Page 29 of The Beach Shack (Laguna Beach #1)

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

But someone was already here.

Meg pushed the door open quietly, following the sound to the main dining area. The overhead lights were off, but a small desk lamp had been positioned on the counter.

Her grandmother sat on a stool, completely absorbed in the object in her hands—a delicate shell with a distinctive spiral pattern.

Meg watched as Margo gently cleaned it with a small, soft brush, removing sand from its intricate grooves with methodical precision.

Beside her on a cloth lay several other shells in various sizes and shapes, already cleaned and gleaming.

There was something almost reverent in the way Margo handled each shell, turning it slowly to catch the light, examining every curve and ridge before placing it carefully on the cloth. This wasn’t mere tidying—it was closer to restoration, or perhaps even meditation.

Not wanting to startle her grandmother, Meg deliberately let the door close with a soft click.

Margo looked up, unsurprised. “You’re here early.”

“So are you.” Meg moved closer, drawn by curiosity. “What are you doing?”

“Preparing new pieces for the ceiling.” Margo held up the spiral shell she’d been cleaning. “This one came all the way from New Zealand. A customer brought it back for me last week.”

Meg studied the collection spread on the cloth. Unlike the common local shells she remembered gathering as a child, these were extraordinary specimens—iridescent, intricate, some with vivid patterns she’d never seen before.

“They’re beautiful,” she said honestly.

“They truly are,” Margo replied simply, returning to her work.

Something about her grandmother’s focused attention made Meg hesitate to interrupt further. Instead of heading to the supply closet as planned, she found herself settling onto a nearby stool, watching the careful process .

“How do you decide where each one goes?” she asked after a comfortable silence.

Margo smiled slightly without looking up. “They tell me.”

Meg waited for further explanation, but none came. After another moment, Margo set the brush down and reached for her cup of tea, apparently taking a break from her work.

“Your mother used to sit just like that,” Margo said unexpectedly. “Watching me clean shells before opening. She’d ask all sorts of questions too.”

“Mom?” Meg felt a pang at the unexpected mention of Sam.

“Oh yes. Even as a teenager, she understood.” Margo’s expression turned wistful. “Sam has always had an artist’s eye. She could see the patterns I was creating before I could see them myself.”

The image of her mother as a young woman, interested in the artistic elements of the Beach Shack, felt both foreign and somehow right. Meg had always thought of Sam as practical, focused on the business side of things.

“She helped with this?” Meg gestured toward the shell ceiling.

“For years,” Margo confirmed, a soft smile touching her lips. “Sam would spend hours up on that ladder, adjusting placement until everything felt balanced. She understood instinctively that beauty has its own purpose.”

Meg found herself looking up at the intricate mosaic overhead and wondering which sections bore her mother’s touch.

“What happened?” she asked softly. “Why did she stop?”

Margo’s smile faded slightly. “Life happened. Marriage, children, responsibilities. And then...” She paused, her fingers stilling on the shell in her hands. “After the divorce, Sam needed to find herself again. I think she’d forgotten who she was beyond being a wife and mother.”

“Do you miss her?” The question slipped out before Meg could stop it.

“Every day,” Margo said simply. “But I understand why she needed to go. Sometimes we have to lose ourselves completely before we can find our way back.”

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, the early morning light growing stronger through the windows.

“Rick never understood the artistic side of things,” Margo continued, selecting another shell.

“He wanted certainty. Numbers. Things that could be measured and predicted.” She ran her thumb lightly over the shell’s surface.

“When your grandfather died, Rick was determined to put the Beach Shack on what he called ‘solid financial footing.’ As if Richard’s way of doing things had been the problem. ”

There was an undercurrent of old pain in her grandmother’s voice that Meg had never heard before.

“What was Grandpa Richard’s way?” she asked carefully .

Margo was quiet for a long moment, her eyes on the shell in her hands.

“Richard believed in people first, profit second. Sometimes profit third or fourth, if I’m being honest.” A ghost of a smile touched her lips.

“He extended credit to families who were struggling. Traded meals for services when someone couldn’t pay.

Gave jobs to people who needed second chances. ”

“That doesn’t sound like a sustainable business model,” Meg said before she could stop herself.

To her surprise, Margo chuckled. “That’s exactly what Rick said. Almost word for word.” She set down the shell she’d been holding. “Your uncle wasn’t wrong, exactly. But he missed what Richard understood—that a business can have a purpose beyond its balance sheet.”

The early morning light caught the iridescence of the shells on the cloth.

“Did Uncle Rick try to change things? After Grandpa died?”

Something flickered across Margo’s face—a brief shadow of remembered hurt. “He had... ideas. About restructuring. Modernizing. Making things more ‘efficient.’” The last word carried a weight that suggested deeper context. “We disagreed about the direction the Beach Shack should take.”

Meg thought about her own recent attempts to “improve” the Beach Shack’s operations, how quickly they’d been dismissed by the staff. History repeating itself, perhaps .

