Page 36 of The Beach Shack Summer (Laguna Beach #2)

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

He dressed quietly in the dark, muscle memory guiding him through the routine he’d done a thousand times. Coffee could wait until the Shack. The tomatoes couldn’t.

His bedroom door opened before he reached it.

“Going somewhere?” Stella stood in the hallway, fully dressed, hair pulled back in her work ponytail.

“It’s five-fifteen.”

“I can tell time.” She shouldered past him. “Someone needs to prep. You can’t do it alone.”

“I’ve been doing Sunday prep alone for?—”

“Not anymore.” She was already heading for the door. “Come on, buddy. Tomatoes wait for no one.”

Tyler followed, something warm and unfamiliar blooming in his chest. His daughter choosing to wake before dawn, choosing the work, choosing him.

The morning air carried salt and possibility. They’d made it three steps when another door opened.

“Seriously?” Meg emerged from her house, keys in hand. “You too?”

“Margo can’t prep with one hand,” Stella said.

“That’s why I’m—” Meg stopped, looking between them. “We’re all sneaking out early to help?”

“It’s not sneaking if it’s your job,” Tyler pointed out.

“It’s sneaking if you’re trying to beat everyone else there,” Meg countered.

They walked three abreast down the empty street, fog muffling their footsteps. The town slept around them—no surfers yet, even Bernie’s newsstand still shuttered. Just the Walsh family, heading to work.

“Bet you anything she’s already there,” Stella said.

“No bet,” Meg and Tyler said in unison.

They were right. The Shack glowed softly from within, back door unlocked, coffee already brewing. Margo sat at the prep station, good hand wrapped around a mug, studying her bandaged left hand like it had personally offended her.

“You’re all late,” she said without looking up.

“It’s five twenty-five,” Tyler protested.

“Like I said. Late.” But she was smiling. “Figured you’d all show up.”

“How?” Stella asked.

“Because you’re Walshes. It’s what we do.” Margo flexed her bandaged fingers experimentally. “Turns out one-handed prep is trickier than I thought.”

“That’s why we’re all here,” Meg said, already tying on an apron.

They fell into rhythm without discussion.

Tyler at his usual station, Stella beside him with confident hands, Meg handling the tasks that required two hands while Margo directed.

No one mentioned yesterday’s chaos, but it hung in the air—how close they’d come to disaster, how Stella had stepped up when it mattered.

“Pass the knife,” Stella said casually, and Tyler did, and it wasn’t until after that he realized what had just happened. His daughter, asking for a knife like it was nothing. Like she belonged here.

“That was quite something yesterday,” Margo said eventually, watching Stella work. “You all were.”

“Joey did the hard part,” Stella deflected. “I just cut tomatoes.”

“You did more than that.” Margo’s voice was thoughtful. “You took charge. Made decisions. Kept everyone calm.”

“Learned from the best,” Stella said, glancing at her great-grandmother.

“No,” Margo said quietly. “You knew what to do because you’re a Walsh. Because this place is in your blood, whether you grew up here or not.”

Stella’s hands stilled on the tomato she was slicing.

“You know,” Meg said into the sudden silence, “I didn’t grow up here either. Not really. Summers, yes. But I spent sixteen years away too. ”

“But you belonged,” Stella said. “You had history here.”

“I had to choose to belong,” Meg corrected. “Had to decide this was home. Just like you did yesterday.”

“Without thinking about it,” Tyler added. “When it mattered, you didn’t hesitate.”

Margo set down her coffee mug with decisive precision. “Speaking of belonging.” She stood, moving to the ancient filing cabinet in the corner. “I have something for you.”

From the bottom drawer, she pulled out a small paper bag, edges soft with age. Stella recognized it immediately.

“Are those—” Stella’s voice caught as Margo pulled out two shells, worn smooth by the ocean.

“From your first morning walk,” Margo said simply. “You gave them to me for safekeeping. I’ve been keeping them safe.”

“But I thought—I wasn’t ready?—”

“You weren’t ready then.” Margo returned to the prep station, bag in hand. “You thought you had to earn your place. Prove something. But belonging isn’t earned, sweetheart. It’s recognized.”

