Page 2 of The Beach Shack (Laguna Beach #1)

CHAPTER TWO

Eleanor arrived first, sweeping up the steps in her usual flowing linen tunic and oversized sunglasses, a bottle of rosé tucked under one arm and a bouquet of wildflowers in the other.

“You’d think turning eighty would slow a girl down,” she said as she handed off the wine and arranged the flowers in a chipped glass pitcher.

“That’s the hope,” Margo said dryly .

“Nonsense. You’re the only one of us still flipping grilled cheese sandwiches like it’s a sport.”

“It’s all in the wrist,” Margo replied.

Vivian arrived next, in ballet flats and a striped Breton shirt, her silver pixie cut tousled from the wind. She held up a paper bag as she came through the gate. “Brought cookies. The good ones from that little bakery in the canyon.”

The three women settled into their chairs, their legs stretched out, glasses filled, as the sun began its descent toward the horizon. From this perch above the quieter stretch of Laguna Beach’s cliffs, the ocean stretched wide and welcoming. The sound of waves filtered up like a lullaby.

“So,” Eleanor began, raising her glass, “to the queen of the Beach Shack. Tomorrow’s the big eight-oh, and she still refuses to retire.”

“I never said I refuse,” Margo said, taking a sip.

“You didn’t have to,” Vivian said. “Your actions do the talking.”

Margo smiled, tired but fond. She looked out at the water. “I’ve just been waiting on Tyler. He says he wants to take over eventually.”

“Eventually?” Eleanor gave a short laugh. Eleanor: “That boy’s idea of time is tied to the tides.”

“He’s sweet, but he’s been holding it together for months. Inventory, scheduling, deliveries—even the health inspection stuff, when you couldn’t get up the ladder.”

“He’s not perfect, but he’s been a godsend. I don’t know how I would’ve made it through last year without him.”

“Especially lately,” Eleanor said, her voice carrying a note of concern. “Vivian told me about last week.”

Margo’s hand stilled on her wine glass. “What about last week?”

“The customer who had to wake you up at the grill,” Vivian said gently. “Margo, that’s not like you.”

“I was just tired. It had been a long morning.” Margo’s tone carried the finality of someone who didn’t want to discuss it further.

Eleanor and Vivian exchanged a glance. “Maybe it’s time to think about cutting back your hours,” Eleanor suggested carefully.

“I’m fine,” Margo said firmly. “One tired morning doesn’t mean I’m falling apart.”

A silence settled for a moment, comfortable and familiar.

“What about Meg?” Vivian asked.

Margo didn’t answer right away. She reached for the bottle and refilled her glass slowly. “Meg’s got her life. Big job in San Francisco. She hasn’t been back in years, as you know.”

Eleanor squinted at her. “You miss her.”

“Of course I do,” Margo said. “But she seems happy.”

Another silence.

The sun had just begun to kiss the horizon when a soft knock came at the back gate.

Margo rose, brushing crumbs from her lap, and opened it to find a delivery driver in uniform, holding a small box wrapped in brown paper and string.

“Delivery for M. Turner,” he said. “International post. Looks like it’s been around the world a few times.”

“Thank you,” Margo said, taking the package. The corners were soft from travel, the edge lined with faded postmarks—Singapore, Kuala Lumpur, Bali.

She watched the driver disappear down the path before returning to the deck.

“That Sam?” Vivian asked, her gaze on the package.

Margo nodded once. She opened it carefully. Inside, nestled in tissue, was a single shell—long, narrow, the colors deep and iridescent, unlike anything found on the local beaches. There was no note.

Eleanor leaned over to peer at it. “That’s a beauty.”

“It is,” Margo said softly. She held it in her palm, feeling the slight texture, the weight.

“She’s sending things?” Vivian asked.

“Now and then.”

Eleanor rested her hand on Margo’s arm. “Do you think she’ll ever come back?”

Margo was quiet for a long time. The ocean roared softly below.

“Not for me,” she said finally. “Maybe for the kids.”

The three of them sat in silence as the sun slipped into the sea, leaving behind a pink-and-gold sky. The years had taught them how to sit with things.

Eventually, Eleanor stood and brushed the crumbs from her lap. “Well. Officially ancient as of tomorrow. ”

Vivian grinned. “We’ll bring the good wine.”

“And the not-so-good cake,” Eleanor added.

They hugged Margo on their way out, leaving her with the last of the sunset and the shell in her hand.

Once they were gone, Margo climbed the step stool she kept tucked in the pantry.

The ceiling of the Beach Shack—her ceiling—was covered in hundreds of shells, collected and gifted and earned over five decades.

No two were the same. Some had names inked on the underside. Some had dates. All had meaning.

She turned the new shell over in her hands, then looked up at the ceiling.

She found the right spot—centered, but quiet—and placed the shell there, securing it gently.

She stepped down, brushed her palms together, and took one last look. So many stories. So many promises.

“Still watching the ocean,” she murmured.

But her gaze lingered a moment longer this time.

She turned off the lights and locked up the Shack for the night.