“Is that why he stays away? Because you didn’t take his advice?”

Margo sighed. “It’s more complicated than that.

Rick felt I was being sentimental, holding onto Richard’s way of doing things out of loyalty rather than good business sense.

And perhaps he was right, in some ways.” She picked up her brush again.

“But I made a promise to your grandfather. And I’ve kept it, all these years. ”

“What promise?” Meg asked, leaning forward slightly.

Margo’s hands stilled for a moment. “To remember what matters most,” she said finally. Then, as if realizing she’d said too much, she straightened and glanced at the clock. “My goodness, is that the time? I need to start the sourdough if we want it ready for opening.”

The abrupt subject change was clear, but Meg wasn’t ready to let go. “Margo, about the Beach Shack’s finances?—“

“Would you mind bringing in the herb delivery when it arrives?” Margo interrupted, already moving toward the kitchen. “Joey should be here by seven to help with prep.”

Meg recognized the deflection technique—she’d used it herself countless times in uncomfortable client meetings. Redirect, assign a task, change the subject. Her grandmother might be eighty, but she was still sharp as ever when it came to avoiding topics she didn’t want to discuss.

As Margo disappeared into the kitchen, Meg remained on the stool, looking at the collection of shells still laid out on the cloth. Each one perfect in its own way, selected with care, destined for a specific place in the larger pattern overhead. A pattern her mother had helped create.

Was there a message in that? Some wisdom her pragmatic business mind was missing?

Margo measured flour with practiced precision, though her thoughts were far from the familiar routine of dough preparation.

Meg’s questions had stirred memories she typically kept carefully contained—Richard’s laugh, his generous hand on a customer’s shoulder, his absolute conviction that the Beach Shack was meant to be more than just a business.

“Promise me, Margo,” he’d said in those final days, his voice weak but his grip on her hand still strong. “Promise me you’ll keep our word. No matter what Rick or anyone else says.”

And she had promised. For fifty years, she’d kept that promise, even when it meant tight finances, even when Rick had argued furiously about “throwing good money after bad,” even when it would have been easier to simply explain everything to her family.

Some promises weren’t hers alone to break.

Margo glanced through the kitchen doorway, watching Meg study the shells with a furrowed brow. So much like Sam in expression, like Richard in determination. The Turner stubborn streak, Richard had called it, present in every generation.

She’d hoped Tyler’s absence might bring Meg back temporarily, but hadn’t anticipated how it would stir everything up—the old questions, the financial concerns, the family tensions that had never fully healed.

And Meg, with her business background and analytical mind, was far more likely than Tyler to piece things together.

Perhaps that was inevitable. Perhaps, after fifty years, it was even time.

But not yet. Not until she was certain Meg would understand the choice Richard had made all those years ago—a choice guided by compassion rather than business sense.

Margo turned her attention back to the dough, working it with hands that knew this recipe by heart. Whatever came next, the Beach Shack would open on time today, serving the community as it always had. One day at a time, one customer at a time.

Some things, at least, remained constant.

When Joey arrived at seven, he found Meg reorganizing the storage closet, sorting items and creating detailed inventory labels for each shelf.

“Whoa,” he said, surveying her work. “You’ve been busy.”

“Just trying to help in ways that actually make sense for this place,” Meg replied with a self-deprecating smile, thinking of her failed operational overhaul attempt.

“Cool. Need a hand?”

They worked side by side for the next hour, Joey providing context for various supplies that Meg would have otherwise misclassified.

He showed her the special storage requirements for the sourdough starter, explained why certain ingredients needed to be kept separate from others, pointed out which items needed regular restocking and which were only occasional purchases.

Throughout their conversation, Meg found herself thinking about what Margo had said—about Richard’s business philosophy, about her promise, about the purpose beyond the balance sheet.

She’d spent her career evaluating businesses, recommending optimizations, measuring success in revenue and growth.

What would it mean to measure success differently? To see purpose beyond profit?

“You okay?” Joey asked, noticing her distraction. “You went quiet on me.”

“Just thinking,” Meg said. “Joey, how long have you worked here?”

“Three summers now. Started when I was sixteen.”

“What made you apply here specifically? There must be better-paying summer jobs.”

Joey considered this as he arranged napkin dispensers.

“My dad used to bring me here when I was a kid. Every Saturday after my Little League games, win or lose. Your grandmother always remembered my name, asked about school, that kind of thing.” He shrugged slightly.

“When I needed a job, this was the only place I applied. Feels like family here, you know?”

Meg nodded slowly, though she wasn’t sure she did know—not really. She’d spent so many years seeing the Beach Shack primarily as the business that consumed her grandmother’s time and energy. The thing her uncle complained about.

As opening time approached and the rest of the staff arrived, Meg found herself watching Margo.

Her grandmother moved through the space with the confidence of someone who knew exactly where she belonged, greeting each staff member by name, asking about family members, maintaining the connections that were clearly the true foundation of the Beach Shack’s success.