Page 27 of The Beach Shack (Laguna Beach #1)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

T he Saturday morning rush hit the Beach Shack like a wave. Meg had thought she was prepared—she’d arrived early, prepped extra ingredients, reviewed the staffing schedule twice.

“Two Classics for table four, Neptune’s Special at the window, and we’re running low on sourdough!” Joey called over the din of clattering plates and sizzling grill tops.

Meg nodded, trying to project confidence while inwardly calculating how they’d manage the dwindling bread supply with the line of customers still stretching out the door.

The noise level had risen steadily since they’d opened—the impatient chatter of hungry tourists mixing with enthusiastic greetings between locals, the bell over the door jingling constantly, and someone’s child wailing about wanting chocolate milk that wasn’t on the menu.

“We’re out of the herb butter,” Lisa reported, rushing past with three plates balanced on her arm. “And table seven wants to know if we can make a vegan grilled cheese.”

Meg felt a headache forming behind her eyes. In San Francisco, she managed million-dollar campaigns with dozens of moving parts and high-stakes client expectations. Why was a small beach restaurant with a limited menu overwhelming her so completely?

She knew the answer. This wasn’t just business. This was family.

Failing here would mean something entirely different than a missed deadline or an unhappy client.

“Meg.” Margo appeared at her side, somehow serene despite the chaos. “Why don’t you let me handle the grill for a bit? You can manage the register.”

The suggestion carried a hint of gentle criticism that made Meg’s shoulders tense. She’d been at the Beach Shack for weeks now, and still couldn’t maintain her grandmother’s easy flow during busy periods.

“I’ve got it,” she insisted, flipping three sandwiches with more force than necessary.

Margo raised an eyebrow but didn’t argue, moving instead to help Lisa organize the next round of orders. Meg returned her attention to the grill, trying to track multiple cooking times while mentally reviewing the growing list of supplies they needed to restock before the next wave hit.

Meg glanced over at Joey. “You okay?” she asked as Joey stepped behind the counter.

He nodded. “Yeah, but we really need another person for weekends,” Joey said, refilling napkin dispensers between serving tables. “But Margo keeps saying we’ll manage.”

The bell over the door jingled again, and Meg glanced up reflexively, her stomach doing an unexpected flip when she saw Luke entering.

He took one look at the crowded space, caught her eye with a slight smile, and moved directly to the back room without being asked.

Moments later, he emerged wearing an apron, seamlessly stepping in to help Joey clear tables and reset them for waiting customers.

“Reinforcements have arrived,” Margo said with evident relief, returning to Meg’s side. “Luke always knows when we need him most.”

“Does he have some kind of Beach Shack radar?” Meg muttered, trying not to notice how easily Luke navigated the crowded dining area, how naturally he chatted with customers while efficiently managing the flow.

“Something like that,” Margo agreed.

Before Meg could respond, a new wave of tickets came in from the window. She forced her attention back to the grill, aware that she was falling behind despite her best efforts.

Twenty minutes later, she was still struggling to catch up when Luke appeared beside her, somehow having addressed the dining room chaos enough to step behind the counter.

“Mind if I help?” he asked quietly, not reaching for anything until she nodded permission .

Unlike Margo’s gentle suggestion earlier, Luke’s assistance came without any hint of judgment or criticism. He simply picked up where the workflow had stalled, preparing bread and fillings for the next batch while Meg focused on the sandwiches already on the grill.

“The Saturday morning chaos is legendary,” he commented, his tone conversational rather than condescending. “First time I tried to help during a rush like this, I dropped an entire tray of sandwiches. Margo still brings it up sometimes.”

The admission made Meg feel marginally better about her own struggles. “How do you manage it all without losing your mind?”

“You stop seeing individual orders after a while,” Luke said, assembling ingredients with practiced efficiency. “It becomes more like... a rhythm. Like catching waves. You can’t fight the ocean—you have to feel its pattern.”

Meg wanted to point out that restaurant management was hardly comparable to surfing, but she bit back the comment.

Luke was genuinely trying to help, and more importantly, his approach was working.

Somehow, the backup of orders was diminishing, the frantic energy shifting into something more manageable.

She also couldn’t help noticing how he interacted with the staff—giving gentle direction to Joey when needed, anticipating Lisa’s questions before she asked them, all without undermining Meg’s authority or taking over completely. It was a delicate balance that he managed with surprising grace.

By eleven-thirty, the initial rush had finally eased. Customers still filled most tables, but the line had disappeared, and the kitchen had caught up with pending orders. Meg stepped back from the grill, wiping her forehead with the back of her hand.

“You survived,” Luke said with a smile, passing her a glass of water.

“Barely.” She took a grateful sip.

“Today was especially busy.”

Meg glanced around the dining area, taking in the mix of tourists and locals, all happily consuming what were, objectively, just cheese sandwiches. What made this place so special that people would wait in line for thirty minutes for something they could make at home?

Meg was about to respond when an older couple approached the counter, the man using a cane while the woman carried their empty plates.

“We just wanted to thank you,” the woman said, addressing Meg directly. “We were worried when we heard Tyler was away, but you’ve kept everything exactly as it should be.”

Meg blinked in surprise. “Oh. Thank you, but I’m just helping out temporarily.”

“We’ve been coming here every Saturday for thirty-five years,” the man added, his weathered face creasing in a smile. “Since our first date, right after Roger here finished his first US Army tour. Your grandfather gave us free milkshakes that day when he found out I was just back.”

