Page 19 of The Beach Shack (Laguna Beach #1)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

B ack at Tyler’s bungalow, Meg sat curled up on his worn armchair, Rick’s notebook open but untouched in her lap.

Her fingers rested on the old photo he’d shown her—Richard, Rick, and some business associate whose identity didn’t really matter anymore. What mattered was Rick’s worry, echoing in her mind: “She’s eighty years old and has nothing saved for retirement.”

She’d spent the last hour circling the same concerns. The monthly payments Rick had noticed decades ago. His fears about Margo’s future. The realization that her grandmother might be financially vulnerable in ways Meg had never considered.

A quiet weight had settled in her chest, crowding out any confidence she’d felt about helping.

She hadn’t expected this level of complexity. Every conversation seemed to reveal new layers of family dynamics she didn’t understand, and the responsibility of potentially helping Margo plan for her future felt overwhelming.

Meg stared at the ocean through Tyler’s window, watching the sunlight create a silver path across the water.

She thought about calling Brad, diving into work emails, losing herself in the familiar rhythm of corporate problem-solving.

At least marketing campaigns had clear objectives and measurable outcomes.

But her family? Margo’s situation? That felt like trying to navigate without a map.

She closed the notebook and reached for her laptop.

The clock in the corner read 6:02 p.m. She hesitated, then typed:

You awake?

The reply came seconds later.

Bea’s painting. I’m hiding in the stairwell with chocolate. What’s up?

Meg grinned despite herself.

Can you talk?

A video link popped up almost immediately. Meg clicked, and Anna appeared, seated on a narrow stone staircase that wound up the back of a Florence apartment building. Warm light spilled out from a nearby window, casting lemony shadows on the stucco wall behind her.

“You look like you’re in a postcard,” Meg said.

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

Meg sighed, sinking back into the armchair. “I talked to Rick today. About Margo, about the Beach Shack’s finances. And honestly? I’m worried, Anna. Really worried.”

“Tell me,” Anna said, leaning closer to the camera.

Meg explained about Rick’s concerns, his fears about Margo’s lack of retirement savings, the ongoing payments that had prevented her from building any financial security.

Anna listened without interrupting, her artist’s eyes taking in not just the words but Meg’s body language, the way her voice carried the weight of newfound responsibility.

“And the worst part is, I don’t know how to help,” Meg finished. “I keep thinking there’s some solution I’m missing, some way to fix decades of financial decisions. But how do you help someone who’s been independent for fifty years?”

Anna’s expression softened. “You sound like Mom.”

Meg blinked. “That’s... not exactly comforting.”

They sat with that for a beat. Meg had never considered her mother’s departure through that lens—not as abandonment, but as someone who’d reached her breaking point trying to solve everything for everyone.

“I wish I could give you answers,” Anna continued. “But I’m three thousand miles away, and honestly? I was never the one who paid attention to the business side of things. That was always you and Tyler.”

“Tyler’s in Australia with his own situation,” Meg said. “And Rick and Margo barely talk about money anymore. And Margo acts like everything’s fine when Rick thinks it’s clearly not.”

“So, what are you going to do?”

“I feel like I’m standing between two cliffs,” Meg admitted. “If I go back to San Francisco, I lose this—Margo, the Shack, even you. But if I stay... I have no idea if I can actually help or if I’ll just make things more complicated.”

“You don’t have to have all the answers,” Anna said simply. “You just have to keep showing up.”

Meg looked down at the notebook. “I was going to skip the bonfire tonight. Luke invited me. I said no. Too much on my mind.”

Anna’s eyebrows shot up. “Luke? The surfing instructor Luke?”

Meg narrowed her eyes. “You remember him?”

“I remember you used to doodle hearts around his name in your sketchbook. You HAVE to go.”

Meg laughed. “I cannot believe you remember that.”

“Oh, I remember everything embarrassing. It’s my job.” Anna grinned. “Plus, Bea found your old sketchbooks in the closet last summer. She was very impressed by your artistic skills. Quote: ‘Aunt Meg draws hearts like a professional.’”

“Oh no, she saw those?”

“She also found the one where you practiced writing ‘Meg Donovan’ about fifty times.”

Meg buried her face in her hands. “I’m never living that down.”

“Never,” Anna confirmed cheerfully. “But seriously, you should go. When’s the last time you did something just because it sounded fun?”

Meg hesitated. “It just doesn’t feel like there’s room in my life for... that.”

“Maybe that’s exactly why you should go,” Anna said. “You’re allowed to want something good. Even if it’s temporary. Even if it’s just a beach bonfire.”

“I don’t even know what I’d wear,” Meg said. “I packed for business meetings and family dinners, not... socializing.”

Anna rolled her eyes. “Please tell me you didn’t pack a dress like you wore to that bonfire when we were fourteen.”

“What bonfire when we were—oh no.” Meg groaned. “The wind.”

