Page 4 of The Beach Shack (Laguna Beach #1)

CHAPTER FOUR

M eg leaned her forehead against the airplane window, watching the Southern California coastline come into view. Twenty-four hours ago, she’d been preparing for the most important presentation of her career. Now she was flying toward the place she’d spent years distancing herself from.

Her laptop was still open, San Clemente email half-written, waiting to be dealt with.

Brad had texted twice already.

Committee meeting at 4. Will tell them you had family emergency. Need timeline for your return.

And then:

Reeves called. Concerned about remote management. Need to reassure him ASAP.

Meg closed her eyes. One crisis at a time.

The seatbelt sign dinged as the plane began its descent. Orange County spread beneath them—planned communities, shopping centers, and eventually the coastline where Laguna nestled between hills and ocean.

She’d booked a rental car at the airport, unwilling to ask her uncle for a ride.

As she drove south from John Wayne Airport, Meg found herself automatically taking the familiar exits, muscle memory guiding her along Pacific Coast Highway. The ocean appeared and disappeared from view as she rounded the curves leading into Laguna.

It was late morning, the June sun bright overhead, tourists already filling the sidewalks and crosswalks. Meg rolled down her window, letting in the salt air. Despite everything, something inside her loosened at the familiar scent.

Her phone buzzed with a text from Tyler.

Landed in Sydney. Thank you, Meg. If you’re not staying at mom’s, you can have my place. Key’s under the back planter. Place is clean enough—ignore the surfboards in the hallway.

“I won’t need long,” Meg muttered. Even if she had no idea how to fix the Shack in less than a month. And no, she wouldn’t be staying at their mom’s place. In her childhood home, even though their mother was somewhere far away. That was the last memory box she needed to open right now.

Laguna looked almost exactly the same—same old lamppost banners, same coffee shop with the chipped sign, same beachfront park where teenagers pretended not to notice their parents walking by.

But here and there, something had shifted. A boutique she didn’t recognize. A condo building where the bookstore used to be.

She turned off PCH onto a quiet residential street that wound up the hillside.

Tyler’s small bungalow sat halfway up, a modest pale blue structure with a glimpse of ocean from the front porch.

Meg remembered when he’d bought it three years ago—she’d sent a housewarming gift but hadn’t made it to his party.

After parking, she sat in the rental car for a moment, gathering herself. The plan was simple—get settled at Tyler’s, check in with Brad, then head to the Beach Shack for Margo’s birthday. Professional and efficient. She wasn’t here for a nostalgic homecoming.

Tyler’s place was surprisingly tidy, apart from the promised surfboards lining one hallway. The furnishings were minimal—a comfortable couch, coffee table stacked with surf magazines, and a small dining table that clearly functioned as his desk, covered with camera equipment and prints.

A photo sat on a shelf above the surfboard rack— sun-bleached, slightly crooked. The three of them—Meg, Tyler, and their sister Anna—lined up at the Shack counter, each holding a grilled cheese and grinning like it was the best day of their lives.

She didn’t remember the photo being taken. But she remembered the grilled cheese. And how Margo had made them all laugh so hard, someone snorted lemonade.

Meg wheeled her suitcase into the spare room, which was little more than a storage room with a futon, but it would do. No need to unpack. She wouldn’t be here long enough.

She noticed another closed door down the hall—probably Tyler’s home office—but didn’t want to intrude on his private space.

She set up her laptop on Tyler’s dining table and connected to his WiFi. The San Clemente email still waited for her attention, but first she texted Brad.

Just arrived. Will call into committee meeting at 4. Working on client email now.

His response came immediately.

Send me your plan for handling this remotely before the meeting.

Meg took a deep breath, fighting back the rising anxiety.

She had three hours before the call, enough time to check on Margo first. She changed from her travel clothes into something more casual but still polished—dark jeans, a crisp white button-down, low heels.

Not quite Beach Shack attire, but she couldn’t bring herself to go full beach casual yet.

The Beach Shack came into view after she’d driven through the small, beachfront town of Laguna, passing the familiar small shops and parks that had been the cornerstone of the town for—well, as long as she could remember.

It sat on a small piece of land just above one of Laguna’s quieter beaches, a weathered wooden structure that had somehow survived decades of coastal development.

Meg parked in the small lot behind it, noticing the vintage surfboards mounted decoratively along the exterior walls, each with a small plaque beneath it.

