“And the retreat marketing?”
“I’m working on it.”
“All three at once?”
“That’s what consultants do, Brad.”
“That’s whatgoodconsultants do. Bad ones drop things.” A pause. “Don’t drop things.”
“I never drop things.”
“I know. That’s why I’m giving you three things.” He hung up.
Meg looked at her screen. The logo, the venue package, the retreat marketing. The family meeting Saturday. The florist she hadn’t called. The chairs she’d ordered and not confirmed. Luke,resolved. Anna, handling it. Michael Torres in the back office with a thirty percent gap and no solution.
She picked up the CALL FLORIST sticky note, moved it from the coffee cup to the center of her monitor where she couldn’t ignore it, and went back to the green.
At five-thirty she looked up from her computer and out into the hallway of the small bungalow. The bungalow sat three blocks from the water, small and salt-weathered, porch light on. She could smell something cooking before she reached the kitchen—not salad. Something with garlic and heat.
Luke was at the stove, stirring something in a cast iron pan, apron on. The apron said WORLD’S BEST MARINE BIOLOGIST which Meg had bought him as a joke and he now wore without irony.
“You’re cooking,” she said, dropping her laptop on the table.
“Shrimp. Garlic. That recipe my grandmother gave me.” He held out the wooden spoon. “Taste.”
She tasted. It was good. It was actually good. “When did you learn to do this?”
“I’ve been practicing.” He went back to stirring. “I figured if we’re getting married, I should be able to feed you something that isn’t lettuce.”
Meg opened the fridge. The kelp samples were still on the top shelf, labeled by date. The second shelf had actual groceries—more than usual. Organized. She closed the fridge and looked at him.
“Saturday’s going to be hard,” she said.
Luke turned down the heat. “The meeting?”
“Anna already told me the numbers. Scholarship or salaries. Not both.” Meg sat at the table and pulled the salt shaker toward her, turning it in her hands. “I keep wanting to fix it. Pull up the spreadsheets, build a model, drive down and take over. That’s what I do.”
“That’s what you used to do.”
“It’s what I’m good at.”
“You’re good at a lot of things.” Luke plated the shrimp, set it in front of her, sat down across the table. “Anna’s good at this one.”
“I know.” Meg picked up her fork. “It’s just hard to watch someone carry something you used to carry and not reach for it.”
“Yeah.” Luke looked at her across the table. “But that’s what trust looks like. Letting someone carry it their way.”
They ate. The shrimp was good. The kitchen was warm. Through the window the last light was going orange over the rooftops, and somewhere out there the Shack was closed and dark and waiting for Monday, when everything was going to change.
“Luke.”
“Mm.”
“About the wedding.”
He set down his fork. “What about it?”
“The chairs are wrong. I ordered white but the rental company doesn’t do beach delivery. The caterer doesn’t do outdoor events. The florist hasn’t called me back. And I still don’t have an officiant.” She set her own fork down. “How did ‘beach and sand’ turn into fourteen spreadsheets?”