“THE WIND,” Anna confirmed with glee. “You spent the entire night holding your skirt down while trying to look casual. Tyler still has photos.”

“He does not.”

“He absolutely does. They’re in his ‘Blackmail Material’ folder.”

Meg shook her head. “Well, I didn’t pack anything like that, so problem solved.”

“Okay, new plan,” Anna said. “Go to my house. The key’s under the third flowerpot on the left side of the porch—the one with the dead plant because I forgot to water it before I left.”

“Anna, I can’t just?—“

“Yes, you can. Just grab something comfy from my closet,” Anna said. “Middle shelf. Anything but the sequined caftan—unless you’re feeling bold.”

“Anna...”

“Just go get it. And there are photos all over the house if you want to see them. I may have gone a little overboard with the family picture thing.”

“You always were sentimental,” Meg said, but her voice was warm.

“One of us had to be.” Anna smiled. “Go. Have fun. Flirt with Luke. Report back tomorrow.”

“What about Bea’s painting?”

“She’s actually asleep. I was lying about hiding from her. I just like this stairwell—it’s got the best light for video calls.”

Meg looked back at the notebook, then at her sister’s encouraging face on the screen. The child’s drawing on the cover now seemed less ominous, more hopeful—like Rick had once believed he could help make the Beach Shack better.

“Bea’s painting, huh?”

Anna smiled. “She painted an orange. She says it’s symbolic, but I think she just likes the shape.”

“Smart girl.”

“She still won’t say hi,” Anna added. “But she stood behind me during the last call, so... progress.”

Meg smiled. “Tell her I’ll bring her something from the bonfire. Maybe a shell or a secret.”

Anna tilted her head. “You going, then?”

Meg paused, then nodded. “Yeah. I think I am.”

“Good. And Meg? ”

“Yeah?”

“Whatever you figure out about Margo’s situation, whatever Rick’s worried about—it doesn’t all have to be your responsibility. You’re allowed to just be Margo’s granddaughter, not her financial advisor.”

The call ended. Meg sat for a long moment, laptop closed on her knees, the quiet thrum of the ocean carrying through the open window.

Anna’s house was only a ten-minute drive from Tyler’s, tucked into a quiet neighborhood above Main Beach. Meg had been there a handful of times over the years, usually for quick family gatherings. But walking up the front path now, using Anna’s hidden key, felt different. More intimate somehow.

The house was dark but welcoming, filled with the lingering scent of Anna’s paintings and the herbs she grew in pots along the kitchen windowsill. Meg flipped on a lamp and immediately understood what Anna had meant about going overboard with family photos.

They were everywhere. Photos of Bea at various ages, school pictures and candid shots and artistic poses.

Photos of Margo at the Beach Shack, Tyler surfing, the whole family at holidays and birthdays.

And scattered throughout—photos of Meg. Meg at college graduation, Meg at one of Tyler’s birthday parties, Meg as a teenager, Meg as a child.

Meg paused at one particular photo on the mantle—the three of them at the Beach Shack when Meg was about twelve.

She remembered the day vaguely. Anna had just learned to make grilled cheese and was proudly showing off her technique.

Tyler was probably ten, grinning with a mouth full of braces.

And Meg... Meg was rolling her eyes at something, but she was smiling.

When was the last time she’d looked that relaxed? That genuinely happy?

She wondered if she had any family photos in her Russian Hill apartment. A few, maybe, tucked away in drawers. But nothing like this—nothing that declared family as the central organizing principle of her life.

Anna’s bedroom was organized chaos—art supplies everywhere, canvases stacked against the walls, clothes draped over chairs. But the closet was surprisingly neat, and Meg found the middle shelf Anna had mentioned.

She paused. There it was. Gray with faded red lettering, soft from years of wear.

The Stanford sweatshirt.

The one she’d brought Anna after that long-forgotten college tour, telling her she could do anything, be anything. Anna had kept it all this time.

Meg slipped it on over her t-shirt. It was oversized and comfortable, perfect for a beach bonfire. But more than that, it felt like wearing a hug from her sister.

As she was leaving, she paused outside what must be Bea’s room.

The door was partially open, revealing colorful artwork taped to the walls, a bed covered in stuffed animals, bookshelves packed with novels and art supplies.

It felt private, personal—a teenager’s sanctuary.

Meg resisted the urge to peek inside and quietly closed the door instead.

She took a quick selfie in the bathroom mirror—the Stanford sweatshirt visible, her hair loose around her shoulders, a small smile on her face.

She sent it to Anna with no caption.

The response came immediately:

Meg grabbed her keys and headed for the door. For the first time all day, the weight of family worries and financial uncertainty felt manageable. She was still Meg Walsh, successful marketing executive with a corner office and a carefully planned life.

But tonight, she was also Anna’s sister, wearing a good-luck sweatshirt to a beach bonfire where someone she’d once drawn hearts around was waiting.

Both things could be true at the same time.