Page 35 of The Beach Shack Summer (Laguna Beach #2)

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

S aturday morning hit like a rogue wave. The surfing competition had drawn crowds from three counties, and by ten-thirty, the Beach Shack line snaked past Bernie’s newsstand.

“Order up!” Tyler called, sliding plates across the pass. “Two specials, extra crispy!”

Stella grabbed them, weaving between packed tables with practiced ease. Three weeks on the job and she’d found her rhythm—register, tables, napkins folded into perfect triangles. Everything except the knives and grill.

“We’re running low on tomatoes,” Joey announced, eyeing the prep station nervously. “Like, dangerously low.”

“Meg’s in San Clemente,” Tyler reminded him, flipping four sandwiches simultaneously. “Big presentation for her other job. Luke’s with her. ”

“And Lisa had that family thing,” Stella added. “She texted sorry like twelve times.”

“I know, I know.” Joey grabbed another stack of orders from Dante, who looked overwhelmed at the register. “Just saying, we’re gonna need more soon.”

Margo appeared from the back, already assessing the situation. “I’ll prep more. We can’t run out on competition Saturday.”

“Margo, you sure?” Tyler glanced over. “I can?—”

“Cook,” she said firmly. “That’s what you can do. I’ve been slicing tomatoes since before you were born.”

The next hour blurred past. Stella had never seen the Shack this packed—every table full, orders backing up, the kind of controlled chaos that looked like disaster but somehow worked.

“Dante, the napkins go—” Joey started, then winced as Dante folded one into something resembling origami roadkill. “Never mind. Just... get them on tables.”

“On it!” Dante cheerfully mangled another napkin.

Stella noticed Joey physically turning away from the napkin station, his eye twitching. “Let it go,” she murmured as she passed. “We have bigger problems.”

“But they’re so wrong,” Joey whispered. “So beautifully, perfectly wrong.”

“Coming through!” Joey spun past with a loaded tray, navigating the narrow space between stations.

It happened in seconds.

Joey’s elbow caught the edge of the cutting board just as Margo brought the knife down. The board jumped. The knife slipped.

The sound Margo made was small, surprised. Almost curious.

Then Stella saw the blood.

“Margo!” Tyler was there instantly, grabbing a clean towel.

“It’s nothing,” Margo said, but blood was already seeping through the white cotton. “Just caught the edge?—”

“That’s not nothing.” Joey had gone sheet-white. “Oh God, Margo, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean?—“

“Accidents happen.” But Margo’s face had paled, and she was pressing harder on the towel. Red bloomed through like spilled ink.

“Hospital,” Tyler said. “Now.”

“We can’t leave! Look at this place!” Margo gestured with her good hand at the packed restaurant, the line still growing.

She was right. They were already down Meg, Luke, and Lisa. Losing Tyler and Margo would mean?—

“I’ll drive her,” Stella offered quickly. “You stay and cook.”

“No.” Tyler didn’t even look up from examining Margo’s hand. “You’ve had your license twelve days. You’re not driving anybody to the ER in competition traffic.”

“But—”

“I’m taking her.” He was already untying his apron. “Joey, you’re on grill. ”

“What?” Joey’s voice cracked. “Tyler, I can’t—I don’t know how?—”

“You’ve watched me for three years. You know everything.” Tyler looked at Stella. “You’re in charge.”

The words hit her like cold water. “I’m not—I can’t?—”

“You can.” Margo’s good hand found hers, squeezed hard despite the pain. Blood had soaked through the first towel. Tyler was already wrapping a second. “You’ll know what to do.”

“Dante, get the bleach solution from under the sink,” Tyler ordered. “Ten-to-one ratio. Clean that prep area thoroughly. Stella will show you.”

Then they were gone, Tyler half-carrying Margo out the back door, leaving Stella staring at a kitchen in crisis. Dante stood frozen with the bleach bottle. Joey looked like he might faint. The crowd kept pushing in.

“Orders!” someone called. “We need to order!”

Stella’s mind went blank for a moment. Then something kicked in—all those weeks of watching, learning, absorbing the rhythm of this place.

