Page 39 of The Beach Shack (Laguna Beach #1)

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

M eg didn’t sleep much that night.

She’d told herself she would—had even made tea and set her laptop aside—but her mind kept circling the same question: How do you help someone who doesn’t want to be helped?

She’d come back to Laguna to fix things. Fix the Beach Shack. Fix her grandmother’s finances. Fix, maybe, something in herself she hadn’t realized was broken.

But the more she tried to untangle the past, the more it pulled taut like a thread wound too tight. The Standing Obligation wasn’t just a payment. It was a promise. One that predated her, outlasted her grandfather, and—most confusing of all—seemed to matter more to Margo than solvency ever had.

At dawn, Meg padded barefoot into the kitchen of Tyler’s small bungalow, wrapped in one of his old sweatshirts. The ocean air was cool and smelled faintly of eucalyptus. She made coffee and stood at the window while it brewed, watching the waves curl and break against the shore like breath.

Later, she arrived at the Shack before opening, letting herself in with the jangling set of keys she now carried on a red-and-yellow Shack keychain.

The lights were off, but the space felt alive with memory: the creak of the screen door, the scent of salt and cheese, the ghosts of laughter and late nights and long-held rituals.

Margo was already in the kitchen, kneading dough for the day’s sourdough batch. She didn’t look up when Meg entered, but she didn’t need to.

“Looks like sleepless nights and early mornings are becoming a habit,” Margo said.

Meg nodded and reached for her apron.

“I know you want to understand,” Margo said after a while, hands still moving through the flour-dusted rhythm she’d mastered decades ago. “And I’m not trying to keep you in the dark. But some things take time.”

“I’m starting to realize that,” Meg said. “But it’s hard. I’m not used to waiting for answers.”

Margo smiled softly. “You never were.”

They worked in silence for a few minutes—Meg pulling out trays, checking inventory—until Margo wiped her hands and looked up.

“Your grandfather made a promise to someone once,” she said. “Someone who helped him get the Shack off the ground when no one else would take a chance on a half-broke veteran with a dream and a beat-up grill.”

Meg stayed quiet, listening.

“It was supposed to be a silent investment,” Margo continued. “No ownership. No oversight. Just quiet support. And in return, Richard agreed to monthly payments. Long-term. No questions asked.”

Meg blinked. “Even after the investor passed away?”

Margo nodded. “I found out by accident, years later. An obituary. No heirs who wanted anything to do with a beach restaurant halfway across the country.”

Meg frowned. “So you just... kept paying?”

Margo gave a small shrug. “At first, yes. Then I started redirecting the money. Quietly. To people who needed it. Joey’s trade school fund. Mrs. Pullen, when her husband fell ill. Kids whose parents couldn’t afford tuition but were too proud to ask for help.”

“I set up a small scholarship fund to make it official—the Laguna Promise Foundation. Nothing fancy, just legitimate enough that the kids wouldn’t ask questions about where the money came from.”

Meg leaned against the prep counter, stunned. “You turned it into a scholarship.”

Margo’s hands stilled in the dough. “I turned it into what Richard would’ve wanted. A way to keep helping.”

“And no one knew?”

“A few. People I trusted. Your uncle Rick knew I was still making the payments, but he didn’t know what I was really doing with the money. He thought I was wasting it on a dead obligation. ”

Meg exhaled slowly. “That’s why he backed away.”

“Rick believes in clean ledgers. Balance sheets. He thought I was throwing good money after a promise that no longer existed.”

“And you didn’t?”

Margo met her gaze. “I made a different commitment. One to Richard. And to this community. The Standing Obligation isn’t just money. It’s memory. It’s a way to say—we take care of our own.”

Meg’s throat tightened. “You’ve been doing this… every month?”

“Every single one.”

They stood in silence for a moment, the sounds of the kitchen quiet but steady—water boiling, the scrape of metal on ceramic, the soft pat of dough under Margo’s hands.

“I need time to process this,” Meg said quietly.

Margo nodded. “Of course, dear. Some things are too big to absorb all at once.”

The morning rush passed in a blur. Meg moved through the familiar motions—taking orders, flipping sandwiches, clearing tables—but her mind was elsewhere, turning over Margo’s revelation like a shell in her pocket.

Joey arrived for his shift with his usual cheerful energy. “Hello? ”

Margo called out, “In the kitchen!” and gave Meg a knowing look.

As Joey tied on his apron, Meg watched him with new eyes. This young man with his dreams of marine systems training, his careful savings, his quiet dedication—he was exactly who the Laguna Promise Foundation was meant to help. Soon he'd know about the scholarship. He'd earned it.

The lunch crowd was lighter than usual, giving Meg space to think. Every time she looked at the shell ceiling, she saw it differently now.

By afternoon, Meg had made her decision.

She found Margo restocking napkin dispensers, moving with the deliberate care that had become more noticeable lately.

“What happens next?” Meg asked. “With the payments. With the Shack?”

Margo looked up from the dispenser. “That’s not just my decision anymore.”

Meg took a breath. “I think I want to help. Not just with spreadsheets and staffing charts. But—with whatever this place really is.”

Margo’s face softened. “Then we’ll talk. You, me, Tyler—when he’s back. There’s room here for new chapters.”

“There’s something else,” Meg said. “About Uncle Rick.”

Margo’s expression grew wary. “Rick’s made his feelings clear about how I’ve been managing things.”

“Because he doesn’t know the truth.” Meg leaned against the counter. “What if we told him? About the scholarship fund. About what you’ve really been doing all these years.”

“Rick won’t want to hear it. He’ll say I should have told him decades ago.”

“Maybe,” Meg said gently. “But maybe he’ll also realize he was wrong about you throwing money away. Maybe it’s time to heal that wound.”

Margo was quiet for a long moment, her hands stilling on the napkins. “You really think he’d want to help?”

“I think he’d be honored to help. Once he understands what this really is.”

Just then, Meg’s phone buzzed.

A message from Tyler:

Be there soon. And I’m not coming alone.

Meg stared at the message, her breath catching just slightly.

She slipped the phone into her pocket and turned back to Margo. Everything was about to change again.

But for the first time in weeks, she felt ready.