Page 11 of The Beach Shack (Laguna Beach #1)
CHAPTER TEN
T he Beach Shack was even more comforting in the quiet of evening.
Margo Turner moved through the familiar space, turning lights off as she went, listening to the building settle around her—the gentle creak of weathered wood, the hum of the refrigerator, the distant rhythm of waves that had been the soundtrack to her life for fifty years.
Now, with closing tasks complete, Margo retrieved the small wooden step ladder from the storage closet and positioned it carefully beneath a particular section of ceiling near the counter.
From her apron pocket, she withdrew the shell that Eleanor had given her last night—iridescent white with hints of pink and blue that caught the light in a way that reminded her of early morning surf.
Before climbing, she studied the ceiling, her eyes tracing patterns that most people never noticed.
What appeared to visitors as a random collection of shells was in fact a carefully composed mosaic—concentric circles expanding outward like ripples, subtle wave forms that flowed from one end of the room to the other, star patterns that mimicked constellations visible from the beach on clear nights.
Fifty years of collected treasures, each with its own story, each placed with intention.
Some from her own beach walks with Richard in those early years.
Some brought by Tyler from his travels. Many given as gifts by people who’d come to understand that Margo valued these small ocean offerings more than any expensive present.
The ceiling had begun with a single shell—a perfect sand dollar Richard had found on their first morning as owners of the shack.
“For good luck,” he’d said, attaching it above the door.
Gradually, they’d added others, and after Richard died, Margo had continued the practice, finding comfort in the slow transformation of ceiling into sky, into ocean, into memory.
She climbed the ladder carefully, one hand gripping the rail, the other cradling the shell.
At eighty, she was still steady on her feet, though she took more care than she once had.
Her fingers found the exact spot she’d envisioned last night—a space between a cluster of pale pink shells that formed one of the rarely noticed heart shapes hidden throughout the mosaic.
From her pocket, she took a small tube of adhesive and applied a careful drop to the back of the shell. The glue Richard had originally used was no longer made, but she’d found this marine-grade adhesive held even better against the coastal humidity.
As she pressed the shell into place, holding it firmly until the adhesive set, Margo allowed herself to remember.
The day Richard had brought home the materials to build this ceiling pattern.
The way he’d looked at her when she’d suggested arranging them to reflect the night sky.
“Always the artist,” he’d said with that smile that still visited her dreams.
The Beach Shack had been Richard’s dream, not hers, but she’d embraced it because she loved him. What she couldn’t have known was how this ceiling would become her canvas.
Even now, decades later, she was the only one who knew all the patterns, all the meanings.
Tyler recognized some—she’d shown him the wave formations and the hidden pathway that mapped Richard’s favorite surf spots along the coast. But the rest remained her private creation, a secret conversation between her younger and older selves.
The new shell fit perfectly in its chosen spot, completing part of a pattern she’d been working on for the past year.
She stepped back carefully on the ladder, but her balance shifted more than expected.
Just a wobble. She stilled herself, hand on the rail, and waited.
Then continued, but her breath came a little faster than it used to.
She stepped back, admiring how the shell caught the evening light streaming through the western windows. Perfect.
She folded the ladder and put it away, then moved to the back deck. The string lights from last night’s gathering still hung overhead, though they were dark now. She’d leave them up for a while—Eleanor would insist on celebrating her birthday all week anyway.
Leaning against the railing, Margo looked out at the darkening ocean. Meg’s question from last night echoed in her mind: “Do you ever get tired of it? The same routine every day.”
Her answer had been honest. Sometimes she got tired—her body feeling all eighty of its years after a long day at the grill—but of the Beach Shack itself? Never.
Margo’s gaze drifted up to the first stars appearing in the twilight sky. The patterns above mirroring the patterns she’d created below.
She thought of the ledger locked in her office desk drawer—the information spanning decades. Records she’d never been willing to share. With anyone.
Would Meg find it? Probably. She was thorough and smart, just like her mother.
What would happen then? Rick had warned her years ago that the arrangement couldn’t last forever. “It’s not sustainable, Mom,” he’d said with that accountant’s precision she both valued and resented.
She’d been asking herself lately if that time had finally come. If perhaps Tyler’s sudden departure and Meg’s unexpected return were the universe’s way of bringing things full circle.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket—the simple flip phone she refused to upgrade despite Tyler’s teasing. A text from Meg:
Finished client calls. Still working through emails at Tyler’s. Sorry about leaving early today. Will be there for opening tomorrow. Need anything tonight?
Margo smiled slightly.
All set. Sleep well.
She slipped the phone back into her pocket and took one last look at the ocean before going inside to lock up.
Tomorrow Meg would be there again with her questions and efficiency. And Margo would keep her secrets a little longer.
As Margo locked the door behind her, the shell mosaic shimmered softly overhead, memories embedded in patterns that appeared random but weren’t. The rhythmic hush of the waves rose gently in the quiet.