“Okay,” she said, and her voice came out steadier than she felt. “Dante, clean that blood properly—spray everything, let it sit, then wipe. Joey, you’re on grill. I know you’ve been practicing Tyler’s technique when you think no one’s watching.”

“How did you?—”

“Not important. I’ll take register until the prep area’s clean, then I’ll switch to prep and Dante can have register back.” She was already moving, taking orders with one eye on Joey. “You know how to make the sandwiches. You’ve got this.”

“But what about?—”

“Breathe,” she told him. “One sandwich at a time.”

By some miracle, Joey’s first attempt came out perfect. Golden brown, cheese melted just right.

“I did it!” He stared at the sandwich in amazement.

“Great! Do it again. Like, a thousand more times.” Stella turned to the next customer. “What can I get you?”

Dante finished sanitizing the prep station—properly, Tyler would be proud—and took over register. Which meant...

“You don’t do knives,” Joey said, watching her approach the prep station.

Stella looked at the cleaned cutting board, the waiting tomatoes. Somewhere in this restaurant were shells she’d picked up that first day, waiting until she was ready. She’d thought she’d have time to choose her moment.

“I do now.”

She picked up a clean knife. The weight was familiar—all those secret sessions in her room, preparing for a someday that had suddenly become today. Not the way she’d imagined it. Not on her terms. But then, when did anything with family happen on anyone’s terms?

The first tomato slice came out shaky but acceptable. The second, better. By the third, her hands remembered what they’d practiced .

“Order up!” Joey called, sliding a perfect grilled cheese across the pass.

“Beautiful!” Stella added tomato with increasing confidence. “Dante—table six!”

“The napkins!” Joey moaned as Dante grabbed a handful of his mangled creations.

“Let it go,” Stella said firmly. “The customers won’t die from ugly napkins.”

“My soul might,” Joey muttered, but he was already starting the next sandwich.

They found a rhythm. Not smooth—Dante kept hitting wrong buttons, Joey burned exactly one sandwich (which Bernie cheerfully ate), and Stella’s tomato slices varied wildly in thickness. But they were managing. Orders went out. Customers got fed. The apocalypse was postponed.

“You kids need help?” Bernie called from his corner booth.

“Can you run food?” Stella asked desperately.

“Do I look like a waiter?”

“Today? Yes.”

Bernie grinned and stood up. “Fair enough. Point me at the plates, boss.”

That helped. Bernie might have been seventy-something, but he could charm a table and deliver food with the best of them. He turned their staff shortage into dinner theater, regaling customers with tales of Beach Shack history.

Just when Stella thought they might actually survive, Lisa burst through the door .

“I’m so sorry! My mom’s car—it doesn’t matter. Where do you need me?”

“Food running,” Stella said immediately. “Bernie’s covering but?—”

“Say no more.” Lisa tied on an apron and dove in.

An hour passed in controlled chaos. Stella’s hands moved with increasing confidence, Joey found his grill groove, and between Bernie and Lisa, food actually made it to tables. Even Dante had stopped looking terrified at the register.

“Is that Tyler’s truck?” someone called out.

Stella’s heart stuttered. Through the service window, she saw them pulling up.

“How bad?” was all she asked when Tyler came through the back door.

“Eight stitches. Clean cut, missed the tendons.” He was already surveying the scene—Joey at the grill, Stella with a knife, Dante folding napkins like he was personally offending the paper industry. “You did this?”

“We all did,” Stella said, but she couldn’t hide her pride.

Margo followed, left hand wrapped in pristine white bandages from fingertips to wrist. She took in the organized chaos, the full restaurant still running.

“Well,” she said. “This is something.”

“Margo, I’m so sorry,” Joey started again.

“Hush.” She pulled him into a one-armed hug. “Fifty-two years was a good run. Besides, look what you all accomplished.”

She moved to the prep station, examining Stella’s handiwork with her good hand. The tomato slices weren’t perfect—some thick, some thin, but all usable.

“You’ve been practicing,” Margo said quietly.

Stella flushed. “Maybe a little.”

“More than a little, I think.” Margo’s eyes crinkled. “How long?”

“Two weeks. In my room. Tyler’s carrots never stood a chance.”

“You knew?” Tyler asked Margo.

