Anna dried her hands and pulled out her phone. Tyler came back from the dining area and leaned against the counter while she dialed. Meg picked up on the first ring.
“You’re on speaker,” Anna said. “Tyler’s here.”
“Good. Okay. I have a situation.” Meg’s voice had the pitch it reached when she had too many browser tabs open in her head. “Luke thinks people can stand for an hour on sand. On sand, Anna. For a wedding ceremony. He said—and I’m quoting—‘the ocean is the backdrop, nobody’s going to be looking at chairs.’”
Tyler crossed his arms. “He’s not entirely wrong.”
“He is entirely wrong. You can’t have eighty-year-old Margo standing on sand for an hour. That’s not a wedding, that’s an endurance event.”
“So, get chairs,” Anna said, putting half the cheese blocks in the walk-in.
“I’m trying. But there are fourteen chair rental companies in Orange County and they all have different styles and none of them match and the folks at San Clemente just moved our project timeline up by two weeks so I’m supposed to finalize the resort’s rebrandandpick chairsandLuke is texting me pictures of driftwood benches like that’s a real option?—”
“Meg.” Anna leaned forward on the counter. “White folding chairs. Done.”
“White is too expected.”
“White is classic.”
“White is what every beach wedding in California has had since 1987.”
“And they all looked fine.”
Tyler leaned toward the phone. “Meg. Get the white chairs. Focus on the resort thing. The wedding will happen whether the chairs are white or not.”
A pause. They could hear Meg typing something—she was always typing something. “You’re probably right. I just—there’s a lot going on. San Clemente wants the full brand presentation by the fifteenth, and the resort’s hosting some corporate retreat next month that I’m supposed to build the marketing packagefor, and Luke found a caterer he likes but they don’t do tastings until October?—”
“Meg,” Anna said. “Breathe.”
“I’m breathing. I’m breathing and working. I can do both.” More typing. “Okay. White chairs. Fine. I’ll deal with it. How’s the Shack?”
“Good. Roberto sent me furniture instead of tomatoes but otherwise perfect.”
“Do you need me to come down this week? I could move some things around?—”
“I’ve got it. Focus on your project.”
“You sure? Because I could?—”
“Meg. I’ve got it.”
Another pause. The typing stopped. “Okay. Call me if anything comes up. Anything.”
“I will.”
“I mean it. Anything.”
“Goodbye, Meg.”
Tyler waited until Anna hung up, then shook his head. “She’s going to plan that wedding, run the resort rebrand, and try to manage the Shack from San Clemente all at the same time.”
“She’s going to try.”
“Is she going to be okay?”
Anna arranged the cheese blocks along the counter in order—cheddar, gruyère, monterey jack, and the sharp white that gave everything its bite. “She’s Meg. She’ll be okay until she’s not, and then she’ll call us.”
“And then we’ll fix it.”