She opened the bag, revealing the shells Stella had gathered that first morning. Ordinary treasures made extraordinary by patience and meaning.

“You know,” Meg said softly, “I placed my first shell not that long ago. Dawn light, empty restaurant, Margo holding the ladder. ”

“Thirty years late,” Margo added with gentle humor. “But perfect timing all the same.”

Stella looked between them—her great-grandmother with her bandaged hand and patient eyes, her aunt who’d found her way home, her father who’d built a life here despite everything.

“Is it time?” she asked quietly.

“Past time,” Margo said.

Tyler got the ladder without being asked. Set it up in the spot they all knew without discussing—near Meg’s recent addition, in the constellation of family stories.

Margo moved to hold one side, and the ladder wobbled slightly under her one-handed grip.

“Here.” Meg stepped in, steadying the other side. No fuss, just quiet support.

Tyler wrapped an arm around Margo’s waist, taking her weight so she could focus on holding steady.

Stella climbed carefully, shells cupped in her palm. Up close, the ceiling revealed its secrets—decades of moments, each shell a story, a choice, a claiming of place.

“There,” Margo said softly, indicating a spot. “Been saving it for you.”

Stella reached up, pressed the first shell into place. Such a small gesture. Such an enormous moment.

Each one a piece of the story—the girl from Bondi who walked into a beachside cafe and found her history waiting .

When she climbed down, they were all suspiciously bright-eyed.

“Right then,” Margo said briskly, but her voice wavered. “Prep won’t finish itself.”

They returned to their stations, but something had shifted. The morning light grew stronger, painting the shells above in gold and shadow. Stella kept glancing up, catching her additions in the growing light.

“Part of the story now,” Meg said quietly, following her gaze.

“Always was,” Margo corrected. “Just needed to make it official.”

Bernie arrived as they were finishing prep, newspaper under his arm and gossip at the ready. He stopped short in the doorway, taking in the scene—four Walshes working in easy synchronization, bandages and all.

“Well,” he said finally. “This is new.”

“Family prep day,” Stella told him, not looking up from her perfect tomato slices. “Want coffee?”

“Do I want—of course I want coffee.” But Bernie was studying the ceiling, and Meg could swear he knew exactly what had changed. “Nice morning for it.”

“Perfect morning,” Margo agreed.

By the time they opened, everything was ready. Joey arrived to find his station prepped, Lisa appeared with apologies and enthusiasm, and the Sunday regulars filtered in for their post-church brunches.

Normal. Ordinary. Except for the way Stella moved through the space now—no hesitation, no holding back. She belonged here, and everyone could see it.

“Hey,” Tyler said during a brief lull, catching her by the prep station. “Thank you. For this morning. For yesterday. For?—”

“It’s what family does,” Stella interrupted, echoing his words from yesterday.

“Yeah,” he agreed, watching her work with hands that knew their purpose. “It is.”

The lunch rush came and went. Margo managed one-handed excellence at the register. Joey created his million-and-first perfect grilled cheese. Even Dante’s napkins achieved something approaching respectability.

But Stella kept glancing up at the ceiling, at her shells nestled among decades of stories. Part of the history now. Part of the family.

“No regrets?” Meg asked quietly, catching her looking.

“About what?”

“Staying. Choosing this.”

Stella considered, then shook her head. “I didn’t choose it. I just finally recognized what was already true.”

Which was, Meg thought, perhaps the most Walsh answer possible.

The afternoon wound down gently. Tomorrow would bring new challenges—working around Margo’s injury long-term, preparing for the festival, navigating whatever came next. But today had been about claiming space, accepting belonging, making the unofficial official at last.

As they cleaned up, Stella paused beneath her shells one more time. Such small things to carry such weight. But then, the most important things often were.

“Worth the wait?” Tyler asked, joining her.

“Sixteen years is a long time,” Stella said.

“But you’re here now.”

“Yeah,” she said softly, finally looking away from the ceiling and meeting his eyes. “I’m here now.”

Tyler pulled her into a quick, fierce hug.

“Love ya, ya dag,” she murmured against his shoulder.

“Language,” he muttered automatically.

She grinned. “Yeah, nah. This is the good kind.”

And that, in the end, was everything.