Meg closed her eyes. One crisis at a time.
The seatbelt sign dinged as the plane began its descent. Orange County spread beneath them—planned communities, shopping centers, and eventually the coastline where Laguna nestled between hills and ocean.
She’d booked a rental car at the airport, unwilling to ask her uncle for a ride.
As she drove south from John Wayne Airport, Meg found herself automatically taking the familiar exits, muscle memory guiding her along Pacific Coast Highway. The ocean appeared and disappeared from view as she rounded the curves leading into Laguna.
It was late morning, the June sun bright overhead, tourists already filling the sidewalks and crosswalks. Meg rolled down her window, letting in the salt air. Despite everything, something inside her loosened at the familiar scent.
Her phone buzzed with a text from Tyler.
Landed in Sydney. Thank you, Meg. If you’re not staying at mom’s, you can have my place. Key’s under the back planter. Place is clean enough—ignore the surfboards in the hallway.
“I won’t need long,” Meg muttered. Even if she hadno idea how to fix the Shack in less than a month. And no, she wouldn’t be staying at their mom’s place. In her childhood home, even though their mother was somewhere far away. That was the last memory box she needed to open right now.
Laguna looked almost exactly the same—same old lamppost banners, same coffee shop with the chipped sign, same beachfront park where teenagers pretended not to notice their parents walking by.
But here and there, something had shifted. A boutique she didn’t recognize. A condo building where the bookstore used to be.
She turned off PCH onto a quiet residential street that wound up the hillside. Tyler’s small bungalow sat halfway up, a modest pale blue structure with a glimpse of ocean from the front porch. Meg remembered when he’d bought it three years ago—she’d sent a housewarming gift but hadn’t made it to his party.
After parking, she sat in the rental car for a moment, gathering herself. The plan was simple—get settled at Tyler’s, check in with Brad, then head to the Beach Shack for Margo’s birthday. Professional and efficient. She wasn’t here for a nostalgic homecoming.
Tyler’s place was surprisingly tidy, apart from the promised surfboards lining one hallway. The furnishings were minimal—a comfortable couch, coffee table stacked with surf magazines, and a small dining table that clearly functioned as his desk, covered with camera equipment and prints.
A photo sat on a shelf above the surfboard rack—sun-bleached, slightly crooked. The three of them—Meg, Tyler, and their sister Anna—lined up at the Shack counter, each holding a grilled cheese and grinning like it was the best day of their lives.
She didn’t remember the photo being taken. But she remembered the grilled cheese. And how Margo had made them all laugh so hard, someone snorted lemonade.
Meg wheeled her suitcase into the spare room, which was little more than a storage room with a futon, but it would do. No need to unpack. She wouldn’t be here long enough.
She noticed another closed door down the hall—probably Tyler’s home office—but didn’t want to intrude on his private space.
She set up her laptop on Tyler’s dining table and connected to his WiFi. The San Clemente email still waited for her attention, but first she texted Brad.
Just arrived. Will call into committee meeting at 4. Working on client email now.
His response came immediately.
Send me your plan for handling this remotely before the meeting.
Meg took a deep breath, fighting back the rising anxiety. She had three hours before the call, enough time to check on Margo first. She changed from her travel clothes into something more casual but stillpolished—dark jeans, a crisp white button-down, low heels. Not quite Beach Shack attire, but she couldn’t bring herself to go full beach casual yet.
The Beach Shack came into view after she’d driven through the small, beachfront town of Laguna, passing the familiar small shops and parks that had been the cornerstone of the town for—well, as long as she could remember. It sat on a small piece of land just above one of Laguna’s quieter beaches, a weathered wooden structure that had somehow survived decades of coastal development. Meg parked in the small lot behind it, noticing the vintage surfboards mounted decoratively along the exterior walls, each with a small plaque beneath it.
She hesitated at the back door, suddenly nervous. She hadn’t told Margo she was coming. Years in corporate America, presenting to boardrooms and managing million-dollar campaigns, and here she was, anxious about facing her own grandmother.
The door was propped open to catch the ocean breeze. Meg could hear the familiar sounds inside—the sizzle of the grill, glasses clinking, the murmur of conversation and occasional laughter. She took a deep breath and stepped inside.
The smell hit her first—melting cheese, sourdough bread, and that indefinable scent of the place that was somehow distinct from the food itself. The Beach Shack wasn’t large—a counter with stools along one side, a handful of mismatched tables scattered throughout,and windows open to the ocean view and larger deck.
But it was the ceiling that caught Meg’s attention, as it always did. Every inch was covered in shells—thousands of them, arranged in patterns that seemed random at first glance but revealed intricate designs if you looked long enough. New shells had been added since she’d last visited, the mosaic evolving like a living thing.
“Meg?”
She turned to find her grandmother standing behind the counter, spatula in hand, eyes wide with surprise. Margo Turner had always been small, but she seemed even more diminutive now, though she stood as straight as ever. Her silver hair was pulled back in its usual practical bun, and she wore the Beach Shack’s signature blue apron over a simple white shirt.
“Hi,” Meg said, moving toward the counter. “Happy birthday.”
