2. Meg: Monday Morning

Chapter two

Meg – Monday Morning

It's almost seven in the morning, and soon locals and tourists will be exploring the beach and the quaint little shops that line the sand. Yes, there are other paradises out there, but they're nothing like mine. No one can convince me otherwise.

There's something about walking along the beach, feeling the sand tickle my toes, and hearing the symphony of waves crashing on the shore that feeds my soul. Every time I look out onto the water, I can't help but wonder where the last wave had come from. At what other shore on the other side of the world did it begin its journey, and why has it landed on mine?

Not everyone can find a place that feels like this. I can't imagine being in a job that has me moving every couple of years. I'm fortunate enough to have found a place here in Seaside where I don't question where I'm heading. It's home—simply home.

Most people hate mornings, but I don't. It's the best time of day, especially when I know there are adorable fur babies waiting for me to walk them on the pet lawn or the beach at the inn.

The majority of hotels don't allow guests to bring pets, but that's not the case at The Seaside Inn. Pets of all shapes and sizes are welcome, so the fact that my job as a concierge also doubles as a dog walker just makes my work days feel that much less like work.

It helps that my grandfather owns the inn and knows exactly how much people care about their pets, just from watching my sister and I fawn over our four-legged friends.

What's more, I don't have to wear my work uniform on this particular day. It's too warm for stuffy polo shirts and khaki pants. Instead, I get to don my favored beachy attire—namely, sandals, a flowy pink tank top, and white shorts.

I have a theory that attire is the reason why so many corporate CEOs and all the "whoever's" are so darn grumpy all the time. If they dressed with a bit more comfort in mind, maybe they wouldn't be such jerks. I see it all the time when people come from out of town and trade their polo shirts for Tommy Bahamas.

Maybe the sangrias and tequila sunrises help, but even the most relaxed guests can't enjoy themselves in loafers and scratchy slacks.

After combing through my own beachy waves and rubbing on some lip gloss, I throw on my "work attire" and head next door to my sister Mia's room. She's still out cold.

"Wake up, lazybones! Rise and shine!" I say, as I flop on her bed, landing next to her. She groans and buries her head deeper under the white linen sheets.

Despite us living in the same paradise, her job handling reservations and cancellations doesn't seem to inspire the same gusto in her as mine gives me. I keep trying to get her out on the beach with the dogs and me, but her more practical side keeps her anchored to the back office for most of the day. Her hard work never goes unnoticed by our grandpa, though.

When we ask why he doesn't visit the inn as often as he used to when we first started, his answer makes us both happy and a little sad. "Because of Mia's hard work and your enthusiasm with handling the dogs, Meg, you both have made this old man redundant with his own inn," our grandfather would say.

I think the reasons we work so hard are to make our grandfather proud and that we don't want to work anywhere else or find ourselves in a place that makes us miserable. Seaside has everything we could ever need. But still, Mia isn't the biggest morning person.

"It's 7 on a Monday! You're too perky, and I know for darn sure you haven't had coffee yet," she grumbles, as she tries pushing me off the bed.

"Not all of us need uppers to function," I tease, tickling her—which prompts a playful wrestling match. By the time we're squealing like little kids, I know she's properly awake.

"Don't you have creatures to feed?" she grumbles, as we catch our breath. When our pets expanded beyond the cats, Tigger and Pooh, to the addition of our iguana, Lizaardo, she started calling them creatures rather than pets. What most would call a hodgepodge of animals—a bona fide menagerie—I call a perfect gathering of misfit friends.

"I had to make sure the sleepy gremlin next door was awake first," I giggle, heading downstairs to feed everyone. Once the cats and Lizaardo are fed, I turn on the coffee maker for Mia. Grabbing my lunch, I start the one-block trip to work.

Crossing the parking lot, I pass by my baby, Sunny, a sky-blue vintage convertible Volkswagen Beetle with a surfboard painted on the driver's side door and a flower lei hanging from my rear-view mirror. It's my pride and joy, and driving it always puts a smile on my face. Not today, Sunny , I think, as I gently pat her hood, not wanting her to feel neglected.

The world is just starting to wake up as I see the first handful of runners starting their day. I have a habit of smiling and waving good morning to them, and it's rare if they don't do the same in return.

I don't understand how there are human beings out there who look at you like you're crazy for simply smiling at them as they walk by. The one trip I took to New York for summer vacation taught me that city-folk seem to be a different breed than Floridians.

Maybe they hate their fast-paced lives or the stuffy clothes that insulate them against the icy chill of monotone board meetings day in and day out. In my book, a smile can mean the world to someone, so that's my motto: A Smile for Everyone .

I round the corner, head down a small, boarded path, and arrive at the inn exactly on time. My first assignment is to get Duke, a huge shaggy sheepdog, out for a morning walk.

I can't help but feel giddy when I see his tail start wagging like a propeller the moment he sees me at his owners' door. He holds back and his barks come out as soft woo woos, as if he knows there are still people trying to sleep at this hour. But he can't contain his excitement.

As I secure his lead, he's curiously sniffing me, no doubt picking up on Tigger and Pooh's scents, before licking my hands. "It's going to be a great day," I tell him, as we head out.

There's no reason for it not to be.