Page 25 of The Beach Shack Summer (Laguna Beach #2)
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
M eg walked into controlled chaos. Stella stood at the stove, wielding a wooden spoon like a conductor’s baton while Tyler frantically cleared papers from the table, creating new piles that would undoubtedly cause problems later.
“Finally!” Stella said without turning around. “I saved the pasta from Tyler’s help.”
“I was offering suggestions?—”
“You suggested adding hot sauce to marinara.”
“It needed something!”
“Not hot sauce.” Stella finally turned. “What’s wrong? You look weird.”
Meg set her purse down, accidentally knocking over a stack of contracts. The irony wasn’t lost on her—even her arrival disrupted their space.
“I need to tell you both something.”
Tyler straightened, immediately alert. “What happened? ”
“Nothing bad. Just...” Meg took a breath. “I’m moving out.”
The words landed like a stone in still water. Stella’s stirring spoon stopped mid-motion. Tyler’s hands froze on the papers he’d been moving.
“What?” Stella’s voice was small.
“This weekend. To Sam’s house. It’s just three doors down, I’ll still see you every day, we can have dinner together?—“
“Sam’s house?” Tyler interrupted. “Mom’s house? How?”
“That’s the complicated part.” Meg sank onto a barstool. “Margo owns it. Has for years, apparently. She’s been maintaining it, and she wants me to move in.”
“Margo owns...” Tyler sat heavily. “Of course she does. Of course there’s another family secret.”
“I’ll be right down the street,” Meg rushed on. “Nothing really changes except we’ll all have space. You can have your table back, Stella can eat sitting down, we won’t have to play bathroom Tetris every morning?—”
“You’re leaving.” Stella’s voice was flat.
“I’m not leaving. I’m moving three houses away.”
“Same thing.”
“It’s not the same thing at all.” Meg looked between them, seeing mirror images of panic barely concealed. “I’ll literally be closer than the Beach Shack. You can walk over anytime. We’ll probably be together for dinner most nights anyway?— “
“But you won’t be here,” Tyler said quietly.
The pasta water boiled over, hissing on the stovetop. Stella turned to deal with it, movements sharp.
“No,” Meg agreed softly. “I won’t be here. But maybe... maybe that’s okay? Maybe you two need to figure out how to be father and daughter without me as a referee.”
“We don’t need a referee,” Stella protested, stirring the pasta with unnecessary force.
“Mediator?” Meg tried.
“We’re fine,” Tyler insisted, gesturing at the chaos of papers, the cramped kitchen, the obvious lie.
“Look,” Meg said gently. “We all knew this was temporary. My work is exploding, you need your space back, and there’s a perfectly good house just sitting empty?—”
“Why does Margo own Mom’s house?” Tyler interrupted. “How long has she owned it? Why didn’t anyone tell us?”
“I don’t know. She wouldn’t explain. Just said it was a longer story.”
“Everything in this family is a longer story,” Stella muttered. “Secret daughters, secret house ownership, what’s next?”
“Do you want to see it?” Meg asked suddenly. “The house? We could go after dinner.”
Tyler and Stella exchanged glances, a moment of wordless communication that gave Meg hope. They were learning each other’s signals.
“Might as well,” Tyler said finally. “If Margo’s been keeping family real estate secrets, we should probably know what we’re dealing with.”
They ate pasta with no garlic but extra hot sauce—Tyler’s compromise—the conversation stilted and careful. Stella asked about the house layout. Tyler wondered about utilities. No one mentioned the elephant in the room—that Meg’s presence had been the glue holding their awkward arrangement together.
After dinner, they walked down the quiet street, Meg between them like she might disappear if they didn’t flank her. The key felt heavy in her hand as she unlocked Sam’s door.
“Whoa,” Stella said as they entered. “It’s like a time capsule.”
Tyler moved through the space like a sleepwalker, touching furniture, staring at photos. “She kept all our stuff.”
He stopped at the mantel, picking up a small trophy.
“Margo?” Meg asked, though she knew he meant Sam.
“Look at this.” He stopped at the mantel, picking up a small trophy. “My first surf competition. I was eight. I can’t believe she kept it.”
Stella explored with the curiosity of someone discovering family history. “Is that you?” She pointed to a photo—three kids covered in flour, grinning in a destroyed kitchen.
