Page 52 of The Beach Shack
Meg groaned. “You heard about that?”
“Joey told me,” Margo said with a grin. “Said you had color-coded charts and everything.”
“I was trying to help,” Meg protested, but she was smiling now.
“The belief that everything can be solved with the right system,” Nadine diagnosed.
“I may have come on a little strong,” Meg admitted.
“A little?” Margo laughed. “Joey said you looked like you were conducting a hostile takeover of grilled cheese.”
The women dissolved into laughter, and Meg found herself laughing too. For the first time since returning to Laguna, she felt her shoulders truly relax. Not because anything was solved—but because she was no longer alone in it. And because she was seeing her grandmother as a whole person, not just the role she played in Meg’s life.
As the sun dipped toward the ocean and a salty breeze rustled the rosemary bushes, Eleanor lit a row of lanterns along the patio’s edge. Warm amber light flickered against the tablecloth, the glassware, the soft faces of women who had built this community stitch by stitch.
And now—somehow—both Meg and Margo were part of this circle, but in different ways. Margo as the longtime friend and confidante, Meg as the newcomer being carefully, lovingly inducted.
“One more round?” Vivian asked, already reaching for the bottle.
“Absolutely,” Margo said, holding out her glass.
Meg watched her grandmother—really watched her—and realized she’d been seeing only one side of a much more complex and interesting woman. Margo wasn’t just the keeper of the Beach Shack. She was the friend who gave unsolicited but correct advice about contractors. The woman who made devastatingly goodtarts and had strong opinions about city politics. The person who had built a chosen family and had earned their fierce loyalty.
And for tonight, at least, Meg was being invited into that family too.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Morning came quietly—rare and welcome.
After the chaos of the Saturday rush, the Beach Shack opened with a softer hum. Locals wandered in slowly, still sun-drowsy or church-dressed, trading greetings with the ease of a town that had already shared lifetimes over coffee and grilled cheese.
Meg had arrived early, as she often did now, and settled behind the counter to organize a few invoices.
Margo had gone to walk the beach—a quiet ritual she rarely skipped—and the morning light poured through the Shack’s front windows in warm, golden angles.
Joey was restocking napkin dispensers and humming under his breath—some mashup of a surf song and something suspiciously Broadway.
“You always get here early?” Meg asked, looking up.
Joey grinned. “Beats watching my dad spend anhour figuring out how to brew French press without swearing at it.”
“That bad?”
“He treats it like it’s rocket science. Measures the water temperature with a thermometer, times everything with his phone, mutters about ‘optimal extraction.’” Joey shook his head. “Meanwhile, my mom just wants coffee that doesn’t taste like motor oil.”
Meg chuckled. “That’s a solid reason to escape.”
“Plus, Margo always has the good coffee ready by the time I get here.” He gestured toward the ancient coffee maker behind the counter. “That thing’s older than both of us combined, but somehow it makes perfect coffee every time.”
“I’ve noticed that,” Meg said. “It’s like the Beach Shack has its own magic.”
Joey slid into the booth across from her, still holding a napkin dispenser like it was part of the conversation.
Meg reached for another stack of napkins and handed them to Joey. “So what do you do when you’re not filling napkin dispensers,” she said with a smile. “School?”
Joey looked thoughtful. “Not at the moment. Graduated last year, but I want to go back.
Meg set the invoice folder down. “You have something in mind?”
