In the end, Meg sat, and the sketch wasn’t half-bad. A little wild around the eyes, perhaps, but maybe that wasn’t the drawing’s fault. The artist—barefoot and wearing a vest made of old denim and ambition—handed it to her with a nod and a smile.
They paused next at a gallery Margo had once taken her to as a child, and Meg was startled to see a piece hanging near the front that looked suspiciously like something Margo might have painted—those familiar brushstrokes of sea glass greens and sunrise oranges.
“I think my grandmother did one like this,” she murmured, stepping closer.
“She probably did,” Natalie said. “Margo used to show here all the time. Back when she still painted for herself.”
Meg blinked. “She did? I mean—I know she used to paint, but I thought it was just a hobby.”
“Nope. She was a regular on the First Thursday circuit back in the day. Even sold a few pieces. I always hoped she’d go back to it someday.”
Meg turned slowly, scanning the gallery with neweyes. What had Margo given up to keep the Beach Shack going all those years?
Natalie seemed to read her thoughts. “We all trade parts of ourselves for other people, Meg. The trick is making sure you get something just as precious in return.”
Meg nodded slowly. The evening light hit the pavement in long coral streaks. A breeze lifted the hem of her linen shirt and carried the scent of wine and citrus blossoms through the crowd.
“I used to think joy was something you earned after working hard enough,” Meg said, almost to herself.
Her phone buzzed insistently in her pocket. She pulled it out to see Brad’s name—a missed call and a text:
Meg, the committee is meeting Friday afternoon. We need to discuss your status before then.
She stared at the message for a moment, then slipped the phone back into her pocket without responding.
“And now?” Paige asked.
“I think I forgot how it feels. Until tonight.”
They wandered again, eventually stopping at a pop-up artisan stall selling handmade jewelry and resin trays full of pressed flowers and tiny seashells. Meg picked up a pair of earrings—simple drops with aquamarine stones that shimmered like sunlight in shallow water.
“You should get them,” Natalie said. “They look like you.”
“I don’t even know what that means anymore,” Meg said, but she bought them anyway.
The sun dropped below the hills as they strolled toward the beach, the last of the gallery lights flickering like candles against the deepening sky. A fire pit burned at the edge of the sand, someone strumming a guitar while a handful of beachgoers sat in a loose circle, sharing marshmallows and half-sung lyrics.
They joined without fanfare. Paige kicked off her shoes and Natalie handed Meg a half-roasted marshmallow on a stick. The three of them settled into the circle like they’d belonged there all along.
Meg leaned back on her elbows, watching the stars begin to poke through the velvet night. Someone passed a bottle of sparkling water, and someone else recited a snippet of poetry, badly but with gusto.
It felt like the opposite of everything her life had been in San Francisco. No agendas. No status updates. No artificial urgency.
Just people. And art. And firelight.
And breath.
Later, when she finally returned to Tyler’s house, salt still in her hair and charcoal dust on her fingers, she felt a strange lightness.
She opened her notebook and, for the first time since returning to Laguna, didn’t make a to-do list or a financial chart.
She just wrote:
Maybe this is what real life feels like. Nothing huge. Just… a Thursday night.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Meg sat in the back office of the Beach Shack, laptop open among the scattered invoices and order forms that seemed to multiply when she wasn’t looking. The lunch rush had ended, and the afternoon lull provided the perfect opportunity to catch up on her San Francisco work—if she could focus long enough to make a dent in her overflowing inbox.
