Page 22 of The Beach Shack (Laguna Beach #1)
CHAPTER TWENTY
T he morning coffee with Natalie and Paige had gone better than Meg could have imagined.
Three hours of conversation had passed in what felt like minutes—laughter over shared memories, updates on mutual acquaintances, and genuine interest in each other’s lives that suggested their connection had merely been paused, not broken.
They’d parted with promises to meet again the following weekend.
Meg arrived at the Beach Shack with a renewed energy she hadn’t felt since coming back to Laguna.
The day proceeded smoothly—a steady stream of customers, efficient service, even a compliment from a group of regulars who said the grilled cheese was “just like always, perfect.”
By early afternoon, Meg was beginning to think this might be the first day without any unexpected challenges.
The lunch rush had been manageable, the staff was working well together, and Margo had even taken a rare break to sit outside for fifteen minutes, something Meg couldn’t remember seeing before.
Then the Hales arrived.
Meg recognized the type immediately—expensive resort wear, designer sunglasses, the slightly impatient air of people accustomed to immediate service.
The couple settled at a prime table on the deck, looking around with the critical assessment of individuals who frequented establishments several price points above the Beach Shack.
Joey approached their table with his usual friendly greeting, but Meg could tell from his body language that the interaction wasn’t going well. After a brief consultation with the couple, he made his way to the counter where Meg was preparing iced teas.
“Table six wants to know if we have a ‘real menu,’” he said quietly. “I explained about our specialization in grilled cheese, but they seem—unimpressed.”
Meg glanced at the couple, now surveying the other diners with barely concealed disdain. “I’ll handle it.”
She approached the table with her most professional smile—the one she’d perfected in client meetings with difficult executives. “Welcome to the Beach Shack. I understand you have some questions about our menu options?”
The woman—sleek blonde hair, diamond studs that caught the sunlight—looked up with polite disappointment. “We were hoping for something a bit more... substantial. Your website didn’t mention that you only serve grilled cheese. ”
“We actually don’t have a website,” Meg explained. “We’re a local family business that’s specialized in grilled cheese for over fifty years.”
“Fifty years serving only grilled cheese?” The man raised his eyebrows. “That seems rather limited. No wonder the place looks so...” He gestured vaguely at the weathered wood and mismatched furniture.
Something hot flared in Meg’s chest—an unexpected surge of defensiveness that caught her by surprise. She maintained her smile with effort. “Our focus allows us to perfect what we do best. The Beach Shack has been voted best grilled cheese in Orange County for twelve consecutive years.”
The woman looked unconvinced. “We’re staying at the Montage.
The concierge recommended several local restaurants, but this clearly wasn’t one of them.
” She sighed as if greatly inconvenienced.
“I suppose we could try it, though I can’t imagine how a grilled cheese sandwich could justify a special trip. ”
“Perhaps another restaurant would better suit your preferences,” Meg suggested, her tone perfectly pleasant despite the growing tension she felt. “I’d be happy to recommend several excellent options nearby.”
The man leaned back, studying Meg with the appraising look she recognized from countless business negotiations. “Actually, I’m curious now. What makes your grilled cheese worth keeping such a limited menu? Surely you’d make more money with a full selection.”
The question was reasonable enough—exactly the kind of business inquiry Meg might have posed herself before spending time at the Beach Shack.
Yet something about his tone—the implicit judgment of the shack’s business model, the assumption that profit was the only valid measure of success—struck a nerve she didn’t know she had.
She hadn’t meant to get into it—but the words came anyway, sharper and more personal than she expected.
“The Beach Shack isn’t just about making money,” Meg found herself saying.
“It’s about tradition, community, and doing one thing exceptionally well.
My grandmother has been making these sandwiches from the same recipe for fifty years, and people line up on weekends because some experiences can’t be improved by endless options or luxury pricing. ”
She could hear her voice growing more passionate, more personal than she’d intended, but couldn’t seem to stop.
“That ‘limited’ menu has supported families, local suppliers, and generations of regulars. It’s more than just grilled cheese—it’s a place people come back to, year after year.
Not everything valuable can be measured by profit margins or expansion potential. ”
“I see,” the man said finally, something like respect reluctantly entering his expression. “In that case, we’ll take two of your classic grilled cheese sandwiches and iced teas.”
Meg nodded. “You won’t be disappointed. Our cheese blend is sourced from a family dairy that’s been our supplier since 1972.”
