Page 3 of The Beach Shack Summer (Laguna Beach #2)

CHAPTER THREE

N obody moved.

Luke’s truck ticked as the engine cooled. Through the Beach Shack windows, life continued normally—Joey wiping down the counter, Margo carrying plates, Bernie gesturing wildly at whatever story he was telling. A parallel universe where Tyler wasn’t a father and Stella didn’t exist.

“Last chance,” Stella said, her hand already on the door handle. “I can stay here. Listen to music. Contemplate my life choices.”

“No.” Tyler’s voice was firm despite the way his hands shook slightly. “We’re going in.”

“Your funeral,” Stella muttered, but she climbed out.

Meg followed, her legs unsteady. The afternoon sun was bright after the airport’s fluorescent lighting, making everything feel surreal.

This couldn’t be happening. Tyler couldn’t have a teenage daughter.

She couldn’t be about to watch him introduce said daughter to their grandmother who had no idea she existed.

“Tyler,” she started.

“I know.” He shouldered his camera bag, squaring his shoulders like he was preparing for battle. “I know, okay? Let’s just... let’s get this over with.”

The walk to the door felt both endless and too quick. Tyler reached for the handle, paused, then pulled it open. The familiar bell chimed, and Meg watched every head in the place turn toward them.

“Tyler!” Joey’s face lit up like Christmas morning. “You’re back! And you brought?—”

The words died as Joey took in the teenager beside Tyler. Meg could practically see his brain short-circuiting. This wasn’t a sophisticated girlfriend. This was a kid. A kid who looked exactly like?—

“Everyone,” Tyler said, his voice carrying over the sudden hush. “This is Stella.”

Bernie half-stood from his table, squinting. “Christ on a cracker, she’s got the Walsh eyes.”

“Bernie,” Margo said sharply, appearing from behind the counter. Her gaze was fixed on Stella with an intensity that made Meg’s stomach clench.

“What?” Bernie settled back down. “She does. Spitting image of Tyler at that age. Hell, could be his—” He stopped mid-sentence, his weathered face going slack. “Oh.”

“Oh,” Joey echoed faintly.

The silence stretched, horrible and complete. Every customer, every regular, every person who’d watched Tyler grow up and never knew he had a daughter, stared.

Stella lifted her chin, defiant. “Take a picture. It’ll last longer.”

“Stella,” Tyler warned.

“What? They’re all staring at me like I’m a zoo animal.” She crossed her arms. “This was a stupid idea.”

Margo moved then, crossing the café with the same steady grace she’d had for all of Meg’s life. She stopped in front of Stella, studying her with those sharp eyes that missed nothing.

“You’re Tyler’s daughter.” Not a question.

Stella shrugged. “Apparently.”

“How old are you?”

“Sixteen.”

Meg saw Margo do the math, saw the moment of understanding followed by something that might have been hurt. Sixteen years of secrets. Sixteen years of not trusting them enough to share.

Then Margo did something that made everyone in the Beach Shack hold their breath. She stepped forward and pulled Stella into a hug. Not a polite, careful hug, but a real one—the kind that said you belong here without words.

Stella went rigid for a moment, arms at her sides, clearly not expecting this. Then, slowly, awkwardly, she brought her hands up to pat Margo’s back.

“Okay,” Stella said, voice muffled against Margo’s shoulder. “This is happening.”

“You’re family,” Margo said simply, pulling back but keeping her hands on Stella’s shoulders. “That’s all that matters.”

Stella studied her feet for a moment.

“Well then,” Margo said finally. “You must be hungry. Long flight from Australia.”

Stella blinked, clearly not expecting that response. “I... yeah. Kind of.”

“Grilled cheese?”

“I—” Stella glanced at Tyler, who looked as surprised as she did. “Sure?”

“Joey,” Margo called without turning around. “Three grilled cheese sandwiches. Extra crispy.”

“Three?” Joey’s voice cracked.

Luke corrected her quietly. “Four, if that’s okay.”

“Four it is.” Margo’s hand hovered near Stella’s shoulder, not quite touching. “Corner booth’s open. More private.”

They moved like shell-shocked survivors toward the booth. Meg caught snatches of whispered conversation starting up around them.

