Page 6 of The Beach Shack (Laguna Beach #1)
CHAPTER FIVE
She’d barely made it out of the Beach Shack in time, still smelling faintly of sourdough and cheddar, with sun-warmed skin and salt-damp hair. Her grandmother had waved her off with a knowing look and a reminder to “breathe through your mouth when corporate talks in circles.”
Three minutes to look like she hadn’t just flipped grilled onions for half of Laguna Beach.
She ducked into the bathroom, ran a brush through her wind-tangled hair, swiped on lip balm and the smallest flick of eyeliner. Even though it was an audio-only meeting, Meg straightened her blouse and squared her shoulders as if stepping onto a stage.
At 4:00 exactly, her phone rang.
“Meg Walsh,” she answered, voice smooth, clipped, professional.
On the other end: Brad, her direct supervisor. “Meg, I’ve got Tom Harrison and Sheila Martinez from the client committee with me, and Daniel Jackson from legal.”
Meg greeted each one with her usual blend of warmth and steel, already anticipating their concerns.
They didn’t disappoint.
“We understand there’s been a family emergency,” Tom said. “I hope everything’s alright.”
“It is, thank you,” Meg replied. “Just a short-term situation with my grandmother’s business.”
Brad didn’t even pause. “The San Clemente team is nervous. They asked for you specifically.”
“I’ve drafted a full remote operations plan,” Meg said, already clicking through her deck. “Everything is mapped out—deliverables, client comms, creative oversight, and approval chains. I’m reachable via Zoom, email, and phone.”
She pitched it cleanly, ticking every box.
But Daniel wasn’t convinced. “Meg, Mr. Reeves is concerned about leadership visibility. A remote plan may not be enough.”
Meg felt her jaw tighten. “Understood. But my commitment to this project hasn’t changed. Only my location.”
Sheila, ever the diplomat, offered a softer tone. “We just want to be sure the momentum continues.”
The conversation looped and circled—concerns about client confidence, questions about timeline adjustments, thinly veiled threats about promotion implications.
Meg fielded each one with practiced professionalism, but she could feel the familiar tightness building in her chest. The performance exhaustion that came from constantly proving herself worthy of trust.
“I’ll have the revised deliverables to you by end of week,” she said, making notes she wasn’t sure she meant. “And I’m available for face-to-face if absolutely necessary.”
“We appreciate your flexibility, Meg,” Tom said, though his tone suggested flexibility was expected, not appreciated. “We’ll reconvene next week to assess.”
By the time the call ended, Meg felt like she’d run a marathon in heels. Her hands hovered over the keyboard, then dropped to her lap. The performance was over.
She sat back in the chair, gaze drifting toward the picture window.
The Pacific shimmered under a softening sky, painted in shades of gold and rose.
Somewhere in town, Margo was probably icing a cake or adjusting flowers.
Eleanor would be lighting candles and fussing with napkins.
People would be arriving soon for a celebration that had nothing to do with quarterly projections or promotions.
She let the silence settle, feeling the weight of constantly switching between worlds.
Her laptop dinged—a new email from Brad. “Reeves wants a personal call in the morning. Please review updated copy by tonight.”
Meg stared at the subject line, then deliberately closed the laptop without opening the message.
Instead, she stood and walked barefoot to the kitchen, her feet still gritty with Beach Shack sand.
There, on the counter, was the soft ocean-toned scarf she’d bought Margo the day before.
It wasn’t fancy—just silk in shifting shades of blue and green that reminded her of sea glass tumbled smooth by waves.
The kind of quiet beauty that didn’t need to announce itself.
She added a handwritten note: Happy 80th. Still learning from you every day. Then slipped it into a simple gift bag.
The contrast wasn’t lost on her. An hour ago, she’d been defending her commitment to people who measured her worth in billable hours and client retention.
Now she was choosing a gift for someone who’d spent fifty years making grilled cheese with the same quiet dedication, asking for nothing more than the chance to keep showing up.
Meg moved through Tyler’s house slowly, letting herself transition.
Off came the structured blouse, replaced by a sleeveless top in soft coral—a color she rarely wore in San Francisco but suddenly felt right.
She traded her work slacks for comfortable jeans, added tiny gold hoops that caught the light, and twisted her hair into a loose braid that felt beachy rather than boardroom-ready.
In the mirror, she looked like someone who belonged at a seaside birthday party rather than a corporate strategy session. The transformation felt both foreign and familiar, like slipping into clothes that had been waiting in the back of her closet.
Her phone buzzed with another message—probably Brad with additional urgent requests. Meg glanced at it, then deliberately left it on the counter as she gathered her keys and Margo’s gift.