“Mothers always know. And grandmothers know even more.”

The door chimed again. Meg and Luke rushed in, still in their San Clemente clothes, faces tight with worry.

“We got your message,” Meg said breathlessly. “How bad—” She stopped, taking in the scene. Stella at prep, Joey on grill, Bernie delivering plates with theatrical flair. “Wait. What?”

“Your niece saved the day,” Bernie announced, setting down an empty tray. “Kid’s a natural. Took charge like a proper Walsh.”

“You’re doing prep?” Meg stared at Stella. “With knives?”

“Surprise?” Stella offered.

Luke was grinning. “Look at you, running the whole place.”

“Not running,” Stella said. “Just... helping it not fall apart.”

“Same thing in this family,” Tyler said.

The lunch rush was finally winding down. They kept the kitchen open until three, their usual closing time, but the pace became manageable. Stella found herself moving between prep and expediting naturally, like she’d been doing it for years instead of hours.

“Bernie,” someone called out. “What’re the odds on Stella becoming official prep cook?”

“Not taking that action,” Bernie replied. “Kid’s already proved herself. No odds needed.”

By closing time, they’d made it. The Beach Shack had survived its busiest day with a skeleton crew of teenagers, Bernie’s charm offensive, and sheer determination.

“I need to sit down,” Joey announced, sliding into the nearest booth. “Forever.”

“Let’s get sodas first,” Tyler said, but he was smiling. “Everyone grab something. We’ve earned it.”

They collapsed at various tables—no energy for proper seating arrangements. Stella found herself between Joey and Dante, across from Margo and Tyler. Meg and Luke took the next booth with Lisa and Bernie.

“That was...” Joey stared at his Coke. “I can’t even describe what that was.”

“Chaos,” Dante supplied helpfully. “Really successful chaos.”

“My napkins will never recover,” Joey said mournfully.

“Your napkins were fine,” Stella lied.

“Don’t. Just... don’t.” But Joey was smiling. “I made over a million perfect grilled cheeses today. I’m focusing on that.”

“A million and one,” Tyler noted. “One got charcoal status.”

“Bernie ate it! It counts!”

“I’ve eaten worse,” Bernie confirmed from the next booth.

Margo hadn’t said much, just watched them all with that particular expression she got sometimes. Finally, she lifted her soda with her good hand.

“Thank you,” she said simply. “All of you. Today could have been a disaster. Instead...” She looked around at her exhausted, triumphant crew. “Instead, you showed me what this place is really about.”

“Chaos and burnt sandwiches?” Dante suggested.

“Family,” Margo corrected gently. “Stepping up when it matters.”

“Even with ugly napkins,” Joey added, then yelped as Stella kicked him under the table.

“Especially with ugly napkins,” Margo agreed.

They sat in quiet exhaustion, too tired for deep conversations about legacy and belonging. That would come later. For now, it was enough to sit together, sodas getting warm, Bernie telling increasingly outrageous stories about the old days.

“Same time tomorrow?” Lisa asked eventually. “I promise no family emergencies.”

“Maybe with less blood,” Tyler said.

“Definitely less blood,” Margo agreed. “Once every fifty years is enough. ”

As they finally started cleaning up, Meg pulled Stella aside.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.” Stella looked at her station—her station now, she realized. “Yeah, I think I am.”

“You know what this means, right? You’re officially kitchen crew now.”

“No more hiding behind the register,” Stella agreed. “I’m okay with that.”

“Good. Because I don’t think Joey’s letting anyone else touch his napkins anytime soon.”

They locked up as the sun started to set. Tomorrow would bring new challenges—working around Margo’s injury, adjusting schedules, finding their new rhythm. But they’d figure it out.

“Hey,” Tyler said as they walked to the cars. “Thank you. For taking care of everything. For taking care of her.”

“It’s what family does,” Stella said simply.

“Yeah,” Tyler agreed, and his smile was worth all the chaos. “It is.”

In the distance, the surf competition continued, waves rolling in with mechanical precision. But here in the Beach Shack parking lot, the only thing that mattered was this: they’d faced disaster and chosen each other.

Everything else could wait until tomorrow.