CHAPTER ONE
The tomatoes were wrong.
Anna held one up to the morning light coming through the Beach Shack’s front windows and turned it slowly, the way Margo had taught her — cradling the bottom, pressing gently with her thumb. Too firm. Nowhere close to ripe. She’d specifically written “ready-to-eat” on the order form, circled it twice, and Roberto at Pacific Produce had sent her rocks.
She set it on the prep counter and reached for her phone, scrolling to Roberto’s number while tying her apron one-handed. The September light was different now — lower and softer than summer’s glare, turning the ocean outside into hammered gold. The marine layer hadn’t burned off yet, and everything had that gauzy, not-quite-awake quality that made early mornings in Laguna feel like a secret.
“Roberto. It’s Anna Walsh.”
“Ah, Anna. Good morning. How are the?—”
“The tomatoes are green. I could play bocce with these.”
“They’ll ripen by?—“
“By Thursday. I need them today. I’ve got a tomato situation, Roberto.”
He promised a replacement delivery by ten. Anna hung up, slid the phone into her apron pocket, and went back to prep. The grill needed another fifteen minutes to reach temperature, the bread delivery was due at seven-thirty, and she had the whole long stretch of morning before the doors opened.
She loved this.
Not the tomato crisis — although even that gave her a weird satisfaction, the problem-solving rhythm of it. She loved the quiet before the rush. The way the Shack smelled first thing—coffee and clean surfaces and the ghost of fifty years of grilled cheese baked into the walls so deep you could probably taste it if you licked the wood. Which she had never done. But had considered.
Her phone buzzed. Joey, from school.
A photo of his class schedule appeared, followed by three crying emojis.
They gave me 8 AM Thermodynamics. On PURPOSE.
Anna typed back one-handed while checking the grill temperature with the other.
You survived the Saturday lunch rush. You can survive thermodynamics.
Those are completely different skill sets.
Both require not panicking when things get hot.
That was terrible.
I’m proud of it.
She dropped her phone into her pocket and held her hand two inches above the grill surface, counting. Three seconds before she had to pull away. Almost there.
The front door opened and Tyler came through backward, shouldering it wide with blocks of cheese balanced in one arm and his camera bag slung over the other. His hair was doing the thing it did when he’d been up since five shooting dawn light — sticking up on one side, flattened on the other, like two different people had styled opposite halves of his head.
“Cheese,” he announced, setting the blocks on the counter. “And I dropped Stella at school. She had her bag, her lunch, her camera, and approximately nineteen opinions about my driving.”
“Your driving is fine.”
“That’s what I said. She said ‘fine’ and ‘good’ are different things and I should aspire higher.” Tyler grabbed an apron off the hook by the walk-in. “What needs doing?”
“Bread’s coming at seven-thirty. Tomatoes are a crime scene but Roberto’s sending replacements. Grill’s almost there.” Anna tossed him a towel. “Wipe down the tables?”
“On it.” He headed for the dining area, then turned back. “Oh—Meg called while I was driving. She’s deep in some crisis. Chairs and venues and I stopped listening after she said ‘seating hierarchy.’ She wants to talk to both of us. I told her we’d call back.”
“Both of us?”
“She needs opinions. Apparently Luke isn’t providing useful ones.”
