She’d told herself she would—had even made tea and set her laptop aside—but her mind kept circling the same question: How do you help someone who doesn’t want to be helped?
She’d come back to Laguna to fix things. Fix the Beach Shack. Fix her grandmother’s finances. Fix, maybe, something in herself she hadn’t realized was broken.
But the more she tried to untangle the past, the more it pulled taut like a thread wound too tight. The Standing Obligation wasn’t just a payment. It was a promise. One that predated her, outlasted her grandfather, and—most confusing of all—seemed to matter more to Margo than solvency ever had.
At dawn, Meg padded barefoot into the kitchen of Tyler’s small bungalow, wrapped in one of his old sweatshirts. The ocean air was cool and smelled faintlyof eucalyptus. She made coffee and stood at the window while it brewed, watching the waves curl and break against the shore like breath.
Later, she arrived at the Shack before opening, letting herself in with the jangling set of keys she now carried on a red-and-yellow Shack keychain. The lights were off, but the space felt alive with memory: the creak of the screen door, the scent of salt and cheese, the ghosts of laughter and late nights and long-held rituals.
Margo was already in the kitchen, kneading dough for the day’s sourdough batch. She didn’t look up when Meg entered, but she didn’t need to.
“Looks like sleepless nights and early mornings are becoming a habit,” Margo said.
Meg nodded and reached for her apron.
“I know you want to understand,” Margo said after a while, hands still moving through the flour-dusted rhythm she’d mastered decades ago. “And I’m not trying to keep you in the dark. But some things take time.”
“I’m starting to realize that,” Meg said. “But it’s hard. I’m not used to waiting for answers.”
Margo smiled softly. “You never were.”
They worked in silence for a few minutes—Meg pulling out trays, checking inventory—until Margo wiped her hands and looked up.
“Your grandfather made a promise to someone once,” she said. “Someone who helped him get the Shack off the ground when no one else would take achance on a half-broke veteran with a dream and a beat-up grill.”
Meg stayed quiet, listening.
“It was supposed to be a silent investment,” Margo continued. “No ownership. No oversight. Just quiet support. And in return, Richard agreed to monthly payments. Long-term. No questions asked.”
Meg blinked. “Even after the investor passed away?”
Margo nodded. “I found out by accident, years later. An obituary. No heirs who wanted anything to do with a beach restaurant halfway across the country.”
Meg frowned. “So you just... kept paying?”
Margo gave a small shrug. “At first, yes. Then I started redirecting the money. Quietly. To people who needed it. Joey’s trade school fund. Mrs. Pullen, when her husband fell ill. Kids whose parents couldn’t afford tuition but were too proud to ask for help.”
“I set up a small scholarship fund to make it official—the Laguna Promise Foundation. Nothing fancy, just legitimate enough that the kids wouldn’t ask questions about where the money came from.”
Meg leaned against the prep counter, stunned. “You turned it into a scholarship.”
Margo’s hands stilled in the dough. “I turned it into what Richard would’ve wanted. A way to keep helping.”
“And no one knew?”
“A few. People I trusted. Your uncle Rick knew I was still making the payments, but he didn’t know what I was really doing with the money. He thought I was wasting it on a dead obligation.”
Meg exhaled slowly. “That’s why he backed away.”
“Rick believes in clean ledgers. Balance sheets. He thought I was throwing good money after a promise that no longer existed.”
“And you didn’t?”
Margo met her gaze. “I made a different commitment. One to Richard. And to this community. The Standing Obligation isn’t just money. It’s memory. It’s a way to say—we take care of our own.”
Meg’s throat tightened. “You’ve been doing this… every month?”
“Every single one.”
