“Do you work here? This is the most fun I’ve had in Laguna in years.”
“It’s my family’s place,” Meg said.
“You know what would make this perfect? Wine. A glass of something with this view—I’d pay double.”
Her friend leaned over from the next easel.
“My sister had her rehearsal dinner at a place like this in Santa Barbara. You could do private events—birthdays, showers. This patio at sunset? People would pay serious money.”
Anna watched Meg’s face. The shift was almost visible — Meg going from guest to strategist in about two seconds. The brush set down. The eyes sweeping the patio.
Later, during cleanup. Easels coming inside, tablecloths being folded. The guests had gone. The family clustered on the patio in the leftover glow.
“We could do rehearsal dinners here,” Anna said.
“We could do anything here.” Meg had the look — the one Anna had seen her give client presentations. “Birthdays. Corporate events.”
“Weddings,” Luke said, folding a tablecloth.
Meg looked at him.
“I’m just saying.” He folded another. “The patio. At sunset.”
“We arenothaving my wedding at a grilled cheese restaurant.”
“Not just any grilled cheese restaurant,” Luke said. “Our grilled cheese restaurant.”
Meg opened her mouth. Closed it. She was standing on the patio with the string lights on and the ocean going dark and Anna could see her fighting it—the pull, the rightness, the thing she didn’t want to admit.
“The patio has a stray cat,” Meg said.
“He likes grilled cheese,” Stella said from behind her camera. “He’s practically family.”
“One crisis at a time.” Meg pressed her fingers against her eyes. “We don’t even have a liquor license.”
“We need one,” Luke said. “People keep asking.”
“Michael?” Meg turned to him. “Where are we?”
“Filed. Processing.” He clicked his pen. “It needs to move faster.”
“Bernie might know someone,” Margo said from her chair. She hadn’t spoken all evening. Everyone turned. “Gerald. On the planning commission. He owes Bernie from 1987.”
“What happened in 1987?” Tyler asked.
“Ask Bernie.” Margo stood and picked up her bag. She crossed to Anna and kissed her cheek. “The art night is wonderful, Anna. Keep doing it.”
She walked toward the boardwalk. Slowly. The walk of a woman who’d seen what she came to see.
The patio emptied. Joey gave his notes—“Napkin availability up sixty percent. I have a chart.”—and left. Meg and Luke headed for the car. Tyler and Lindsey said goodnight. Stella packed her camera bag and slipped out with a wave.
Bea had left twenty minutes earlier. Anna had watched her go—backpack over one shoulder, phone in hand, a quick “bye, Mom” that was fine. Normal. The kind of goodbye that shouldn’t have snagged on anything.
It snagged anyway. Something in Bea’s face all evening—busy, focused, moving between the paint station and the supply boxes without slowing down. Not avoiding anyone. Just stayingin motion. Anna filed it the way she filed everything she wasn’t ready to look at. Later. She’d think about it later.
Michael helped carry the last easels inside. "He stood at the counter, his canvas propped against the wall to dry—the Shack again, warm windows in the corner, painted with the same careful, not-good, committed strokes."
“Two weeks,” Anna said.