“Richard always remembered a face,” the woman—apparently Roger’s wife—said fondly. “And Margo’s kept that tradition alive all these years. This place... it’s been the constant in our lives through raising kids, career changes, everything.”

Meg felt a strange tightness in her chest. “That’s... that’s lovely to hear.”

“Our grandkids love it now too,” Roger continued. “Four generations of our family, coming to your family’s place. That’s something special these days.”

As the couple made their way toward the exit, Meg found herself momentarily unable to speak.

They had thanked her, but not for anything she’d actually done.

They were thanking the Beach Shack itself, the legacy and traditions she’d spent years distancing herself from.

What right did she have to accept their gratitude when she’d been absent for so long?

“You okay?” Luke asked quietly.

“Fine,” she said automatically, then reconsidered. “Actually, no. That was... I don’t know what that was.”

“And that’s the magic of the Beach Shack.” Luke said.

Meg looked around the dining area with fresh eyes.

“I never saw it this way before,” she admitted. “When I was growing up, it was just the place that took up all of Margo’s time. A business that Uncle Rick complained was ‘barely breaking even’ despite the hours she put in. ”

Luke leaned against the counter, his expression thoughtful. “Your uncle sees spreadsheets. Margo sees people.”

The observation stuck with her all morning.

As she prepped orders with Luke and Joey, Meg found herself paying more attention—not to the workflow or the wait times, but to the people.

How Margo greeted everyone by name. How Joey had started heating up Mr. Harada’s grilled cheese before he even ordered.

How someone left a jar of homemade marmalade on the counter with a sticky note that just said, “Extra batch.”

By the end of lunch service, her legs ached, her shoulders were sore, and yet her brain felt clearer than it had in weeks.

She’d spent years trying to optimize businesses. But the Shack wasn’t built to be efficient. It was built to be known.

As she wiped down the last table, she looked up at the ceiling again. The shells. Thousands of them, no two alike. From far away, they looked random. But now, she could see it. Not a pattern exactly. But a shape. A story.

Maybe that was the whole point.

“Penny for your thoughts,” Margo said, appearing beside her with a fresh rag to help with cleanup.

“I was just thinking that I might have missed more than I realized,” Meg admitted. “About this place. About what you’ve built here. ”

Margo’s expression softened. “It’s not something that shows up in account ledgers.”

The comment lingered. Not an accusation, exactly—just a reminder that they’d always seen things a little differently.

“No,” Meg agreed quietly. “It wouldn’t.”

She watched as Luke helped Joey with the end-of-day restocking, the two of them laughing about something she couldn’t hear. The rhythm between them was easy, built on time and familiarity.

And suddenly, Meg felt unsettled. Maybe even a little jealous.

Not just of Luke’s comfort here—but of the fact that he hadn’t had to earn it. That he belonged, while she still felt like she was waiting for permission.

And yet, watching him joke with Joey, then show him a quicker way to break down the cardboard boxes, she couldn’t deny it?—

“He’s good with people,” Margo said, following her gaze.

“He always was,” Meg acknowledged. “Even in high school.”

“He’s grown up a lot since then,” Margo said, with a pointed look that made Meg wonder how much her grandmother knew about their shared history. “We all have, I suppose.”

As the last of the staff headed out and Luke waved goodbye with a promise to check in tomorrow, Meg found herself alone with Margo in the now-quiet Beach Shack .

The silence was thick with all the things they hadn’t said—about the finances, about Richard, about how strange it felt to belong to a place that still didn’t quite feel like hers.

“I’ve been thinking about the Standing Obligation,” she said quietly, her thumb brushing the edge of a napkin on the counter. “Trying to piece together what it really meant to Grandpa. And to you.”

She expected her grandmother to change the subject. But Margo just nodded, her face unreadable.

“You were always the one who needed answers,” she said. “Your mother was like that too.”

Meg blinked. The mention of her mom—so rare, so casually spoken—landed like a dropped stone in still water.

“She was?”

“Oh yes. Never satisfied with ‘because I said so’ or ‘that’s just how things are,’” Margo said with a small smile.

“Why won’t Uncle Rick talk about the Beach Shack?” she asked directly. “What happened between him and Grandpa Richard?”

Margo’s smile faded. “Some wounds heal slowly, if at all. Rick has his reasons for keeping his distance, just as you had yours.”

The gentle parallel wasn’t lost on Meg. “Are they the same reasons?”

“No,” Margo said after a moment’s consideration. “But perhaps more similar than either of you would care to admit.” She picked up her purse from behind the counter. “I’m heading home. These Saturday shifts aren’t as easy as they used to be.”

Meg wanted to press further, to finally get clear answers about the family tensions that seemed to surround the Beach Shack like invisible currents. But something in her grandmother’s posture—a slight stoop to the shoulders that hadn’t been there at the start of the day—made her hold back.

“Get some rest,” she said instead. “I’ll lock up.”

As Margo left through the back door, Meg completed the final closing tasks on autopilot, her mind churning with observations and questions.

The elderly couple’s story of decades of Saturday visits.

Luke’s ease in a space that made Meg feel like an outsider despite her family connection.

The mysterious financial arrangements that didn’t align with any business model she’d studied.

She looked up at the shell mosaic once more before turning out the lights.

Each small piece had been placed with intention, creating a whole that was more meaningful than its individual parts.

Perhaps that was the key to understanding the Beach Shack as well—seeing the connections rather than just the components.

Maybe she’d been looking at her family’s legacy through the wrong lens all along.