Page 5 of The Beach Shack (Laguna Beach #1)

Meg made a mental note to be back at Tyler’s by 3:30, regardless of how long the Beach Shack stayed open. The committee call wasn’t something she could miss.

The back door opened, and an older woman entered, carrying a small package wrapped in bright blue paper.

“Margo Turner! Today’s the big day,” the woman called out, then stopped short when she saw Meg. “Well, look who’s finally come home.”

“Eleanor,” Meg said, recognizing her grandmother’s oldest friend. “Good to see you.”

Eleanor Tanaka, elegant at seventy-eight with a stylish silver bob and artist’s flowing clothes, came forward to study Meg with frank assessment. “Corporate life must agree with you. You look successful.”

“Eleanor,” Margo chided. “Don’t start.”

“What? It’s a compliment.” Eleanor set the package on the counter and turned to Margo. “Did you know she was coming?”

“No more than you did,” Margo replied, adding cheese to bread on the grill. “Tyler apparently took matters into his own hands. ”

“Good for him,” Eleanor said firmly. “You’re too stubborn to ask for help, even when you need it.”

Meg felt oddly like she was watching a familiar play whose lines she’d forgotten. Eleanor had always been the one person who could speak bluntly to Margo without consequence, their friendship spanning decades.

“I don’t need—“ Margo began.

“Yes, you do,” Eleanor interrupted. “And now that Meg’s here, you have even more reason to be excited about tonight.”

Margo’s cheeks flushed slightly. “It’s going to be lovely. I just hope the weather holds.”

“Of course it will,” Eleanor said fondly. “The universe wouldn’t dare rain on Margo Turner’s eightieth birthday.” She turned to Meg. “Tyler was so disappointed he’d miss it. He made me promise the party would be perfect—especially since he can’t be here to celebrate with you properly.”

Meg watched her grandmother’s face soften with love and a touch of wistfulness. “I can stay and help with the setup if you’d like.”

“Would you?” Margo asked, and Meg caught the genuine pleasure in her voice. “I’d love that. Though I do need to make one more batch of sandwiches first.”

“No, you don’t,” Eleanor said firmly. “Joey and Meg can handle the afternoon shift. Today is about celebrating you.”

Margo looked like she might protest, then smiled instead. “You’re right. It’s not every day you turn eighty.”

“Exactly,” Eleanor said with a grin. “And we’re going to make sure it’s memorable.”

“Joey and I can handle it,” Meg said, surprising herself. “Right, Joey?”

The teenager looked up from wiping a table and nodded. “Totally. I’ve run Surf’s Up hours with Tyler before.”

Margo’s mouth tightened, but Meg could see the fight leaving her. “Fine. But I’m making one more batch for the Barnes family first. They come once a week.”

Eleanor caught Meg’s eye and winked. “That’s Margo-speak for ‘thank you.’”

Margo glanced at her, something softening in her expression. “You’ll need an apron first,” she said, reaching beneath the counter. She pulled out a faded blue apron and held it out. “This one was your mother’s.”

Meg took it, fingers tracing the worn fabric, emotion catching in her throat. “I didn’t know you kept it.”

“Some things are worth holding onto,” Margo said simply, turning back to the grill. “Now, pay attention. There’s more to making the perfect grilled cheese than most people realize.”

And despite all her plans to maintain professional distance, Meg tied the apron around her waist and reached out to take the spatula her grandmother was holding out to her.

The next two hours passed in a blur of melted cheese and easy rhythm.

Meg discovered that making grilled cheese wasn’t quite as simple as she’d thought—there was an art to timing the flip, to knowing when the sourdough had reached the perfect golden brown, to matching the right cheese blend with each customer’s order.

Joey proved to be an excellent teacher, showing her how to work the ancient cash register and warning her about the temperamental soda machine’s quirks. The lunch crowd was steady but manageable—locals who seemed more interested in catching up with each other than rushing through their meals.

“You’re getting the hang of it,” Joey said as Meg successfully flipped three sandwiches without burning any. “Tyler said you were scary smart, but he never mentioned you could actually cook.”

“I’m not cooking,” Meg replied, plating the orders. “I’m just following instructions.”

“Same thing, really,” Margo said with a small smile.

By three o’clock, the last customer had departed and Joey was wiping down tables. Meg glanced at her watch—thirty minutes until her committee call. Her stomach tightened as she remembered what was waiting for her.

Margo had returned from her birthday break and couldn’t stay out of the kitchen .

“You should go,” Margo said, noticing her checking the time. “Joey and I can handle the closing routine.”

Meg untied the apron, her fingers lingering on the soft fabric. “Thank you. For letting me help.”

“Thank you for showing up,” Margo replied simply.

As Meg hurried toward her car, she could smell the lingering scent of grilled cheese on her clothes and feel the slight ache in her feet from standing all afternoon.

Her phone buzzed with yet another email from Brad, but for once, the corporate urgency felt distant, almost surreal after the gentle rhythm of the Beach Shack.

She had exactly nineteen minutes to transform back into the polished marketing executive who could handle million-dollar clients and committee politics.