Page 12 of The Beach Shack (Laguna Beach #1)

CHAPTER ELEVEN

T he morning rush had just ended when the delivery truck pulled up behind the Beach Shack. Meg, wiping down the counter after the last customer had left, glanced out the window as a man in a brown uniform approached the back door, clipboard in hand.

“Got a delivery for Turner,” he announced, stepping into the kitchen area. “And an invoice that’s past due.”

Meg dried her hands on a towel. “I can sign for the delivery.”

“Great.” The driver handed her the clipboard. “But I need to talk to the owner about the payment. Been trying to get this squared away for weeks now.”

Meg frowned, glancing around for Margo, who had stepped out to the market next door for fresh herbs just minutes earlier.

“She’ll be back shortly,” Meg said. “What’s the issue exactly? ”

The driver—Pete, according to his name badge—showed her an invoice marked with a bold “PAST DUE” stamp.

“Three months behind on the coffee supplier account. Management’s getting antsy.

We’ve been delivering on good faith because, well, it’s Margo’s place, you know? But I can’t keep making exceptions.”

Meg scanned the invoice with growing concern. The amount wasn’t enormous, but it wasn’t insignificant either. “I’m sure it’s just an oversight. Let me check the accounts.”

“You do that,” Pete said, clearly having heard similar promises before. “I’ll unload today’s order, but I’ll need payment for the outstanding balance before I leave.”

Joey appeared from the dining area. “Everything okay?”

“Fine,” Meg said automatically, not wanting to discuss financial issues in front of staff. “Can you help Pete unload while I check on something?”

While Joey and Pete headed to the truck, Meg moved quickly to the small office tucked behind the kitchen.

Unlike the rest of the Beach Shack, with its cheerful vintage surf decor and organized chaos, the office was simply chaotic—papers stacked in precarious piles, folders unlabeled, invoices mixed with personal mail.

Meg had been meaning to organize this mess since her arrival but hadn’t found the time. Now she sifted through the papers with growing concern, looking for any record of payments to Pacific Coast Coffee Suppliers.

In the bottom drawer of the desk, she found a leather-bound ledger—old-fashioned but methodically kept, with entries in Margo’s precise handwriting.

Flipping through recent months, Meg found regular income entries and expense columns, but something about the numbers didn’t add up.

The Beach Shack appeared to be bringing in decent revenue, yet the available cash seemed consistently low.

Then she spotted it—a recurring monthly expense entry, always on the 15th, always the same amount: $1,500. No explanation, no vendor name, just “Standing Obligation” written beside each entry. The payments went back as far as the current ledger recorded, which was the past two years.

“That’s where those went.”

Meg looked up to find Margo in the doorway, a small paper bag of fresh herbs in her hands. Her grandmother’s expression was carefully neutral, but Meg sensed tension in the way she stood, slightly more rigid than usual.

“Pete’s here about an overdue account,” Meg explained, closing the ledger quickly, feeling oddly like she’d been caught snooping. “Three months behind on the coffee supplier.”

Margo sighed, setting down her herbs. “I meant to take care of that.”

“There are several overdue notices here,” Meg said, gesturing to the pile she’d sorted. “Pacific Coast Coffee, the linen service, even the electricity bill has a late fee.”

“Cash flow gets tight sometimes.” Margo moved toward the desk, her manner suggesting she wanted Meg to relinquish her seat. “I’ll handle it.”

Meg noticed how Margo moved more slowly around the office, one hand briefly touching the desk for support as she reached for her purse. The physical strain was subtle but undeniable. But now she had something new to worry about. Something unexpected.

“Margo, if there are financial problems?—”

“There are no problems,” her grandmother interrupted with uncharacteristic sharpness. Then, more gently: “Just temporary shortfalls. It happens in small businesses.”

Meg hesitated, unsure how to proceed without overstepping. “The ledger shows consistent revenue. Where is the money going?”

Something flickered across Margo’s face—not anger, exactly, but a wariness Meg had never seen directed at her before.

“Some things about this place go back a long way,” Margo said finally. “Been that way since before you were born. But I’ve managed for fifty years, and I’ll continue managing now.”

Before Meg could press further, Joey appeared at the door. “Pete says he needs to get going. About the payment...?”

Margo reached into her purse and removed an envelope, counting out cash that she handed to Joey. “Tell him I apologize for the delay. We’ll catch up completely next week.”

