Page 7 of The Beach Shack (Laguna Beach #1)
CHAPTER SIX
M argo opened her eyes and blew out the candle in one smooth breath, her wish made. The flame vanished, a thin ribbon of smoke drifting into the star-filled sky.
“Speech! Speech!” Bernie called out, raising his wine glass high.
“Oh, no,” Margo protested, laughing and shaking her head. “You’ve heard everything I have to say a hundred times over.”
“That’s never stopped you before,” Vivian teased, and the gathering erupted in good-natured laughter.
“Fine,” Margo said, accepting defeat with grace. “But just this: Thank you all for fifty years of friendship, patience, and pretending my grilled cheese is worth waiting in line for.”
“It is worth waiting for!” the bookstore owner called out .
“Speak for yourself,” Eleanor shot back. “I come for the gossip.”
More laughter rippled across the deck. Meg watched her grandmother’s face in the candlelight, noting how different she looked here—more relaxed, more herself than Meg had ever seen her.
As cake was distributed and conversations resumed, Meg drifted between groups, wine making her bold enough to really listen to the stories being shared.
Tales of the Beach Shack’s earliest days, when her grandfather Richard had first opened with nothing but determination and a borrowed grill.
Stories of Margo stepping up after his death.
“She never missed a day,” Bernie was telling a younger couple. “Even when Rick was sick with pneumonia and Sam had broken her arm. Margo just brought them both to work and set up a cot in the back office.”
Meg’s ears perked up at the mention of her mother and uncle as children. These were stories she’d never heard, glimpses of her family’s history that felt both foreign and familiar.
“She’s stubborn, your grandmother,” Bernie said, turning to include Meg in the conversation. “Never wanted help. Not even when Richard got sick toward the end.”
“Why not?” Meg asked, genuinely curious.
Bernie shrugged, his weathered face thoughtful. “Something about not wanting to owe anyone, I think. Richard was the same way—proud people, both of them. Independent to a fault.”
He paused, then added, “Except Richard trusted that lawyer fellow with everything. Financial stuff was never Richard’s strong suit.”
Meg wanted to ask more about this lawyer, but the conversation was already moving on to other memories, other stories that painted a picture of her grandparents as young people building something from nothing.
The evening air grew cooler, and Eleanor appeared with throws for those who wanted to stay longer. Meg was drawn into conversation with Vivian, who had an endless supply of stories about Margo’s artistic side.
“She painted, you know,” Vivian said, gesturing toward the restaurant where the shell ceiling was barely visible through the windows. “Beautiful landscapes, mostly. Seascapes. She had a whole studio set up in the garage behind their first house.”
“What happened to her paintings?” Meg asked.
“Some are still around. Your uncle has a few, I think. But she gave most away when money got tight after Richard died.” Vivian’s expression grew wistful. “Said she didn’t have time for frivolous things anymore.”
The sunset had deepened to crimson and purple when she spotted her uncle arriving.
Rick stood at the edge of the deck, a wrapped package in his hands, surveying the gathering with an expression Meg couldn’t quite read.
He looked older than she remembered—more gray in his hair, deeper lines around his eyes.
But he was here, which seemed significant given what little she knew about his relationship with Margo.
Or what little she knew about him at all, for that matter.
Their eyes met across the deck, and he lifted his hand in a small wave. Meg made her way through the clusters of conversation toward him, aware of the curious glances that followed her movement. The Turner family dynamics were clearly well-known in this community.
“Meg,” Rick said when she reached him, awkwardly shifting the gift to offer a quick hug. “You look well.”
“So do you,” she replied, catching the familiar scent of his aftershave—something crisp and woody that had been constant throughout her childhood.
They both awkwardly looked around the room for a moment.
“Quite a turnout,” Rick finally said, gesturing toward the gathered crowd.
“Everyone seems to love her,” Meg observed, watching Margo accept birthday wishes from a couple who’d just arrived.
