them all.
Eventually, she stood and wandered into Tyler’s kitchen, opening cabinets mostly out of habit. There were, in fact, three jars of mustard and no eggs.
But there was a single red onion, nearly forgotten in the vegetable drawer. A bag of spinach that still had a day or two left. And tucked in the back of the refrigerator, a carton of cream that hadn’t yet gone bad.
Meg stared at the ingredients for a long moment, Anna’s words echoing:You used to cook.
She found a pan in the cabinet below the stove. Peeled the onion without thinking, her handsremembering the motion even if her mind had forgotten the pleasure of it. The knife moved in steady rhythm—thin slices that would caramelize properly, the way she’d learned in that tiny galley kitchen of her first apartment.
The smell of warm onion and butter filled the air as the spinach wilted and the cream simmered. She found herself humming—something she couldn’t name, maybe something her mother had hummed while cooking Sunday breakfasts a lifetime ago.
When it was done, she sat at Tyler’s small table, the bowl cradled in her hands, and took a bite.
It wasn’t perfect. The onions could have cooked longer, and she’d forgotten salt. But it was hers. Made by her hands, seasoned by instinct rather than efficiency.
She took another bite and smiled.
Tomorrow, maybe she’d ask Margo about the herb garden. Maybe she’d remember how to choose the perfect tomato.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
The sound reached Meg before she even entered the Beach Shack—a gentle, rhythmic scrubbing that echoed in the pre-dawn quiet. She paused at the back door, key suspended mid-air. It was barely 5:30 a.m., and she’d come early specifically because the shack wouldn’t be open for hours, hoping to organize the supply closet without interruption.
But someone was already here.
Meg pushed the door open quietly, following the sound to the main dining area. The overhead lights were off, but a small desk lamp had been positioned on the counter.
Her grandmother sat on a stool, completely absorbed in the object in her hands—a delicate shell with a distinctive spiral pattern. Meg watched as Margo gently cleaned it with a small, soft brush, removing sand from its intricate grooves with methodical precision. Beside her on a cloth lay several othershells in various sizes and shapes, already cleaned and gleaming.
