Margo nodded with approval. “Good girls. Good friends. I was glad to see you reached out.”
Meg hesitated. “I’ve missed a lot.”
Margo’s hand closed gently over Meg’s. “Then don’t miss any more.”
The touch was warm, grounding.
“I saw some of Tyler’s photography,” Meg said after a beat. “I had no idea he was doing so much.”
“He didn’t want you to,” Margo replied simply. “Not because he was hiding, but because he didn’t want to be compared.”
“Compared to what?”
“To the version of you that doesn’t bend,” Margo said gently. “You’ve always been brilliant, Meg. Driven. But sometimes we protect our softer selves from people we think won’t understand them.”
Meg’s throat tightened.
“I’m trying to understand,” she whispered.
Margo smiled. “I know. That’s why you’re here.”
She picked up the bowl of strawberries again, setting it beside Meg. “Eat. Before the morning rush ruins everything.”
Meg picked one up and took a bite. It was sweet and just a little overripe.
“Thank you,” she said.
“For the berry?”
“For seeing me.”
Margo didn’t answer right away. She just nodded once, her eyes warm and unreadable.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Laguna’s first Thursday Art Walk had always been one of those things Meg remembered vaguely from childhood—like sand in your swimsuit and the chalky sweetness of saltwater taffy. But she hadn’t actuallybeento one in at least twenty years. Maybe more. So, when Natalie popped her head into the Beach Shack kitchen that afternoon and said, “You’re coming tonight. No excuses,” Meg had only hesitated for half a second.
Now she stood outside a downtown gallery beneath a string of glowing lights, the scent of oil paint and ocean mingling in the warm coastal air. Her sandals clicked against the brick sidewalk, and a jazz quartet played just off the curb, notes spilling like honey into the twilight.
“I forgot howbeautifulit is here at night,” Meg said as Natalie handed her a plastic cup of boxed wine with great ceremony.
“Laguna’s always beautiful,” Natalie replied, adjusting her fringed shawl like she was auditioning for the part of ‘Cool Art Mom.’ “But tonight we’ve got the trifecta—open galleries, free drinks, and enough cheese cubes to feed an army.”
Paige appeared beside them, a toothpick speared through three grapes and a cube of brie. “Don’t knock it,” she said, popping the whole thing in her mouth. “This is the closest I’ve come to a dinner party all year.”
Meg laughed—truly, effortlessly laughed—and was surprised by the way it loosened something in her chest. Her shoulders, perpetually tense since arriving back in Laguna, suddenly didn’t feel quite so close to her ears.
They moved from gallery to gallery in a slow meander, joining the gentle tide of art lovers, tourists, and locals who treated the monthly event less like an exhibition and more like a rolling block party. Each storefront had thrown its doors wide, spilling golden light and the occasional stray brushstroke onto the sidewalk.
One gallery featured oversized abstracts in neon hues that made Meg feel like she was being swallowed by a lava lamp. Another had delicate watercolors of shorebirds, their fine lines so precise it felt like the feathers might flutter. She didn’t know much about art—despite being raised in an art town—but the sheer variety made her heart beat differently. Slower. Wider.
At one point, Paige tugged her into a studio where a local artist was doing live portraits. “Let’s get one done!”
“Oh, absolutely not,” Meg protested. “I left work mode at the Shack. I’m not sitting still while someone analyzes my bone structure.”
Natalie grinned. “Come on. He does five-minute sketches. It’s practically therapy.”
“He also works mostly in charcoal,” Paige added. “So, if you hate it, you can claim it’s a haunted Victorian heirloom and throw it in the sea.”
