Chapter 13
MEGHAN
I heard the knock before I saw the car.
It was barely past ten. I hadn’t been expecting a delivery, a guest, or anything at all, really—except maybe my sanity, returning from whatever nocturnal wanderings it had indulged in the night before.
I pulled the door open with a sigh, only to find a pair of familiar sunglasses and a smile that could charm the coat off a banker in January.
“Uncle Dean,” I said, my voice flat but not unfriendly.
He lifted his arms like a man who expected applause. “Meggie! You look like you’ve been up all night writing sonnets to your knives.”
“Close,” I muttered, stepping aside. “Sketching dishes by candlelight like a lunatic. What are you doing here?”
He stepped inside with that practiced grace of someone who knew how to fill a space. “Passing through. Thought I’d check on my favorite niece.”
Dean lived in Savannah now—had for years.
He claimed it was the only place with enough charm to rival Charleston, though we never agreed on which coastal Carolina city reigned supreme.
Our debates were long-running and mostly ridiculous, built on jabs about oysters and architecture and whose historic district had more "soul.
" He always argued that Savannah had better light, more magic in the air.
I said Charleston had better food, which—coming from me—should have ended the argument.
I arched a brow. “I’m your only niece.”
“Exactly.”
His laugh bounced off the high ceilings as he walked right in like he owned the place.
“Want coffee?” I asked.
“Yes. The good stuff. None of that weak-ass grocery store grind your Aunt Trish swears is organic because the bag’s brown.”
I moved to the kitchen, flipping on the kettle while he wandered around like it was his job to judge my interior design choices.
“You’re doing well,” he said, half-sincere. “Place looks expensive.”
“It is.”
“Bet it smells like duck fat half the time.”
I smiled to myself. “That’s the idea.”
He leaned against the counter as I measured the beans into the grinder. “Still working too much?”
“Always.”
“And still sleeping with men you shouldn’t?”
I glanced up just as Finn walked into the room, his timing as impeccable as ever.
He took in my uncle and the amused smirk on my face. “Good morning to you, too.”
Dean grinned. “Finn! My man. I didn’t see your Prius parked out front.”
“Because I don’t drive a Prius,” Finn said dryly.
“Ah, right. You’re the cool sous chef with the sexy forearms and the truck that doesn’t quite start on the first try.”
“Fourth try, if I’m lucky,” Finn said. “You’re early.”
“You’re cranky.”
“I’m under-caffeinated,” Finn replied, reaching past me for a mug.
Dean turned back to me. “So? Are you seeing anyone?”
I narrowed my eyes.
Finn, of course, took the liberty.
“She was last night.”
Dean let out a low whistle. “Damn. Still keeping your personal life spicy, I see.”
I rolled my eyes. “My personal life is far from spicy. That hasn’t changed.”
I shot Finn a death glare, which he met with a wink before heading to the fridge.
Dean’s eyes danced. “So, who is he? What’s the poor bastard’s name?”
I hesitated.
“Caleb,” Finn said, before I could decide whether to confirm or deny.
Dean raised an eyebrow. “Biblical. I like it.”
“It was just … one night,” I said.
“Sure, it was.”
The kettle clicked. I focused on the pour-over, hoping the steam would conceal my blush. But Dean was already too interested.
“You’ve got that look, Meggie. Like someone lit a fire under your cutting board.”
“Could be the Aleppo pepper,” I said flatly.
He didn’t buy it. He never did.
Dean Delaney was many things—former chef, occasional investor, lifelong flirt—but above all, he was a man who read people with eerie precision.
I hated it.
I loved it.
We moved into the sunroom. He took the sofa, I took the armchair, and Finn leaned against the doorway with his mug in hand like a sardonic bodyguard.
“I drove out to Folly this morning,” Dean said, after a few moments of silence.
I looked out the window, eyes on the creeping ivy, throat tight.
“I haven’t been back in years,” I said.
“You should go. See what’s left.”
“Nothing’s left.”
He sipped. “You don’t know that.”
I did, though.
I remembered it too clearly—the wreckage, the smoke, the wet snap of timber underfoot.
The ocean had been calm that day, eerily indifferent, like it hadn’t just watched everything burn.
The restaurant had been my parents’ dream.
A little place with a big heart— Meggie’s —named after me.
The menu changed every week, written in chalk on a board outside the door like an offering to the sea, as if they were asking for permission to dream a little longer.
I was six the night it was destroyed. Not old enough to understand grease fires or insurance gaps or how fast a dream could dissolve when no one was watching.
But I remembered the screaming. The sirens.
The way my father stood in the parking lot, holding my mother like she might fall apart if he didn’t.
I remembered how the flames painted their faces gold, like saints in agony.
They didn’t die that night.
But they never came back from it.
The fire took more than the walls and the recipes and the vintage glassware my mom had collected like it was sacred.
It took the best of them. The fire stole their joy.
Their spark. The thing that had once made them reach across countertops for each other, laughing like teenagers with flour on their noses.
By the time I was nine, they were gone.
Not in a way I talk about. But gone, all the same.
Dean didn’t say anything. We’d walked this road before, and there was only so much anyone could say when a child carried grief.
He and Trish had taken me in after. No children of their own, and no clue what to do with a girl who barely spoke and spent most of her time arranging invisible menus in the backyard.
But they had tried. They’d let me put a makeshift kitchen in the garage and bought me my first real knife when I was ten.