She hesitated at the back door, suddenly nervous. She hadn’t told Margo she was coming. Years in corporate America, presenting to boardrooms and managing million-dollar campaigns, and here she was, anxious about facing her own grandmother.

The door was propped open to catch the ocean breeze. Meg could hear the familiar sounds inside—the sizzle of the grill, glasses clinking, the murmur of conversation and occasional laughter. She took a deep breath and stepped inside.

The smell hit her first—melting cheese, sourdough bread, and that indefinable scent of the place that was somehow distinct from the food itself.

The Beach Shack wasn’t large—a counter with stools along one side, a handful of mismatched tables scattered throughout, and windows open to the ocean view and larger deck.

But it was the ceiling that caught Meg’s attention, as it always did.

Every inch was covered in shells—thousands of them, arranged in patterns that seemed random at first glance but revealed intricate designs if you looked long enough.

New shells had been added since she’d last visited, the mosaic evolving like a living thing.

“Meg?”

She turned to find her grandmother standing behind the counter, spatula in hand, eyes wide with surprise.

Margo Turner had always been small, but she seemed even more diminutive now, though she stood as straight as ever.

Her silver hair was pulled back in its usual practical bun, and she wore the Beach Shack’s signature blue apron over a simple white shirt.

“Hi,” Meg said, moving toward the counter. “Happy birthday.”

“Thank you.” Margo set down her spatula, eyes narrowing slightly. “Tyler called you.”

It wasn’t a question. Meg nodded anyway.

“That boy.” Margo shook her head. “I told him I’m perfectly fine.”

“He mentioned he needed to leave town for a while.”

“Some emergency in Australia,” Margo said, turning back to the grill. “He was very mysterious about it. Said it was something he should have handled months ago.”

“That doesn’t sound like Tyler. ”

“No,” Margo agreed quietly. “It doesn’t. But he seemed... determined. Like he’d made up his mind about something important.” She paused, then added, “But that’s no reason for you to interrupt your life. I’ve been running this place for fifty years without help.”

A young server approached the counter, glancing curiously at Meg. “Orders up for tables three and seven, Margo.”

“Coming right up, Joey,” Margo replied, flipping two perfectly golden sandwiches onto plates. She moved with practiced efficiency, but Meg noticed a slight tremor in her hands.

When Margo reached up to grab a plate from the high shelf, she paused for just a moment, steadying herself against the counter. It was so brief Meg almost missed it, but there it was—the hesitation of someone who couldn't quite trust her balance.

Joey came around the counter and started to fill a glass of soda, but nothing came out of the spigot. Meg watched Joey bang the side of the ancient soda machine to get it working.

“How old is this thing?”

“Older than me, that’s for sure,” he grinned. “Margo says it has character.”

Margo shrugged when Meg glanced in her direction.

“Let me help,” Meg said, stepping behind the counter before Margo could object. She picked up the plates and looked at the server. “Three and seven?”

The teenage boy nodded, still looking at her curiously. “You must be Meg. Tyler said you might be coming.”

“That’s me. Tyler’s sister who escaped to the big city,” she said lightly, though the words held an edge she hadn’t intended.

“Cool. I’m Joey. I work the lunch shift.” He took the plates from her. “Nice to finally meet you. Margo talks about you all the time.”

As Joey delivered the food, Meg turned back to her grandmother, who was already preparing more sandwiches for the grill.

“I don’t need help,” Margo said, not looking up. “Tyler worries too much.”

“Well, I’m here now,” Meg replied. “And since it’s your birthday, maybe you could take a break and let me handle things for a bit?”

Margo finally met her eyes. “You don’t even know the menu.”

Meg couldn’t help but laugh. “It’s grilled cheese. I think I can manage.”

“Not just any grilled cheese,” Margo corrected, a hint of pride breaking through her resistance. “And we’re only open until three.”

“That’s it? Four hours a day?”

A half-smile touched Margo’s lips. “Eleven to three. That’s all we need. Unless...”

“Unless what?”

Before Margo could answer, the old ship’s bell near the door rang, its clear tone cutting through the chatter. The locals at the counter immediately perked up, exchanging knowing glances.

“Surf’s up,” Joey announced, grinning as he passed.

Margo sighed, but Meg could see the fondness in her expression. “And that means we might stay open a bit longer today. It’s tradition—when the waves are perfect, we keep the grill hot.”