Page 25 of The Beach Shack (Laguna Beach #1)
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
M orning came quietly—rare and welcome.
After the chaos of the Saturday rush, the Beach Shack opened with a softer hum. Locals wandered in slowly, still sun-drowsy or church-dressed, trading greetings with the ease of a town that had already shared lifetimes over coffee and grilled cheese.
Meg had arrived early, as she often did now, and settled behind the counter to organize a few invoices.
Margo had gone to walk the beach—a quiet ritual she rarely skipped—and the morning light poured through the Shack’s front windows in warm, golden angles.
Joey was restocking napkin dispensers and humming under his breath—some mashup of a surf song and something suspiciously Broadway.
“You always get here early?” Meg asked, looking up.
Joey grinned. “Beats watching my dad spend an hour figuring out how to brew French press without swearing at it.”
“That bad?”
“He treats it like it’s rocket science. Measures the water temperature with a thermometer, times everything with his phone, mutters about ‘optimal extraction.’” Joey shook his head. “Meanwhile, my mom just wants coffee that doesn’t taste like motor oil.”
Meg chuckled. “That’s a solid reason to escape.”
“Plus, Margo always has the good coffee ready by the time I get here.” He gestured toward the ancient coffee maker behind the counter. “That thing’s older than both of us combined, but somehow it makes perfect coffee every time.”
“I’ve noticed that,” Meg said. “It’s like the Beach Shack has its own magic.”
Joey slid into the booth across from her, still holding a napkin dispenser like it was part of the conversation.
Meg reached for another stack of napkins and handed them to Joey. “So what do you do when you’re not filling napkin dispensers,” she said with a smile. “School?”
Joey looked thoughtful. “Not at the moment. Graduated last year, but I want to go back.
Meg set the invoice folder down. “You have something in mind?”
He nodded, eyes lighting up like he’d been waiting for someone to ask. “I want to go to trade school. For marine systems. Boat engines, water filtration, solar rigging. Stuff like that.”
Meg blinked. “That’s… really cool.”
“Right?” Joey leaned forward, energized. “Laguna’s full of boats. They need people who can rig power, fix bilge systems, maintain solar panels. And I like solving things. Mechanical things.”
“How’d you figure that out?”
“Started when our neighbor’s boat wouldn’t start last summer. He was about to pay some guy three hundred bucks to look at it, so I asked if I could try first.” Joey grinned. “Turned out to be a clogged fuel filter. Twenty-dollar part, ten-minute fix.”
“And he let an eighteen-year-old mess with his boat engine?”
“Hey, I was seventeen then,” Joey said with mock indignation. “And Mr. Dodd was desperate. His anniversary dinner was that night, and he’d promised his wife a sunset cruise.”
“Did it work?”
“Like a dream. She still waves at me every time I walk by their house.” Joey’s expression grew more serious. “But that’s when I realized I actually enjoyed troubleshooting that stuff. It’s like a puzzle, you know? Everything has to work together.”
“I didn’t know that,” Meg said, genuinely impressed. “Have you told Margo?”
He hesitated. “Kinda? She says it’s a good dream, but that I should keep working while I save. Which… fa ir. Trade school isn’t cheap. And I still help out at home.”
“Help out how?”
“Mom works two jobs since Dad’s back surgery. Nothing dramatic,” he added quickly, seeing Meg’s expression. “He’ll be fine, but he’s been out of work for a few months. I just pitch in with groceries and stuff.”
Meg nodded, understanding why he couldn’t just quit and go to school. “Do you have a timeline?”
“I’ve been saving tips for a year,” Joey said. “But it’s not enough. Tuition, housing, tools… it adds up fast.”
“What about financial aid?”
“Some. But my parents make just enough that I don’t qualify for the big grants, and not nearly enough to actually pay for it.” He shrugged with the practiced ease of someone who’d done the math many times. “Classic middle-class squeeze.”
Something about the way he said it—so practical, so resolved—made Meg feel both proud and uneasy. How many kids had this kind of determination and no help? And why had no one mentioned a scholarship fund if that was something the Shack had done before?
“Was there ever,” she asked carefully, “some kind of scholarship fund connected to the Shack?”
Joey tilted his head. “You mean the stories about Richard helping kids?”
Meg’s pulse ticked up. “What stories?”
He shrugged. “Just stuff I’ve heard over the years. That he looked out for the summer staff. Helped a few kids go to college or trade school, maybe. But I don’t know if any of it’s true. Could just be urban myth.”
“You ever ask Margo?”
“Once. She said things were different back then, and kind of changed the subject.”
Meg’s brain immediately filled with possibilities. Could the “Standing Obligation” have once been the scholarship? Had it shifted to something else? Or had someone redirected those funds—accidentally or intentionally?
She looked at Joey again—this young man who refilled napkins with a Broadway hum, who had dreams bigger than the grill, who loved the ocean enough to want to fix the boats that crossed it.
“How much do you need?” she asked gently.
Joey’s eyes widened. “Oh, no—I’m not asking for?—“
“I didn’t say I was offering,” she said, smiling. “I’m just curious. Ballpark.”
He hesitated, then pulled out his phone and scrolled through what looked like a carefully organized notes app.
“With tuition, housing, books, and basic tools? Probably eight to ten thousand for the first year. I’ve got almost two saved up.
Been working every weekend, and some weeknights when school’s light. ”
“You keep track of it all?”
"Color-coded spreadsheet," he admitted, looking slightly embarrassed. "I know it's probably overkill, but it helps me stay motivated when I can see the progress."
“That’s really smart.”
"I've been researching schools online, figuring out which ones have the best marine programs, what kind of internships are available after."
Meg nodded slowly. “That’s impressive.”
“It’s the Beach Shack,” he said simply. “This place gave me space to figure things out. And Margo’s always trusted me with real responsibilities. That matters when you’re trying to convince trade schools you’re serious.”
“What do you mean?”
“I can manage inventory, handle cash, work the grill during rush hours. Most kids my age can’t say they’ve been assistant manager of anything.” He grinned. “Even if it’s just a grilled cheese place.”
“It’s not just anything,” Meg said firmly.
“I know. That’s the point.” Joey’s expression grew more serious. “This place teaches you how to show up. Every day, even when you don’t feel like it. Even when it’s the same routine over and over. Margo never had to tell me that—I just watched her do it.”
The bell above the door chimed, and an older couple shuffled in, clearly regulars from the way they headed straight for their preferred table without looking at the menu.
Joey stood, gripping the napkin dispenser again like it grounded him. “Anyway. If I can’t make it this year, I’ll aim for next. I’m not giving up.”
“Mr. and Mrs. Patterson!” he called out cheerfully. “Coffee and the usual?”
“You know us too well, Joey,” Mrs. Patterson called back .
“That’s what keeps me employed,” he said with a grin, then whispered to Meg, “Two classics, extra cheese, extra pickles on the side. They’ve been ordering the same thing for three years.”
As he walked toward the kitchen to start their order, Meg heard him humming again—this time it sounded like “Defying Gravity” mixed with a Beach Boys song.
She watched him work, noting how he moved around the small space with easy efficiency, how he called out greetings to the arriving customers by name, how he somehow made refilling napkin dispensers look like choreography.
Maybe the scholarship had never existed. Or maybe it had just… quietly disappeared. Either way, if there ever was a scholarship, Joey would’ve been exactly the kind of kid it was meant for.