A Victorinox chef’s blade with a red handle and my name etched in tiny cursive letters.
Dean had never stopped calling me Meggie, no matter how old I got or how hard I tried to outgrow the girl who’d once cried over her family’s shattered dreams.
I took a slow sip of coffee, letting the bitterness ground me.
“I’m not ready to go back to Folly Beach,” I said finally.
Dean tilted his head. “You don’t have to be ready. Just curious.”
“I’m neither.”
Finn cleared his throat softly, like he was giving me space but still listening. Always listening.
Dean ran his thumb along the rim of his mug. “You know it wasn’t your fault.”
The words landed like lead.
I looked at him then, really looked. His face had aged well—lines from laughter, sun-darkened skin, a salt-and-pepper beard that made him look more roguish than wise. But his eyes had the same weight they always did when he talked about the past. Like he could shoulder mine if I’d just let him.
“You don’t know that,” I said.
Dean leaned forward. “You think I haven’t done the math? Haven’t gone over every variation of what you think you did or didn’t do? Those years were a goddamn nightmare, Meg. But it wasn’t your doing.”
I swallowed hard, my voice small. “I don’t know.”
Dean exhaled. “You were just a kid.”
Finn looked away then, like he was giving me dignity. I loved him a little for that.
But I still couldn’t let go of everything. Not fully.
I stood up, suddenly restless. “Why are you really here, Dean?”
He raised both hands. “I told you. Checking in. Saying hi. Giving my favorite niece a hard time.”
I arched a brow. “Try again.”
He smirked. “Fine. I’m considering buying out a partner at a place up in Bluffton. I was scouting locations and figured—why not swing through Charleston? Get a good meal. See your pretty face. Maybe remind you not to work yourself to death.”
Finn grunted. “You’ve got a real subtle touch.”
“Thank you,” Dean said, unbothered. “I’m thinking of taking on a more active role in the industry again. Consulting, maybe. Hell, maybe I’ll open another place of my own if I get bored enough.”
“Savannah’s not enough anymore?” I asked.
He shrugged.
My eyes narrowed.
Dean winked. “Besides, you’ve got good whiskey and terrible boundaries. Makes for entertaining mornings.”
I smiled despite myself. “And how’s Aunt Trish?”
“Still better than I deserve.” His voice softened, just for a second. “She’s hosting a charity gala next week. Wants you to come.”
“You know I don’t do galas.”
“You do if I ask nice.”
“She’ll text me,” I said.
“She already did. You didn’t respond.”
I rolled my eyes and wandered to the window. Outside, the garden was alive with late-summer green, thick and unruly, like nature had decided to ignore all the neat architectural lines of my house and do what it wanted.
Maybe I envied that a little.
Dean’s voice followed me.
“You ever think about reopening it?”
I didn’t have to ask what he meant.
Meggie’s.
The name alone sent a pulse of heat through my chest.
“I think about it every day,” I said quietly.
He let that settle between us. “You could. You’ve got the talent. The following. Hell, the press would eat it up.”
I didn’t respond right away. The idea had teeth. Maybe even wings. Something more upscale than what my parents built—less beach shack, more coastal fine dining. A tribute, but elevated. A place that honored what they started while carving out something entirely my own.
“I’m not ready.”
He studied me. “You waiting for the star first?”
“I’m waiting for the ghosts to shut up.”
Dean nodded like he understood. Maybe he did.
Finn finally spoke. “The dishes she’s plated recently? Pure madness. Like the kind of thing you eat and then can’t stop thinking about for a week.”
Dean turned. “You tasted them?”
“She made me,” Finn said with a shrug. “You know how she gets when she’s on a tear.”
“You should taste the ones from last night,” I added with a chuckle.
Dean laughed, too. “God, help the man you’re dating.”
I gave him a look. “You’re the worst.”
“Probably. But I’m still the one who taught you how to butterfly a trout.”
I smirked but shook my head. “And for the record, I’m not dating anyone.”
Dean raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced.
“One night with a man doesn’t make him my boyfriend,” I added.
Finn coughed into his mug, clearly enjoying himself far too much.
Dean stood, stretching his arms overhead. “All right, I’m off. Gotta meet a guy about a lease. You cooking tonight?”
“Always.”
“I’ll swing by. Bring Trish if she gets here in time. We’re making a mini-vaca out of it. We’ll be here for a few days.”
“You’re not staying with me?” I asked.
“Hotel down the street. She hates the bed in your guestroom. Claims it’s ‘over-designed torture.’”
“That’s because it’s French.”
“That’s because it’s made of stone.”
We walked him to the door. He pulled me into a one-armed hug that smelled like cedar and old cologne. For a moment, I let myself lean into it.
“You’re doing better than you think, Meggie,” he said into my hair.
I nodded but didn’t answer.
As he stepped out onto the porch, he turned and added, “Just remember: the past doesn’t get to decide who you become. You do.”
Then he was gone, swallowed by sunlight and the sound of his idling car.
I stood there for a beat, watching the street.
Finn came up beside me. “You okay?”
“Fine.”
“Liar.”
I sighed.
He bumped my shoulder with his. “He means well.”
“I know.”
“He just shows up like a hurricane.”
“Also true.”
We stood in silence for a while, the morning moving around us, full of things I didn’t have words for.
“Folly’s still there, you know,” Finn said gently. “Even if it isn’t.”
I didn’t answer.
But something inside me twisted.