“She’s built a life here,” Rick said, something complex in his expression—pride mixed with what might have been regret. “Made her choices and stuck with them.”
Before Meg could ask what he meant by that, Margo appeared beside them, moving with the easy grace of a hostess who’d been managing gatherings for decades.
“Rick,” she said warmly, her whole face lighting up. “Right on time, as always.”
To Meg’s surprise, her uncle leaned down and embraced Margo without hesitation, kissing her cheek with genuine affection. “Happy birthday, Mom.”
“Thank you, dear.” Margo accepted his gift, her fingers lingering briefly on his arm.
Meg noticed how Margo leaned slightly against the table as she spoke, as if the evening's hosting had taken more out of her than she'd admit. The bright energy from earlier seemed to flicker, just for a moment.
“Meg’s been helping at the shack. She’s a natural behind the grill.”
A shadow crossed Rick’s face, so quickly Meg almost missed it. “Has she?”
“Just temporarily,” Meg said quickly, sensing undercurrents she didn’t understand. “Until Tyler gets back.”
“Of course.” Rick’s smile seemed forced. “Temporary.”
“Come say hello to Eleanor,” Margo said gently, steering Rick toward where Eleanor was arranging leftover cake. “She was asking about that tax situation earlier.”
As they moved away, Meg felt excluded from decades of family history, conversations and conflicts that had shaped relationships she was only now beginning to understand .
Her phone buzzed insistently in her pocket. Meg pulled it out to find Brad’s name on the screen:
Urgent client issue. Need to discuss ASAP.
She stared at the message, feeling the pull of her other life—conference calls and crisis management, deadlines and damage control.
For a moment, she was tempted to step away and handle whatever emergency had erupted.
But then she looked around at the gathering, at Margo laughing with her friends, at Rick trying to look comfortable while clearly wrestling with his own complicated feelings about being here.
Meg silenced the phone and slipped it back into her pocket.
From the center of the deck came a burst of delighted laughter. Meg looked up to see Margo holding a small shell, turning it to catch the light from the string lamps overhead. It was beautiful - iridescent white with hints of pink and blue that seemed to glow from within.
“No card,” Eleanor said, examining the simple tissue paper wrapping. “Someone wanted to stay anonymous.”
“It’s perfect,” Margo said, her voice soft with genuine pleasure. “I know exactly where it belongs. Whoever left this knows my ceiling well.”
Something about her grandmother’s expression—the quiet joy over such a simple gift—made Meg’s decision for her.
She looked down at her phone once more, then deliberately powered it off and slipped it back into her pocket.
Whatever crisis Brad was managing could wait until morning. Tonight belonged to Margo.
The night rolled on with that easy rhythm you only get when people have known each other forever.
Someone topped off the wine. Vivian launched into this wild story about a road trip she and Margo took in their thirties, and Eleanor kept chiming in with side comments that made it pretty clear the family-friendly version had been seriously cleaned up.
“Tell them about the karaoke bar in Barstow,” Eleanor prompted, grinning wickedly.
“We agreed never to speak of the karaoke bar in Barstow,” Margo said firmly, but her eyes were sparkling.
Meg laughed, caught off guard by the image—her grandmother, on some dusty desert road trip, singing karaoke and probably charming the whole bar. It was a version of Margo she’d never really pictured before. One that existed beyond the Beach Shack and dinner prep and carefully clipped coupons.
Rick appeared beside her, slipping a full glass of wine into her hand. “They’ve been recycling those stories for decades,” he said, but his voice was warm, not annoyed.
Meg glanced over at him, the firelight softening the hard lines of his face. The tension between him and Margo still hung there, quiet but undeniable. But so did something else—something like loyalty, maybe even love .
“What happened with you two?” she asked gently. “With the Shack?”
Rick’s face shifted—just enough to notice. “Ancient history,” he said, and took a sip of his drink like that was the end of it.
“That still affects the present, apparently.”
He sighed, taking a sip of wine. “Your grandfather made some decisions I didn’t agree with. Financial arrangements that I thought were... unwise. When I tried to address them after he died, your grandmother made it clear the business wasn’t my concern.”