As she walked back to the counter to place their order, Meg caught Joey giving her a surprised thumbs-up from across the room.
Margo appeared beside her as she prepared the iced teas. “Everything okay?”
“Fine,” Meg said, still slightly flustered. “Just some customers who weren’t expecting a specialized menu.”
Her grandmother’s knowing look suggested she’d overheard more than Meg might have wished. “You defended us beautifully.”
“I was just explaining our business model,” Meg said, though she knew it had been more than that.
“If you say so.” Margo’s smile was small but pleased as she returned to the kitchen.
Meg delivered the drinks to the Hales’ table, maintaining her composure despite the lingering self-consciousness about her emotional response.
“Your family has owned this place for fifty years?” the woman asked, her tone noticeably warmer.
“Yes. My grandfather started it in 1972, and my grandmother has run it since he passed away.”
“And now you’re taking over?” the man inquired.
“Just temporarily,” Meg clarified quickly. “My brother usually helps manage it, but he’s away right now.”
“That’s a shame.” The woman looked around the space with new appreciation. “Family businesses like this are becoming rare. There’s something refreshing about a place that knows exactly what it is and doesn’t try to be everything to everyone. ”
“Thank you,” she said simply, unsure how to respond to this unexpected shift.
The rest of their visit proceeded pleasantly, with the couple eventually ordering second sandwiches and lingering over iced tea refills while watching the waves. When they left, they added a generous tip and a note that read simply: “Worth the special trip.”
As Meg cleared their table, Natalie appeared on the deck, waving cheerfully as she approached.
“I caught the tail end of your speech,” she said with a grin. “Very impressive. The mighty corporate executive defending the humble grilled cheese stand.”
Meg felt heat rise to her cheeks. “You heard that?”
“Pretty sure half the beach heard it.” Natalie’s amusement was gentle rather than mocking. “It was nice to see, actually. The old Meg defending something she cares about.”
“I was just addressing their concerns,” Meg said automatically.
“About the Beach Shack? Or about what matters in general?” Natalie’s question held no judgment, only genuine curiosity.
Before Meg could formulate a response, Joey called from the counter: “Order up for table three!”
“Saved by the sandwich,” Natalie teased. “I actually came back to see if you’d like to join us for First Thursday Art Walk next week? We thought we could do that, then have dinner. Paige found photos from senior beach week that you absolutely need to see—preferably while drinking mimosas. ”
“I’ll be there,” Meg promised, meaning it sincerely.
Watching Margo chat with regulars while preparing their usual orders—no ticket needed, just decades of remembering preferences—Meg felt a strange pride that took her by surprise.
As closing time approached and she helped Joey wipe down the outdoor tables, Meg found herself looking at the weathered building with different eyes.
“You were awesome today,” Joey said as they stacked the last chairs. “The way you stood up for the shack to those fancy people. Margo was really proud.”
“How could you tell?” Meg asked, genuinely curious. Her grandmother wasn’t exactly effusive with praise.
“She did the thing,” Joey explained, mimicking a subtle nod. “That little head tilt she does when she’s impressed but doesn’t want to make a big deal about it. Tyler calls it the ‘silent approval.’”
Meg laughed, recognizing the gesture immediately now that Joey had pointed it out. “I can’t believe I never noticed that before.”
“She did it a lot when you weren’t looking,” Joey said casually, heading inside with the cleaning supplies.
Later, as she locked the back door and headed to her car, Meg paused to look back at the Beach Shack silhouetted against the darkening sky.
The sign—hand-painted and refreshed every few years but never redesigned—glowed softly in the evening light.
The same sign her grandfather had commissioned, that had weathered countless storms, that had become a landmark for locals and a curiosity for visitors.
Back at Tyler’s house, Meg found herself skipping her usual evening ritual of checking emails and reviewing documents. Instead, she walked out onto the small deck and sat watching the ocean, letting the rhythmic sound of waves wash over her.
Her phone buzzed with a message from Brad—another urgent client issue requiring her attention—but for once, Meg set it aside without immediate response. Tomorrow would be soon enough.
Tonight, she wanted to sit with this new understanding: that she cared about the Beach Shack not just as a family obligation or a business problem to solve, but as a place that mattered.
The revelation was both uncomfortable and strangely liberating. Meg didn’t have answers yet, but she found herself curious to discover them.