“—never said anything?—”

“—looks just like him?—”

“—sixteen years?—”

Tyler slid into the booth first, Stella beside him with enough space between them to fit another person. Meg took the opposite bench with Luke, feeling like she was acting in a play she hadn’t rehearsed for.

“So,” Margo stood at the end of their table, order pad in hand like armor. “Drinks?”

“Coffee,” Tyler said automatically .

“Coke,” Stella said. Then, quieter, “Please.”

“Water,” Meg managed.

“Beer,” Luke said, then caught himself. “Iced tea. Sorry.”

Margo’s mouth twitched—almost a smile. “Coming right up.”

She left them in their bubble of awkward silence. Around them, the café slowly returned to normal volume, though Meg could feel the weight of curious glances.

“That went well,” Stella said flatly.

Tyler dropped his head into his hands. “Stella, please.”

“What? I’m just saying. Real smooth introduction. ‘Hey everyone, here’s the kid I never mentioned.’ Super normal.”

“You’re right,” Tyler said, muffled by his palms. “You’re absolutely right. I’m sorry.”

Stella shifted, clearly not expecting the apology. “Whatever.”

Joey appeared with their drinks, setting them down with exaggerated care. He kept shooting glances at Stella like she might evaporate.

“Thanks, Joey,” Tyler said.

“No problem. No problem at all. Just, you know. Drinks. For Tyler. And his...” Joey swallowed audibly. “Daughter?”

“That’s the rumor,” Stella said.

Joey fled.

“You don’t have to be hostile to everyone,” Tyler said quietly.

“I’m not hostile. I’m Australian. We’re direct.”

“You’re half American.”

“The worst half, clearly.”

Luke made a sound that might have been a laugh converted to a cough. Stella’s eyes flicked to him, assessing.

“Sorry,” Luke said. “That was just... that was funny.”

“Points for honesty,” Stella allowed.

The grilled cheese arrived via Margo herself, four perfect sandwiches with sides of chips and pickles. The smell made Meg realize she hadn’t eaten since morning.

“Thank you,” Stella said, surprising everyone, including herself by the look on her face.

“You’re welcome.” Margo hesitated. “Your great-great-grandmother used to make these for me. When I was about your age.”

Stella looked up sharply. “My what?”

“Your great-great-grandmother. My mother.” Margo’s voice was steady. “She made the best grilled cheese. Before me.”

“Oh.” Stella stared at her sandwich. “I didn’t... Tyler never said...”

“No,” Margo agreed. “Not likely.”

The weight of that settled over the table. Tyler still hadn’t looked up.

“Eat,” Margo said gently. “Before it gets cold.”

She walked away, back straight, and Meg wanted to follow her. Wanted to apologize for the secret that wasn’t hers, for the years of not knowing, for the way this was happening.

Instead, she picked up her sandwich and took a bite. Beside her, Luke did the same. After a moment, Stella followed suit.

“Bloody hell,” Stella said through a mouthful of cheese and perfectly toasted bread. “This is brilliant.”

“Language,” Tyler said automatically, finally raising his head.

“What? Bloody’s not a swear word.”

“It absolutely is.”

“Not in Australia it’s not. You want me to say ‘gosh golly’ instead?”

But she was almost smiling, the first genuine expression Meg had seen from her. “But seriously, this is like, stupid good.”

“Secret family recipe,” Tyler said quietly. “Apparently you come by it honestly.”

Stella paused mid-chew, processing that. The idea that she came by anything honestly from this family she didn’t know.

They ate in relative silence after that, the simple act of sharing food somehow easing the tension. Around them, the Beach Shack carried on—coffee grinding, orders called, Bernie’s laugh cutting through the din.

“Is that guy staring at me?” Stella asked, jerking her head toward Bernie’s table.

“That’s Bernie,” Meg said. “He stares at everyone.”

“He’s harmless,” Luke added. “Mostly.”

“Mostly?” Stella raised an eyebrow .

“He might tell you about his trick knee,” Tyler warned. “At length.”

“His what now?”

“He predicts weather with it,” Meg explained. “Supposedly.”

“That’s...” Stella paused. “Actually kind of cool.”

Tyler blinked at her. “Really?”

“What? Old dude with a magic knee? That’s pretty metal.” She took another bite of sandwich. “Weird, but metal.”

Stella almost smiled. Almost.

