Page 14 of The Beach Shack (Laguna Beach #1)

CHAPTER TWELVE

T he afternoon lull had just settled over the Beach Shack when the screen door creaked open and two people stepped inside like they owned the sunshine.

Meg glanced up from the register and froze for a second, her brain catching up with the visual.

The woman wore a sundress in citrus shades of orange and green, her hair pulled up in a loose knot that was half beach, half chaos. Sunglasses were propped on her head like she’d forgotten they were there—and might knock them off with a hand gesture at any moment.

“I love it here,” the woman said, grinning. "It smells like grilled cheese and sunscreen. Perfect.”

"Can I help you?" Meg asked.

"You're Tyler's sister, right?" Dirk said, offering a warm handshake. "Dirk Crabtree. I'm friends with your brother. "

"Oh!" the woman beside him said, her face lighting up. "So you're family. I'm Carrie." She gestured between herself and Dirk. “We’re from Newport. But we always make time for the Shack.”

Dirk nodded toward the menu board. "We were in the neighborhood, and the Beach Shack is non-negotiable when we're in Laguna."

Carrie leaned on the counter. "Two of the classics, please. Extra pickles. And root beer if you've got it."

Meg smiled despite herself. "Coming right up."

They wandered to the back patio while Meg passed the order to Joey, who was quietly prepping for the final stretch of the day.

"They're nice," Joey said. "They come in every few months. Always order the same thing."

"Do they always show up looking like they're shooting a travel magazine cover?" Meg asked, watching as Dirk held the door for Carrie with theatrical courtesy.

Joey shrugged. "Pretty much."

A few minutes later, Meg brought their tray to the patio. Carrie was already settled into a turquoise Adirondack chair, sunglasses back on, feet tucked under her.

"You have no idea how happy this makes me," she said, accepting the sandwich like it was sacred.

Dirk took his with a grin. "You can keep your Michelin stars. This place is all-time."

Meg hesitated before retreating inside, and Dirk caught her eye. "Hey, just so you know—if this place ever went on the market, I'd be the first in line."

Carrie smacked his arm. "You said you weren't going to bring it up."

"I'm not bringing it up," Dirk said mildly. "I'm just saying—legacy or not, the Beach Shack would make one hell of a second act."

Meg tried to laugh, but it caught a little in her throat. "We're not selling."

"Didn't think so," Carrie said. "Just had to hear it from the source."

From inside, Margo's voice floated through the open window. "Not for sale. Never has been."

Dirk looked up and grinned. "Hi, Margo! You look great today!"

"Flattery won't get you a deed," Margo called back, but her voice held fondness.

Dirk laughed and raised his root beer in salute. "Worth a try."

They finished their meal in silence, watching the surf and the lazy flight of gulls. Before they left, Dirk ducked back inside and left a generous tip in the jar by the register.

"You sure you don't want to sell just a little piece of it?" he teased Meg. "Maybe a commemorative napkin holder?"

Meg shook her head, smiling. "Nice try."

Dirk winked. "Had to shoot my shot."

As they walked back to their convertible, Joey walked up beside Meg at the counter .

"He says that every time. About buying the place."

Meg folded a receipt, thoughtful. "Does he?"

"Like clockwork."

Outside, the car engine purred to life, and Dirk pulled away from the curb, giving a quick wave through the open window. Meg silently watched them go.

She turned back toward the counter, the bell jingling behind her. The lunch rush was over, but there was a long list of things still to be accomplished before they'd be finished for the day.

The kitchen door swung open, and Margo stepped out, her apron slightly dusty with flour from the afternoon's bread prep.

“Trying to buy my restaurant again, I see,” she said, but there was amusement in her voice.

"Something like that," Meg said.

"Mmm." Margo began wiping down the counter with practiced efficiency. "That Dirk's been making offers since the first time he walked in here. I think it's become a game at this point."

"Would you ever consider it?" Meg asked, the question surprising them both. "Selling, I mean."

Margo's hand stilled on the counter. She looked up at Meg with an expression that was hard to read.

"That's a loaded question coming from you," she said quietly.

"I didn't mean—" Meg began, but Margo held up a hand .

"No, it's fair to ask. You're here helping me figure out what comes next, aren't you?"

Joey, apparently sensing the shift in conversation, made himself busy reorganizing the condiment station.

"I suppose I should ask you the same thing," Margo continued. "Have you thought about what happens after Tyler comes back? After your work situation stabilizes?"

Meg realized this was the conversation they'd been dancing around since she arrived. "I honestly don't know."

"That's honest, at least."

Margo moved to the window, looking out at the handful of customers still lingering on the patio. The late afternoon light caught the silver in her hair, and for a moment she looked every one of her eighty years.

"You want to know the truth?" Margo said finally. "I've been thinking about it more lately. Not selling, exactly, but... what comes after me."

Meg felt her stomach drop. "Are you sick?"

"No, no," Margo said quickly. "Nothing like that. But I'm eighty, Meg. I can't pretend I'll be doing this forever."

"Tyler will?—"

"Tyler has his own life," Margo interrupted gently. "His photography, his travels. He helps because he loves me, but this was never supposed to be his burden."

Meg joined her at the window. "It's not a burden."

"Isn't it?" Margo's voice was quiet but not bitter. " Fifty years I've been tied to this place. Every morning at five-thirty to prep, every evening counting receipts. I've never taken a real vacation, never traveled anywhere I couldn't drive back from in a day."

"Do you regret it?"

Margo was quiet for so long Meg wondered if she'd heard the question.

"No," she said finally. "I don't regret it. This place has been my life's work. But that doesn't mean I haven't wondered sometimes what else I might have done."

"Like what?"

"I was good at some other things,” Margo said, almost shyly. "Before your grandfather died, before I had to figure out how to keep this place running on my own. I was actually pretty good at it."

Meg looked up at the shell ceiling with new understanding. "The mosaic."

“No, but it’s saved me,” Margo admitted. "Each shell placed exactly where it wants to be. It's become my canvas, I suppose."

"It's beautiful."

"It's something." Margo turned away from the window. "But you didn't answer my question. What happens when Tyler comes back and you go back to San Francisco?"

Meg felt the familiar tightness in her chest that came with thinking about her corporate life. "I guess I go back to my old job. My old life."

"Is that what you want?"

The question hung between them like a challenge .

"I thought it was," Meg said slowly. "A week ago, I would have said absolutely. But now..."

"Now?"

"Now I'm not sure what I want."

Margo nodded as if this answer satisfied her more than a definitive yes or no would have.

"You know what I think?" Margo said, beginning to untie her apron. "I think sometimes the best decisions aren't really decisions at all. They're just—obvious. Recognizing what's already true, even when we've been trying not to see it."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean maybe the question isn't what we want to happen," Margo said. "Maybe it's what's supposed to happen."

Joey cleared his throat from behind them. "Um, sorry to interrupt, but we've got a couple more orders if you want to keep the grill going."

"Of course," Margo said, re-tying her apron. "Back to work."

But as she moved toward the kitchen, she paused next to Meg.

"For what it's worth," she said quietly, "I haven't felt this hopeful about the future of this place in a long time."

"Why?"

Margo smiled, and for a moment Meg saw not the tired business owner, but the artist who used to paint more, the young woman who had once dreamed of other possibilities .

"Because maybe there are more possibilities than I thought."

She disappeared into the kitchen, leaving Meg standing by the window with the sound of the ocean and the weight of unexpected possibilities.