Page 10 of The Beach Shack (Laguna Beach #1)

CHAPTER NINE

M eg arrived at the Beach Shack earlier than necessary, the quiet of early morning providing a welcome respite after yesterday’s chaotic juggling of work demands and shack responsibilities.

She hadn’t spoken to Anna since the video call two nights ago, but the easy rhythm of that conversation still lingered.

For the first time in years, it felt like her sister was just a phone tap away.

She unlocked the back door with the key Margo had given her, stepping into the familiar smells of sourdough starter and coffee beans. The Beach Shack felt different in this pre-opening stillness—peaceful, expectant, like a theater before the show.

Meg flipped on the lights and moved through her opening tasks with surprising ease, muscle memory guiding her despite the years away. Fill the coffee machine. Check refrigerator temperatures. Prep the grill. Count the float in the register.

She wiped down the counter that ran the length of the small building, polishing the surface where customers would soon line up to place orders.

She checked that the number cards were neat in their holder beside the register and that the outdoor tables on the deck were clean and ready.

The takeout window facing the beach was still shuttered, but soon enough surfers would be lining up, sand-covered and hungry after morning sessions.

As she worked, her gaze kept drifting to the ceiling, seeing it with fresh eyes after noticing how lovingly Margo had handled the shell gift at her birthday.

What had appeared random for years now revealed subtle patterns—was that a spiral of shells forming an ocean wave in the corner?

Did those pale pink shells create a heart shape near the counter?

She was still studying the patterns when her phone rang. Meg glanced at the screen, surprised to see her sister’s name.

“Anna?” she answered, wedging the phone between her shoulder and ear as she continued slicing cheese for the day’s service. “Isn’t it the middle of the night in Florence?”

“Actually, it’s 3 p.m. here,” Anna replied, her voice carrying the slight static of an international connection. “ I’ve been in the studio all day. Just took a break and realized I never called Margo for her birthday.”

Meg measured coffee into the industrial brewer. “She had a nice celebration. Small gathering at the shack.”

“Vivian sent me pictures. You were there.” Anna’s tone held a note of surprise. “In Laguna. Bea saw the pictures too. She recognized you from the last birthday box you sent and said, ‘Oh, that’s the aunt with the really neat handwriting.’”

Meg laughed, surprised by how much that tiny detail meant. “She remembered that?”

“She notices everything. And she’s been asking about Tyler too—this is the first summer she hasn’t worked at the shack. She’s worried about Margo handling everything alone.”

Meg paused in her cheese slicing. “You both usually work summers there?”

“Every June and July since I started teaching. Gives me something to do during break, and Bea loves helping with the customers. It worked perfectly when Tyler wanted to travel for his photography work.” Anna’s voice carried a hint of surprise. “You didn’t know?”

Meg felt heat rise to her cheeks. “No. I... Tyler never mentioned it.”

“Well, now you know why Bea’s so attached to the place. And why she’s worried.”

Anna smiled tiredly. “I smell like oil paint and despair. What’s wrong? ”

Another pause. Through the phone, Meg could hear the background noises of an Italian café—espresso machines hissing, muted conversations, the clatter of cups.

“How is she?” Anna asked finally, her voice softening. “Really?”

Meg hesitated, thinking of Margo’s insistence that she was “perfectly fine” despite Tyler’s concerns. The way her grandmother had deftly changed the subject when Meg mentioned hiring more help.

“She’s fine,” Meg said confidently. “Busy as always, but managing. You know Margo.”

“That’s what she always says.” Anna’s tone carried a note of skepticism Meg couldn’t quite understand. “But is she really okay?”

“Of course,” Meg replied, slightly defensive at the implication she might have missed something. “I think Tyler was overreacting, honestly.”

“You’ve only been there a couple days,” Anna said quietly.

“I know my own grandmother.” The comment stung more than Meg expected.

Meg considered the question, thinking of Margo’s trembling hands over the grill, the careful way she climbed steps, the quiet fatigue that settled over her face when she thought no one was watching.

“She’s working too hard. Trying not to show it.”

“Sounds like Margo.” Anna sighed. “I should be there.”

“You’re doing exactly what you should be doing,” Meg found herself saying. “That fellowship took, what, seven applications?”

“How did you know that?”

Meg paused, surprised by her own recollection. “Tyler mentioned it.”

“I didn’t think you listened when I talked about my art.”

The accusation hung between them, not entirely unfair. How many of Anna’s emails about exhibitions and applications had Meg skimmed while multitasking on client calls?

“You didn’t think I’d been paying attention all these years, huh?”

“Honestly? No.”

“Fair. But I’m trying to change that.”

The door opened behind her, and Meg turned to see Margo entering, a cloth bag of fresh herbs from her garden in one hand. Her grandmother paused, noticing Meg on the phone.

“I’ll be quick,” Meg mouthed, pointing to the phone.

Margo nodded and moved to the kitchen, giving Meg privacy.

“I should be the one there,” Anna was saying, her voice caught between frustration and guilt. “Art is more flexible than corporate. I could have postponed.”

“Seven applications, Anna,” Meg repeated. “This is your chance. Margo understands that.”

