Page 24 of The Beach Shack Summer (Laguna Beach #2)

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

T he Beach Shack was winding down from another busy day.

Meg wiped down the last table while Margo tallied receipts and Joey restocked napkins with his usual precision.

Tyler and Stella had left an hour ago—he’d mentioned something about showing her different sunset spots for future photography lessons.

Meg’s phone buzzed—Brad again. She glanced at it, already mentally calculating whether she could take the call here or need to retreat to the bathroom.

Again. This morning’s conference call had echoed off the tiles while she’d sat on the tub edge, pretending her “home office” wasn’t a water closet.

She let it go to voicemail. Brad could wait.

“Joey,” Margo said suddenly. “Can you finish closing?”

“Sure thing, boss!” He bounced away to check the refrigerators .

“Meg.” Margo pulled off her apron with a purpose Meg recognized—her grandmother had made a decision about something. “Come with me. There’s something I need to show you.”

“Now?” Meg looked up from the table she was wiping. “I can finish?—”

“Now.” Margo grabbed her keys. “It’s important.”

Something in her grandmother’s tone made Meg set down the cloth immediately. “Is everything okay?”

“Just come.”

They drove in silence, but instead of turning toward Tyler’s, Margo continued three houses down. She parked in front of Sam’s house—the house where Meg had grown up—and got out, walking up the front path like she owned the place.

Which, as it turned out, she did.

Margo pulled out a key—not fumbling, not searching, just pulled it out like she’d done this a hundred times. The lock turned smoothly.

“Margo, what?—”

“Come in, Meg.”

Meg followed, stunned, as Margo flipped on lights with familiar ease.

The house bloomed into view, and suddenly Meg was twelve again, then sixteen, then leaving for college.

The bones of her childhood were all there, overlaid with Sam’s later artistic touches—expensive furniture where their old couch used to be, sophisticated art where family photos once hung.

“I don’t understand,” Meg said weakly .

“What’s to understand? You need space. Here’s space.” Margo walked through the living room, straightening a pillow that didn’t need straightening. “The electrical and plumbing are maintained. I have a service come monthly for cleaning. The garden gets tended weekly.”

“But it’s Sam’s house?—“

“No,” Margo said simply. “It’s mine.”

Meg stared. “What?”

“The house belongs to me. Has for years.” Margo moved into the kitchen—the same kitchen where Meg had done homework, where Sam had taught her to make pie crust on the rare occasions she was fully present. “I keep thinking she’ll come back. Keep it ready. But she won’t, will she?”

“Margo—”

“Years, Meg. Years of fresh flowers and maintained gardens and perfect preservation.” Margo’s voice stayed steady, but Meg heard the weight underneath. “Maybe it’s time someone actually lived here again.”

They moved through the house, Margo leading with the confidence of ownership.

The space was beautiful but haunted—high ceilings that had witnessed family dinners and arguments, lots of natural light that had illuminated homework sessions and holiday mornings.

An easel stood in the corner of what had been the formal dining room, now Sam’s studio, waiting for paintings that would never come.

“This used to be where we had Thanksgiving,” Meg said softly, touching the doorframe where pencil marks still tracked childhood heights.

“I remember,” Margo said. “You kids would argue about who got to break the wishbone.”

They passed Meg’s old room, now a guest room but still painted the sage green she’d chosen at twelve after weeks of agonizing over color swatches.

“I remember,” Meg said softly. “She suggested orange.”

“Bright orange.” Margo almost smiled. “You were so horrified.”

They passed Tyler’s old room, now an office but still bearing traces of the boy he’d been. Anna’s sunshine-yellow sanctuary. And finally, the primary bedroom.

“You’ll take this room,” Margo said firmly, opening the door to what had been her parents’ bedroom. “Not your childhood room. This one.”

“Mom and Dad’s room?” Meg couldn’t hide her shock. “Margo, I couldn’t?—“

“You could and you will. You’re a grown woman running a business.

You need a proper bedroom, not a child’s space painted sage green.

” Margo walked to the windows, adjusting curtains that didn’t need adjusting.

“Besides, they barely used it. Your father preferred his apartment in Newport, and Sam... well, Sam was always half-gone even when she was here.”

The casual revelation stung, even after all these years. Meg remembered her parents’ marriage—two people orbiting each other but never quite connecting .

“I can’t just—we should wait for Sam’s permission?—”

“Nonsense.” Margo turned, and there was steel in her spine. “The house is mine. I decide who lives here. And I’m deciding it should be you.”

“But—”

“Move in this weekend. The office space is already set up in Tyler’s old room, you’ll have privacy for your calls, room to spread out.” Margo walked past her toward the door. “Tell Tyler and Stella tonight. They’ll understand.”

“Margo, wait. Why do you own Sam’s house?”

Margo paused at the door. “That’s a longer story than we have time for tonight.” She looked back, and for a moment Meg saw something vulnerable in her grandmother’s eyes. “Just... use it well. Make it a home again. It’s been empty too long.”

“I’ll walk home,” Meg said quietly. “I need... I need a minute.”

Margo studied her, then nodded. “Don’t take too long. They’ll wonder where you are.”

After Margo left, Meg stood alone in her childhood home.

She walked slowly through the rooms again, this time letting the memories surface.

Her mother teaching her to make pie crust at that kitchen counter—one of the few times Sam had seemed fully present.

Tyler’s first surf trophy displayed on the mantel, still there after all these years.

Anna’s art covering every wall of her room, dreams made visible in crayon and watercolor .

And the primary bedroom, where she’d rarely been allowed as a child. It seemed smaller now, less intimidating. Just a room where two people had tried to make a marriage work and failed.

Her phone buzzed. Tyler.

Where are you? Stella made pasta but we’re out of garlic.

She looked around the empty house—her future space, apparently—and felt the weight of what she was about to do. In a few minutes, she’d walk three doors down and shatter their fragile equilibrium. She’d tell them she was moving out, removing the buffer that made their arrangement bearable.

But maybe that was exactly what they all needed.

Meg locked the door with shaking hands and walked slowly back to Tyler’s. Through the windows, she could see them in the kitchen—Stella stirring something on the stove while Tyler attempted to clear space on the table. They were laughing about something, comfortable in their chaos.

She stood outside for a moment, key in her hand, knowing that once she walked through that door, everything would change. Again.

Three doors down. It might as well be three hundred miles for what it would mean to them.

Meg took a breath, squared her shoulders, and reached for the door handle. Time to deliver news that would either destroy their progress or force them to finally, truly, connect.

Only one way to find out.