“I should probably call your mom,” Tyler said quietly. “Let her know we made it.”

The almost-smile vanished. “She’s busy.”

“Stella—”

“With her new husband. In their new house. In their new perfect life in Sydney.” Stella pushed a chip around her plate. “She won’t care.”

“She cares,” Tyler said firmly.

“Sure. That’s why she shipped me off to live with you for three months. Because she cares so much.”

The words hung heavy between them. Meg wanted to say something, anything, but what? What did you say to a sixteen-year-old who felt unwanted by everyone?

“Refill on that Coke?” Joey appeared like an eager ghost, pitcher in hand.

“Yeah, thanks.” Stella pushed her glass forward.

Joey poured with excessive concentration. “So, um. You’re really Tyler’s daughter? ”

“Unfortunately.”

“Cool. Cool cool cool.” Joey nodded manically. “That’s... that’s really cool.”

“Joey,” Tyler said gently. “You said cool four times.”

“Did I? Cool. I mean—” Joey turned red. “I’m gonna go... somewhere else now.”

He fled again.

“Is he okay?” Stella asked.

“He thought you were going to be a supermodel,” Meg explained.

“A what now?”

“Tyler said he was bringing someone special home, and Joey assumed...”

“Oh.” Stella processed this. “Oh. Gross.”

“Very gross,” Tyler agreed.

“Like, I’m sixteen, dude.”

“I know.”

“That’s just wrong.”

“I know.”

“Although,” Stella considered, “I am pretty special.”

Tyler’s head snapped up. “Yes,” he said quickly. “You are.”

Stella looked away, uncomfortable with the sincerity. “Whatever.”

Meg’s phone buzzed. Anna’s name on the screen. Then again. And again.

“I should...” She gestured with her phone.

“Go,” Luke said. “I’ll keep an eye on these two.”

Meg slid out of the booth, typing as she walked.

Can’t talk now. At the Shack.

WHAT IS HAPPENING

Tyler’s home.

WITH?????

Meg stepped outside, the afternoon sun warm on her face. Through the window, she could see their table—Luke saying something that made Stella actually crack a small smile, Tyler watching his daughter like she might disappear.

With his daughter.

The three dots appeared and disappeared several times. Then:

HIS WHAT

Sixteen years old. Named Stella. Has his eyes.

MEG

I know.

HOW

I don’t know. Nobody knew.

I’M CALLING YOU

No! I’ll call you later. Still in it.

This is insane

I know.

A daughter???

I know.

SIXTEEN YEARS???

I KNOW.

Meg leaned against the warm brick wall, watching through the window as Margo approached their table again. Watched her grandmother’s hand hover over Tyler’s shoulder before settling there, a benediction and forgiveness all at once.

Inside, Stella was finishing her grilled cheese, occasionally glancing around the café like she was cataloging exits. She sighed and stepped back inside for the next phase of shocking developments.

After they’d finished eating, Stella shifted restlessly in the booth. “Can I—” She gestured toward the beach. “Just need to stretch my legs. Long flight.”

Tyler tensed. “I don’t think?—”

“It’s right there,” Stella said. “Five minutes. I can literally see the beach from here.”

“Let her go,” Margo said quietly. “Fresh air helps with jet lag.”

Stella was already sliding out of the booth. “Five minutes,” she repeated, and was out the door before Tyler could add conditions .

They watched through the window as she walked straight to the tide line, stopping where the waves met the sand. She stood there, hands in her pockets, breathing.

“Tyler,” Meg started.

“I know. I know, okay? It’s just—it’s such a long story.”

“We have time?—”

“No,” Tyler said quickly. “Not here. Not now. Please.”

Stella was already walking back, something closed in her fist. She slipped into the booth, sand on her shoes.

“Better?” Margo asked.

“Yeah.” Stella opened her hand briefly—two small shells, smooth and worn. She started to pocket them, then noticed Margo watching.

“Pretty ones,” Margo said. “There’s a basket by the register if you want to leave them. Customers bring shells from their travels.”

Stella glanced at the basket, then closed her fist again. “Maybe later.”

But when they left, she quietly placed them on the counter next to the basket, not quite in it but close.

Meg shook her head and glanced back at Margo before she followed Stella out the door.

A daughter. Tyler had a daughter.

And now they all had to figure out what that meant.