Tonight wasn’t about crisis management or client appeasement. It was about celebrating eighty years of a woman who’d built something lasting with her own hands, one sandwich at a time.
The drive took all of four minutes, winding down familiar streets that looked different in the early evening light. Meg had forgotten how quickly things shifted from residential to coastal, how the scent of the ocean grew stronger with each turn. The Beach Shack sat right where land met water.
As she pulled into the small lot beside the restaurant, the first thing she noticed was the music—Van Morrison, mellow and warm, drifting from speakers she couldn’t see. String lights had been strung across the deck. Even the famous grilled cheese sign seemed to glow differently tonight.
The transformation was remarkable. The utilitarian lunch spot had become something magical—intimate tables draped in blue cloth, mason jars filled with wildflowers, the sound of conversation and laughter mixing with the rhythm of waves below.
Meg stepped onto the deck with Margo’s gift in hand, taking in the scene.
About twenty people had gathered—some standing with wine glasses, others seated at tables that had been pushed together to create a long, communal space.
She recognized faces from her time at the Beach Shack—regular customers, local business owners, the kind of people who’d watched Margo serve their families for decades.
“Look who made it!” Eleanor appeared at her side, wearing a flamingo-print apron over her linen dress and holding a half-empty bottle of rosé. “Our corporate refugee!”
Meg laughed, some of the work tension finally easing from her shoulders. “I clean up okay for a grilled cheese intern.”
“Better than okay,” Eleanor said, handing her a glass of wine. “You look like you belong here. Which you do, of course.”
Meg accepted the glass gratefully, setting Margo’s gift on a table already crowded with presents—homemade jams with handwritten labels, pillar candles, a small potted orchid, flowers wrapped in brown paper. Gifts chosen with care rather than obligation .
“Where’s the birthday girl?” Meg asked, scanning the deck.
“Kitchen,” Eleanor said, gesturing toward the restaurant. “Last-minute cake preparations. You know how she is—can’t let anyone else handle the details.”
Meg nodded, sipping her wine and watching the easy interactions around her.
Vivian was adjusting the speaker, making sure the music reached every corner without overwhelming conversation.
An older man she recognized from lunch service—Bernie, she thought—passed a tray of appetizers that looked like miniature grilled cheese triangles.
A small child with chocolate frosting on her chin made a beeline for Bernie’s tray, and Meg smiled at the gentle way he bent down to offer her first choice.
“She’ll be out in a minute,” Eleanor said, following Meg’s gaze toward the kitchen. “She’s been looking forward to this for a week, though she’d never admit it.”
“Has she?” Meg was surprised by this. Margo seemed like someone who tolerated celebration rather than sought it.
“Oh yes. She kept asking if you were really coming, trying to sound casual about it.” Eleanor’s smile was knowing. “You being here matters more than you probably realize.”
Before Meg could respond, the kitchen door opened and Margo appeared.
She looked transformed. Gone was the practical work attire Meg had grown accustomed to, replaced by a flowing blue caftan that moved like water in the evening breeze.
Her silver hair was swept into a low twist rather than its usual efficient bun, and a delicate shell necklace rested at her collarbone.
Her cheeks were flushed—whether from kitchen heat or happiness, Meg couldn’t tell—and in her hands she carried a chocolate cake topped with a single tall candle.
Conversation quieted as people noticed her entrance. Someone began to clap, and the applause spread across the deck like a wave. Margo’s face lit up with a smile Meg had never seen—unguarded and genuinely pleased.
“To our Margo!” Vivian called out, raising her glass high.
“To eighty years of feeding us all!” Bernie added from across the deck.
“To the woman who taught us that simple done right is better than fancy done wrong!” Eleanor chimed in.
“To Margo!” the gathered crowd echoed, glasses raised toward the woman who’d brought them all together.
Meg noticed how carefully Margo set the cake down, both hands gripping the plate as if she didn't quite trust her grip. For just a moment, she swayed slightly, then caught herself.
“You’re all far too kind to an old woman who just shows up and makes sandwiches.”
“Just shows up?” Bernie laughed. “Woman, you’ve been the heart of this town for fifty years! ”
Meg watched her grandmother wave off the compliments with practiced modesty, but she could see how much the words meant.
As Margo prepared to blow out her candle, her gaze found Meg’s across the deck. For a moment, everything else faded—the conversation, the music, the sound of waves below.
Meg raised her glass slightly, a small gesture of acknowledgment.
I’m here, she tried to convey. For tonight, at least, I’m really here.
Margo’s smile deepened, and she closed her eyes to make her wish.