“Baking disaster of ’03,” Tyler said. “We tried to make Mom a birthday cake. Anna added salt instead of sugar.”
“On purpose?”
“She claimed it was an accident, but...” Tyler shrugged. “Anna was going through a phase.”
They moved through the house, memories surfacing with each room. Meg showed them the office space, trying to keep her voice professional as she explained how it would work for her business. But when they reached the primary bedroom, she hesitated.
“Margo says I should take this room. Not my old bedroom.”
“Mom and Dad’s room?” Tyler looked as surprised as she’d been.
“She was pretty insistent.”
Tyler walked to the window, looking out at the view. “Remember when we used to sneak in here during their parties? Hide under the bed and listen to the grown-ups?”
“Until Anna sneezed that one time and gave us away,” Meg added.
“Dad was so mad,” Tyler said softly. “But Mom just laughed. Said we had good taste in hiding spots.”
“What parties?” Stella asked.
“They used to host these elaborate dinner parties,” Meg explained. “Artists and writers and musicians. The house would be full of people and noise and?—”
“Life,” Tyler finished. “It was full of life.”
They stood in the empty room, the contrast sharp .
“It’s just three doors,” Stella said suddenly, like she was trying to convince herself. “Three doors is nothing.”
“Thirty seconds if you run,” Meg agreed.
“Why would you run?”
“Emergencies. Pasta disasters. Patricia sightings.”
“Patricia’s definitely an emergency,” Stella agreed, almost smiling. Then her face fell. “But what if... what if we need you and you’re not there?”
“Then you walk three doors and knock,” Meg said simply.
“What if it’s the middle of the night?”
“Then you call first. Or text. Or throw pebbles at my window like in movies.”
“That’s not how physics works,” Stella said, but she seemed comforted by the image.
They walked back to Tyler’s in the dark, the contrast between the two houses stark—Sam’s magazine-perfect adobe versus Tyler’s lived-in bungalow.
At his door, Stella paused. “When you move,” she said to Meg, “can I still come over? Like if Tyler’s being weird or if I need space or...”
“Anytime,” Meg promised. “My door’s always open.”
“Even if I don’t have time to knock first?”
“Especially then.”
Inside, looking at the chaos that had become their normal, Meg felt the weight of change coming. This weekend she’d pack her papers, her clothes, her laptop. She’d move into Sam’s abandoned house and leave Tyler and Stella to figure out their rhythm .
“Hey,” Tyler said quietly while Stella disappeared into her room. “This is probably the right thing. The space issue is getting ridiculous. But...”
“But?”
“I’m terrified,” he admitted. “What if without you here, Stella realizes she doesn’t actually like me? What if we have nothing to talk about? What if?—”
“Tyler.” Meg put a hand on his arm. “She already likes you. She just doesn’t know how to show it yet. And neither do you.”
“We’re kind of disasters at this.”
“Most people are disasters at being parents and teenagers. You’re just getting a concentrated dose.”
From down the hall, Stella’s music started up—something mellow tonight, almost sad.
“She’s scared too,” Meg said softly. “You both are. Maybe that’s a good starting point.”
“Bonding over mutual terror?”
“I’ve seen relationships built on less.”
Tyler managed a smile. “Three doors?”
“Three doors. Close enough to help, far enough to let you breathe.”
“Breathing’s overrated.”
“That’s what you think now. Wait till you can use your dining table again.”
“Good point.” He looked around the chaos. “Luke will help you move?”
“Probably. If I ask nicely.”
“Or just ask. The man’s been gone for you since high school. ”
“That’s not—“ Meg stopped at Tyler’s knowing look. “Okay, maybe. But we’re not talking about Luke right now.”
“Fair enough. We’re talking about you abandoning us to our fate.”
“Dramatic much?”
“I’m a photographer. We’re artistic. Drama comes with the territory.”
“So does adaptability,” Meg pointed out. “And you’re nothing if not adaptable.”
“We’ll see about that.”
They said goodnight, but Meg lay awake for hours, staring at the ceiling in Tyler’s guest room for what would be one of the last times.
Down the hall, she could hear Tyler moving around, probably editing photos in the bathroom.
Stella’s music played softly, a constant backdrop to their careful coexistence.
This weekend, the safety net would be removed.
Three doors had never seemed so far.