Meg considered this. “I think in Tyler’s mind, he never really had Stella to lose. But Margo? She’s been his constant since Sam left.”
Meg glanced at the eggs, still waiting. “Someone should probably tell Sam too.”
“That’s Tyler’s job. Or Margo’s. Not ours.”
“You’re right.” Meg checked the time. Six-twenty. “God, what a mess.”
“The Walsh family specialty,” Anna said wryly. “Look, I should go. Bea’s demanding dinner. And I have to tell her about all…this. But Meg? Keep me posted. And...”
“What?”
“Take care of Tyler. He’s going to need us. Actually need us, not just Christmas card need us.”
“I know.”
“And I want to meet Stella. Soon.”
“I know. It’s...” Meg searched for words. “Give her a few days to settle first. She’s pretty overwhelmed.”
“Fair. But soon.” Anna paused. “Love you, Meg.”
“Love you too.”
After they hung up, Meg stood in the quiet kitchen, morning light beginning to creep across the floor. Somewhere across town, Tyler was preparing to break Margo’s heart a little bit. Down the hall, a teenager who didn’t want to be here was sleeping off jet lag and anger.
The eggs waited in their carton, ready for whenever Stella woke. Fresh start. New day.
She hoped Tyler would make the most of it.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Margo had been at the Beach Shack since six-thirty, earlier than usual. Sleep had been elusive after the Circle meeting, her mind churning with questions that had no answers. She’d given up at five, dressed in the dark, and driven to the one place that always made sense.
The rhythm of prep work usually soothed her—slicing tomatoes, layering cheese, arranging the day’s supplies. This morning, even that familiar dance felt hollow. Her great-granddaughter was sleeping somewhere in Laguna Beach, and Margo didn’t even know if she took after Tyler’s hatred of tomatoes or Meg’s love of extra pickles.
The back door opened at seven-ten. She knew it was Tyler before she turned around. Recognized his footsteps, the particular way he paused in the doorway like he was gathering courage.
“Margo.”
She kept slicing, the knife steady against the cutting board. “Tyler.”
“Can we talk?”
Now she looked up. He stood in the doorway looking freshly showered but somehow worse than yesterday. Dark circles under his eyes. Hands shoved deep in his pockets. The expression of a man preparing for judgment.
“Come in,” she said simply. “Close the door.”
He did, moving into the kitchen with careful steps. For a moment, they just looked at each other across the prep counter. Her grandson—the boy who’d helped her every summer, who’d learned to make perfect grilled cheese at age eight, who’d become her rock after Sam left.
A man who’d hidden a daughter for years.
“Meg and Anna cornered me this morning,” he said finally. “Made me tell them everything.” His voice caught slightly. “I hope you’re not angry like they were. I hope you’ll understand.”
“Sit,” Margo said, gesturing to the stool at the end of the counter.
“I can stand?—”
“Tyler. Sit.”