After Joey left, Meg found herself staring at her grandmother. “You keep that much cash on hand?”

“Old habits,” Margo said, her tone making it clear the subject was closed. “Now, we need to prep for the afternoon. Those tide pool tours will be coming through around one-thirty.”

That afternoon, they prepped for the tidepool tours, the usual rhythm of the Shack giving Meg little space to revisit the awkward conversation, but Meg found herself watching more closely now—the way Margo always steered conversation back to menu items or customer service, never money or operations.

At the very least, Meg was concerned. She glanced at her grandmother’s shoes—canvas sneakers held together with careful stitching. When had Margo last bought herself something new?

By closing time, Meg’s concern had solidified into worry. The monthly payments, the cash transactions, the overdue accounts despite decent revenue—none of it made sense from a business perspective, but more importantly, it suggested Margo might be struggling in ways she was too proud to admit.

As she wiped down the last table, her phone buzzed with a text from Luke.

Still up for that local tour? Perfect tide for the secret cove. Meet at Crescent Bay in an hour?

Meg hesitated. She had planned to spend the evening trying to understand the Beach Shack’s finances better, perhaps even calling her uncle despite his reluctance to discuss the business.

Maybe Luke was right about being present rather than investigating. And she needed perspective.

I’ll be there

An hour later, dressed in jeans and a light sweater against the late afternoon breeze, Meg parked at the small lot overlooking Crescent Bay. Luke was already waiting, leaning against the rail that separated the viewing area from the steep cliff below, his gaze on the ocean.

“Hey,” she called as she approached.

He turned, a smile warming his features. “You made it. I wasn’t sure if work would win out.”

Meg chose not to mention that she’d brought her laptop in the car, planning to return to Tyler’s and work after their excursion. “I’ve been told I need to see more of Laguna than just the Beach Shack and Tyler’s place. Get out more.”

“Wise advice,” Luke agreed. “Ready for a small adventure?”

He led her down a set of public stairs to the main beach, then continued along the shoreline toward a rocky outcropping that appeared to mark the end of the accessible area.

As they approached, Meg could see why tourists wouldn’t venture further—the rocks looked impassable, rising directly from the water with no visible path around them.

Luke, however, moved with confidence, finding handholds and footholds invisible to the casual observer. He reached back to offer Meg his hand.

“Trust me,” he said simply.

Something about the way he said it—not as a challenge or a demand, but as a genuine invitation—made Meg place her hand in his. His grip was warm and secure as he guided her through a narrow passage between two boulders she hadn’t been through since she was a child.

They emerged on the other side into what could only be described as a perfect hidden cove—a crescent of golden sand, sheltered by rocky arms that extended into the water.

Meg stood still, the breeze brushing her cheek. “I haven’t been here in years,” she said softly. “Maybe since I was ten? I think I thought it was a dream.”

“Still one of Laguna’s best-kept secrets,” Luke said, releasing her hand only after she was safely on the sand. “Your grandfather showed me when I was little. Said sometimes people just need a place the world can’t reach.”

Meg looked out at the tidepools. “He brought me here once, too. But I’d forgotten… or maybe I didn’t understand it then.”

They’d reached the tidepools now, small worlds contained in rocky depressions, teeming with life revealed by the receding tide. Luke crouched down, pointing out tiny sea stars, anemones, and hermit crabs with the enthusiasm of someone who’d never lost his childhood fascination with the ocean.

Meg found herself drawn in not just by the marine life, but by Luke himself—the way his face lit up as he explained the ecosystem, the gentle manner in which he handled tiny creatures before returning them to their homes.

This was a side of him she hadn’t seen in their high school days, when he’d been known primarily for his surfing skills and easygoing charm.

“You really love this stuff, don’t you?” she observed as he carefully returned a small sea urchin to its rocky niche.

“Never gets old,” Luke confirmed. “Every tidepool is like a tiny universe with its own rules and residents. Been exploring them since I was a kid, but I still find something new every time.”

They made their way around the pools, Luke pointing out interesting specimens, Meg asking questions that would never have occurred to her teenage self. As the sun began its descent toward the horizon, they settled on a smooth rock formation, watching small waves lap at the sand.

“Something’s bothering you,” Luke said after a comfortable silence. “And I’m guessing it’s not quarterly reports or client presentations.”