Page 43 of The Beach Shack (Laguna Beach #1)

M eg woke early, before the sounds of the town stirred, before even the surfers staked out their places in the shallows. The sky over Tyler’s porch was a soft watercolor—lavender smeared with gold, like someone had taken a wet brush to the horizon.

Anna answered on the second ring, her voice thick with sleep. “Is this you having a morning crisis or a morning epiphany?”

“Not sure yet,” Meg said. “Is there a word for both?”

Anna laughed softly, and Meg could picture her sitting up in her tiny Florence apartment, probably surrounded by paint tubes and coffee cups. “You didn’t sleep.”

“Some. But…” Meg paused, watching a pelican dive into the waves. “Everything here feels different now. Like it matters in a way I didn’t see before.”

“Because it does,” Anna said simply. “You sound different, too.”

“Different how?”

“Less... wound up. Like you’re not trying to solve something every second.” A pause. “When’s the last time you sat somewhere without your laptop?”

Meg glanced at the closed computer beside her and smiled. “About ten minutes ago.”

“See? Growth.”

They were quiet for a moment, the comfortable kind of silence that only happened between sisters when the edges had been smoothed down.

“I’ve been thinking about the ceiling,” Meg said finally.

“Margo’s masterpiece?”

“I always thought you had to be invited to add a shell. Like there was some official process.”

“She doesn’t invite,” Anna said. “She notices. And when you’re ready, she knows. It’s not about permission—it’s about belonging.”

Meg shifted on the step, watching the light change from lavender to pale gold. “What if I’m not sure I belong yet?”

“Meg.” Anna’s voice was gentler now. “You called me weeks ago because you were frustrated with efficiency charts. Now you’re sitting on a porch at dawn talking about belonging. That’s not someone who’s unsure.”

Meg felt something loosen in her chest. “I think I’ve been doing everything wrong. Here, I mean. Trying to fix things that weren’t broken.”

“Welcome to being a Turner,” Anna said with a laugh. “We’re all fixers. The trick is figuring out what actually needs fixing.”

They talked a few minutes more—about Bea’s latest sketch of the Duomo, about Florence’s weird obsession with putting anchovies on everything, about how Anna was already missing the morning light in their Laguna kitchen.

“I keep thinking about that summer when we were kids,” Anna said. “When you taught me to make proper coffee because you said mine tasted like dishwater.”

“You were twelve and using teaspoons instead of tablespoons of grounds,” Meg laughed. “It was basically dishwater with coffee grounds in it.”

“But you didn’t just tell me I was doing it wrong. You showed me the right way. You cared about getting it right.” Anna’s voice grew more serious. “That’s who you are, Meg. You fix things because you love them. The Beach Shack, Margo, all of us—we’re lucky to have you.”

After they hung up, Meg tied her sneakers, tucked the thermos under one arm, and walked down the slope to the beach. The sand was firm under her feet, marked only by the tracks of early morning joggers and the occasional seagull.

She passed Mrs. Baker walking her ancient corgi, who nodded and smiled without breaking stride.

A surfer in a wetsuit jogged past carrying his board, salt water still dripping from his hair.

The morning crowd was smaller, quieter—people who belonged to this time of day when everything felt possible.

No revelations. No soundtrack swelling. Just sand in her shoes and sea air in her lungs.

She hadn’t meant to look for a shell.

But when she saw it—small, ridged, and just a little broken at the edge—she stopped. It wasn’t perfect. Definitely not the kind of thing she would have picked up weeks ago, when she was still thinking in terms of flawless presentations and optimized outcomes.

But something about it reminded her of the iridescent one Margo had added on her birthday. Imperfect but catching the light anyway. Not flashy. Not obvious. Just honest.

She turned it over in her hand, feeling the rough edges where it had been tumbled by waves. It wasn’t from Florence or Fiji or some exotic beach sent from vacation. Just here. Laguna. Home.

Back at the Shack, she unlocked the door, not bothering to turn on the lights. Morning light filtered through the side windows. The ladder was still propped in the corner from Joey’s last ceiling repair. She stepped toward it, shell still in her hand?—

The soft creak of the back door made her pause .

Margo stood in the doorway, early as always, a small paper bag from the bakery in one hand and her keys in the other. She looked surprised but not displeased to find Meg there.

“You’re here early,” Margo said, setting down her things.

“Couldn’t sleep,” Meg replied. She hesitated, then held out her hand to show the shell. “Actually... I found this. And I was thinking—maybe—if it’s okay...”

Margo stepped closer, peered down at the shell in Meg’s palm. “Hmm.” Her eyes crinkled at the corners. “Not perfect.”

Meg smiled. “No. But it caught the light.”

Margo nodded slowly, then reached for the ladder and steadied it. “You’ll know where it goes. You’re a Turner, after all.”

Meg looked at her. “Are you sure?”

“Meg,” Margo said gently, “I’ve been saving you a spot since the day you were born.”

Heart thudding, Meg climbed carefully, the shell gripped tight in her fingers. Up close, the ceiling was even more intricate than she’d realized—hundreds of shells, some clustered like constellations, others scattered like sea glass in tide pools.

There, between a pink cowrie and a faded blue conch, was just enough space. Like it had been waiting for her.

She pressed the shell in with a dab of glue from the small container Margo kept tucked behind the register. Not for anyone else. Not for a system or a spreadsheet or a quarterly report. Because she wanted to be part of the story.

She climbed down and looked up. Her shell looked small among the others, but it caught the morning light just right. Perfectly imperfect, Anna would’ve called it.

Margo looped an arm around her shoulders. “Welcome home, dear.”

“I’m really staying,” Meg said, her voice thick. “For good this time.”

“I know,” Margo whispered. “I’ve been waiting for you to figure that out.”

They stood there in the golden morning light, surrounded by the shells and stories of everyone who had ever called this place important, and Meg understood finally that she wasn’t just visiting or helping temporarily.

She was home.

Thank you for spending time in Laguna Beach with Meg, Margo, and the Beach Shack crew. I hope their journey brought you warmth, comfort, and maybe even a little hope—just like the Shack itself.