“But your job?—”

“My job will survive a few weeks of remote work.” Meg wasn’t entirely sure that was true, but saying it aloud felt like setting down a heavy weight she’d been carrying. “Tyler called me because he knew I could do this.”

“You haven’t been home in years.” The words weren’t accusatory so much as sad. “You barely know Margo anymore.”

Meg’s gaze drifted again to the shell ceiling, to the patterns she was only beginning to recognize. “Maybe that’s part of why I’m here.”

Silence stretched between them, filled with years of divergent paths, different choices, the subtle rivalry that had developed between Margo’s grandchildren—one who stayed close, one who built a life elsewhere.

“The fellowship runs another four weeks,” Anna said finally. “Then I’ll come help. Take over from you.”

“I can handle it until then.”

“Are you sure? Because I could?—”

Meg paused mid-slice, cheese knife in hand.

“Anna,” Meg interrupted, gentler than she might have a week ago. “Your art matters. Stay in Florence. Finish what you started. I’ve got this.”

From across the kitchen, Meg caught Margo watching her, something like approval in her grandmother’s eyes.

“I’ll call her today,” Anna said. “To wish her a belated happy birthday.”

“She’d like that.”

She leaned one hip against the counter, pressing the phone tighter against her ear.

“And maybe...” Anna hesitated. “Maybe we could call again soon? You could show me what you’ve done with the place. Next time I’ll make Bea say hi properly.”

Meg smiled. “I can wait. I’m playing the long game with that one. What makes you think I’m doing anything with the place?”

“Because you’re you,” Anna said, and this time the familiarity in her voice held affection rather than criticism. “You’ve probably reorganized the entire storage room already.”

“Only half of it,” Meg admitted, and heard her sister laugh—a rare, welcome sound.

“Tell Margo I love her. And...” Another pause. “Thanks, Meg. For being there.”

“Of course.” Meg wanted to say more, to bridge the distance that had grown between them—distance measured in more than just miles. “Your art—is it going well? The fellowship?”

Anna’s surprise was audible. “Actually, yes. It’s been a crazy year.

Best decision I’ve ever made. And for Bea to spend a year in Europe, learning Italian—it’s been amazing.

And I’m working with techniques I’ve never tried before.

The light here is—it’s changing everything I thought I knew about color. ”

“I’d like to see it sometime. What you’re working on.”

“Really?”

“Yes,” Meg said, surprising herself with how much she meant it. “Really.”

They said their goodbyes with promises to talk again soon—promises that, for once, didn’t feel like mere formalities. Meg set her phone down and turned to find Margo arranging herbs in small jars along the kitchen windowsill.

“Anna?” Margo asked, though she clearly knew the answer.

Meg nodded. “She’ll call you later. For your birthday, even though it’s late. She apologized, and says she loves you.”

“Good.” Margo’s hands moved with practiced efficiency, stripping rosemary from its stem. “You two sounded—better.”

“Better than what?”

Margo gave her a knowing look. “Better than the last time you were both here. Tyler’s graduation, wasn’t it? You barely spoke three words to each other.”

Meg winced, remembering the tension of that visit—Anna resentful of Meg’s brief appearance, Meg impatient with Anna’s artistic “impracticality.” How quickly they’d fallen into childhood patterns of competition for approval.

“We’re working on it,” Meg said, reaching for her apron—her mother’s apron, she reminded herself.

Margo nodded, seemingly satisfied. “Good. Life’s too short for sisters to waste time misunderstanding each other.”

“When did you get so wise?” Meg asked lightly, trying to mask the emotion in her voice.

Margo smiled, the morning light catching the silver in her hair. “Around the same time I got so old.”

They worked side by side preparing for the day, moving with an ease that surprised Meg.

She’d expected awkwardness, the discomfort of unfamiliarity.

Instead, she fell into a rhythm with her grandmother—Margo doing things exactly as she always had, Meg adapting more quickly than she’d imagined possible.

At one point, reaching for a cutting board, Meg noticed a small sketch tucked between cookbooks on the shelf—a quick rendering of the beach at sunset, the lines confident and expressive. She pulled it out carefully.

“Did Anna draw this?” she asked, admiring the way the artist had captured light on water with just a few strokes.

Margo glanced over, something flashing briefly across her face—surprise? Concern?

“Just an old drawing,” she said, taking it gently from Meg’s hands and slipping it back between the books. “We should finish setting up. Joey will be here soon.”

Meg glanced toward the storage closet where she'd noticed a step ladder yesterday. The thought of Margo climbing up there alone, especially with these balance issues, made her stomach tighten. She'd have to keep an eye on that.

“And Lisa,” Meg remembered, checking the schedule posted by the register. “She handles the register during lunch rush, right?”

“Lisa on register, Joey on tables, Dante helps in the kitchen twice a week,” Margo confirmed. “Small crew, but they’re good kids. Most are students at Laguna College of Art.”

Meg wanted to ask more—whose drawing was it if not Anna’s?—but something in her grandmother’s manner suggested the subject was closed.

Her phone buzzed with a text from Brad—a reminder about the client presentation she needed to review before noon—and Meg felt the familiar tug between worlds. But this time, as she typed a quick reply, she was less consumed by the corporate urgency than she might have been days ago.

The shell ceiling gleamed in the morning light, patterns emerging and receding depending on where she stood.