Page 3 of The Beach Shack (Laguna Beach #1)
CHAPTER THREE
“ M eg?” Brad’s voice held an edge now. The V.P. committee and San Clemente representatives were all seated in the conference room, visible through the glass walls. “Is there a problem?”
She lowered the phone, mind racing. “My grandmother. There’s an issue at her business. My brother needs to leave town unexpectedly.”
Brad’s expression shifted from concern to barely concealed impatience. “I’m sorry to hear that. Perhaps your other family members can handle it?”
“My sister’s in Europe. My uncle won’t help. My mom’s—I have no idea where she is.” Meg glanced at her phone, where a text was already coming in from Tyler:
Flight leaves at noon. Please, Meg .
Brad checked his watch. “Meg, I sympathize, truly. But this meeting represents months of work. Your future at this firm.” He gestured toward the conference room. “Mr. Reeves specifically mentioned your Marketing Weekly profile. They’re expecting you personally.”
Meg nodded mechanically, her thoughts tangled between the presentation materials in her hand and Margo standing behind the grill at eighty years old with no one to help her.
Meg hadn’t seen her in years—but she still remembered the smell of rosemary on Margo’s hands, the way she’d let Meg work the summer lunch rush like it was a privilege, not a chore.
Margo had taught her how to flip grilled cheese without tearing the bread.
How to pinch basil, not cut it. How to listen.
If something happened to her—Meg didn’t know what she’d do.
And that surprised her. More than it should have.
“Let me just get through this meeting,” she said finally. “Then I’ll figure out what to do.”
“That’s my girl.” Brad squeezed her shoulder briefly. “You’ve worked too hard to let anything derail this opportunity.”
As they entered the conference room, Meg slid her phone to silent mode and placed it face-down on the table beside her. She smiled, extended her hand to the San Clemente Resort owner, and launched into her carefully rehearsed introduction.
For ninety minutes, Meg was flawless. She walked the clients through market research, competitor analysis, and her vision for authentic coastal experiences that would transform their dated property into a destination for affluent travelers seeking connection to local culture.
“What impressed us most,” she said, displaying before-and-after mockups of their rebranded website, “is how deeply rooted your family is in San Clemente’s history. That’s not something a corporate hotel chain can replicate. It’s your genuine competitive advantage.”
Mr. Reeves, the silver-haired patriarch whose father had built the resort in the 1950s, nodded appreciatively. “You understand what makes us special.”
She pushed the thought away, focusing on the final portion of her presentation.
When the meeting concluded, handshakes were exchanged, and Brad was beaming. “They loved you,” he whispered as they walked the clients to the elevator. “I could see Reeves mentally signing the contract.”
The moment the elevator doors closed, Meg grabbed her phone. Three missed calls from Tyler and a text: Boarding now. Please tell me you’re coming.
“I need to make a call,” she told Brad, already walking toward her office.
“Wait.” Brad followed her. “The committee wants to debrief while everything’s fresh. This is the final hurdle, Meg.”
She paused, torn between immediate professional obligation and the increasingly urgent family situation. “Give me five minutes.”
Tyler had always floated in and out of things—surfing, photography, odd jobs. But for the past year, he’d quietly become Margo’s right hand. Not flashy. Just dependable. Like the tide.
In her office, she closed the door and called Tyler, who answered immediately. “I’m at the gate. What’s happening?”
“I just finished the presentation that could make my career,” she said, pacing. “Your timing is awful.”
“I’m sorry.” The background announcement of boarding groups confirmed he was at the airport. “But Margo needs help.”
Meg rubbed her forehead. “How long will you be gone?”
“A few weeks. Maybe a month.” His voice lowered. “It’s complicated, Meg. I can’t explain everything now.”
“A month?! Tyler, I can’t just abandon my job for a month.”
“I’m not asking you to stay the whole time. Just until I can figure out something permanent. Margo’s too proud to admit she can’t handle it anymore, but she’s exhausted, Meg.” There was a pause.
“What about remote work?” Meg bargained. “I could come down for a week, get things organized, hire temporary help.”
“Try it,” Tyler said, relief evident in his voice. “Just... be there, okay? Her birthday dinner is tomorrow at six, and she’ll pretend everything’s fine, but I can tell she’s struggling.”
Meg closed her eyes. Of course, it had to be now .
“I have to go. We’re boarding now,” Tyler said. “Thanks, Meg. I knew I could count on you.”
The call ended before she could respond. Meg stared at her phone, then at the folder on her desk.
A knock at her door preceded Brad’s entrance. “Everything okay?”
“I need some time off,” Meg said. The words felt foreign in her mouth.
Brad sat on the edge of her desk. “After the contract’s signed, absolutely. You’ve earned a vacation.”
“It’s not a vacation. I’m taking family leave. Starting tomorrow.”
His smile faltered. “You can’t be serious.”
“My grandmother’s turning eighty and running a business alone. My brother has to leave, and there’s no one else.”
“Meg.” Brad lowered his voice as if sharing a difficult truth with a child. “We all have family obligations. The difference between associates and vice presidents is knowing where to draw boundaries.”
Something in his tone—the patronizing certainty—sparked a flare of defiance in Meg. “My grandmother has run this restaurant for over fifty years. It’s her life.”
“This isn’t about your grandmother. It’s about your commitment.” Brad straightened, his voice hardening. “The committee votes in three weeks. If you walk out now, what message does that send?”
Meg’s gaze drifted to her tablet, where her calendar displayed back-to-back meetings for the next two weeks. Then to the sunset painting on the wall .
“I’m not walking out. I’m requesting family leave while continuing to work remotely. The presentation is done, the materials delivered. I can handle client communications from anywhere.”
“And the daily strategy meetings? The creative reviews? The committee interviews?” Brad shook his head. “Your timing couldn’t be worse.”
“I’m aware.” Meg began gathering items from her desk—laptop, tablet, phone charger. “But I need to be in Laguna tomorrow.”
Brad watched her pack, incredulity gradually giving way to resignation. “You’re really doing this.”
“I’m handling both responsibilities,” Meg corrected him, sliding her laptop into its case. “I can finish up this committee meeting. I’ll fly out first thing in the morning and call into the debrief from the airport.”
“And if the committee interprets this as lack of commitment?”
Meg paused, the weight of years of sacrifice pressing on her shoulders. “Then they misunderstand what commitment means.”
Brad’s expression suggested he thought she was making a catastrophic mistake, but he merely nodded. “I’ll tell them you had a family emergency. Try to minimize the damage.”
“Thank you.” Meg shouldered her bag. “I’ll email you my flight details and be available by phone. The San Clemente presentation was perfect—they’re going to sign.”
She fielded the committee’s questions, outlined the next steps, and ducked into her office to grab her things.
As she walked toward the elevator, Brad called after her. “Meg?” She turned. “Whatever this beach place is—I hope it’s worth it.”
A memory flashed through her mind—sitting at the Beach Shack counter as a child, watching Margo flip perfect grilled cheese sandwiches while telling stories about the shells embedded in the ceiling.
“It’s just a little grilled cheese stand,” she said. “But it’s been in our family for fifty years.”
In the Uber to her apartment, Meg booked a flight, emailed her assistant with instructions, and sent a message to Tyler: On my way.
She was putting her career on hold for a grilled cheese stand. No. For Margo.