“What kind of arrangements?”
“Ask her,” Rick said, nodding toward Margo. “If she wants you to know, she’ll tell you.”
Before Meg could press further, Margo approached, her cheeks flushed from wine and laughter, looking more carefree than Meg had ever seen her.
“Are you interrogating your uncle, Meg?” she asked lightly, but her eyes were sharp.
“Just catching up,” Meg replied diplomatically.
Margo’s gaze seemed to see right through the evasion. “Well, don’t believe everything he tells you. Especially about me.”
“I never tell stories about you,” Rick protested with unexpected warmth. “Well, only good ones anyway.”
For a second, Meg caught a glimpse of what was still there between them—something quiet and stubborn, like love that had bent but never fully broken. Whatever had happened, it hadn’t erased the bond between a mother and her son .
By nine, the evening had started to wind down.
People hugged Margo goodbye, made promises to stop by the Shack soon.
The stars were out now, the kind you only noticed once everything else had gone quiet.
A few guests had pulled Eleanor’s throw blankets around their shoulders, laughter fading into that kind of soft silence only beach towns seem to know.
Meg found herself alone with Margo at the deck railing, looking out over the darkened beach where waves caught moonlight like scattered silver.
“Thank you for coming tonight,” Margo said, her voice soft against the ocean’s murmur. “It meant more than you know.”
“Of course,” Meg replied.
Margo’s gaze remained on the horizon. “Tyler didn’t explain much when he called. Just that he had to leave and you were coming to help.”
“That’s Tyler,” Meg said with a small laugh. “Five words or less, if possible.”
“He has his reasons for being private.” Margo turned to look at her then, studying Meg’s face in the soft light. “As I suspect you had yours. For staying away so long.”
The directness of the statement caught Meg off guard. Here, finally, was the conversation they’d been dancing around since her arrival.
“Work has been demanding,” she said carefully.
“Work is always demanding if you let it be,” Margo said simply. “Your grandfather taught me that. He could have worked every hour of every day, but he chose to come home for dinner. Chose to take Sundays off. Chose us over the business when it mattered.”
Meg wanted to ask more about her grandfather, about the financial decisions Rick had mentioned, about the choices that had shaped her family’s dynamics. But something in Margo’s expression suggested this wasn’t the time for complicated questions.
“I should get you home,” Meg said instead. “It’s been a long day.”
Margo nodded, suddenly looking every one of her eighty years. “Yes. And tomorrow the Beach Shack opens again.”
They said goodnight to the remaining guests. Eleanor embraced Meg warmly, extracting a promise that she wouldn’t disappear for another decade.
Vivian, who ran the vintage store on Forest Avenue, pressed her business card into Meg’s hand—“In case you need anything while you’re here, dear.”
As they walked to the parking lot, Margo carrying her birthday gifts in a canvas bag, Meg noticed her grandmother glancing back at the Beach Shack. The string lights still twinkled on the deck, reflected in the dark windows.
“Do you ever get tired of it?” Meg asked impulsively. “The Beach Shack. The same routine every day for fifty years.”
Margo considered the question with surprising seriousness, pausing beside Meg’s car to look back at the weathered building silhouetted against the night sky .
“Sometimes I get tired,” she admitted. “The early mornings, the aching feet, the endless questions about whether we serve anything besides grilled cheese.” She smiled slightly. “But tired of it? No.”
She shifted the bag of gifts to her other arm. “Some things you choose once, and then you keep choosing them every day after. The Shack isn’t just what I do—it’s who I became. The good, the hard, all of it.”
The statement lingered with Meg as she drove Margo to her small cottage, and long after she’d returned to Tyler’s house. As she prepared for bed, her phone lit up with yet another urgent message from Brad, but for once, she didn’t immediately reach for it.
There would be time for crises and client management tomorrow. Tonight had been about celebrating someone who’d built a life worth honoring.