The Beach Shack Anchor (Laguna Beach #5)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

The tomatoes were wrong.

Anna held one up to the morning light coming through the Beach Shack’s front windows and turned it slowly, the way Margo had taught her — cradling the bottom, pressing gently with her thumb.

Too firm. Nowhere close to ripe. She’d specifically written “ready-to-eat” on the order form, circled it twice, and Roberto at Pacific Produce had sent her rocks.

She set it on the prep counter and reached for her phone, scrolling to Roberto’s number while tying her apron one-handed.

The September light was different now — lower and softer than summer’s glare, turning the ocean outside into hammered gold.

The marine layer hadn’t burned off yet, and everything had that gauzy, not-quite-awake quality that made early mornings in Laguna feel like a secret.

“Roberto. It’s Anna Walsh.”

“Ah, Anna. Good morning. How are the—”

“The tomatoes are green. I could play bocce with these.”

“They’ll ripen by—“

“By Thursday. I need them today. I’ve got a tomato situation, Roberto.”

He promised a replacement delivery by ten. Anna hung up, slid the phone into her apron pocket, and went back to prep. The grill needed another fifteen minutes to reach temperature, the bread delivery was due at seven-thirty, and she had the whole long stretch of morning before the doors opened.

She loved this.

Not the tomato crisis — although even that gave her a weird satisfaction, the problem-solving rhythm of it.

She loved the quiet before the rush. The way the Shack smelled first thing—coffee and clean surfaces and the ghost of fifty years of grilled cheese baked into the walls so deep you could probably taste it if you licked the wood.

Which she had never done. But had considered.

Her phone buzzed. Joey, from school.

A photo of his class schedule appeared, followed by three crying emojis.

They gave me 8 AM Thermodynamics. On PURPOSE.

Anna typed back one-handed while checking the grill temperature with the other.

You survived the Saturday lunch rush. You can survive thermodynamics.

Those are completely different skill sets.

Both require not panicking when things get hot.

That was terrible.

I’m proud of it.

She dropped her phone into her pocket and held her hand two inches above the grill surface, counting. Three seconds before she had to pull away. Almost there.

The front door opened and Tyler came through backward, shouldering it wide with blocks of cheese balanced in one arm and his camera bag slung over the other.

His hair was doing the thing it did when he’d been up since five shooting dawn light — sticking up on one side, flattened on the other, like two different people had styled opposite halves of his head.

“Cheese,” he announced, setting the blocks on the counter. “And I dropped Stella at school. She had her bag, her lunch, her camera, and approximately nineteen opinions about my driving.”

“Your driving is fine.”

“That’s what I said. She said ‘fine’ and ‘good’ are different things and I should aspire higher.” Tyler grabbed an apron off the hook by the walk-in. “What needs doing?”

“Bread’s coming at seven-thirty. Tomatoes are a crime scene but Roberto’s sending replacements. Grill’s almost there.” Anna tossed him a towel. “Wipe down the tables?”

“On it.” He headed for the dining area, then turned back. “Oh—Meg called while I was driving. She’s deep in some crisis. Chairs and venues and I stopped listening after she said ‘seating hierarchy.’ She wants to talk to both of us. I told her we’d call back.”

“Both of us?”

“She needs opinions. Apparently Luke isn’t providing useful ones.”

Anna dried her hands and pulled out her phone. Tyler came back from the dining area and leaned against the counter while she dialed. Meg picked up on the first ring.

“You’re on speaker,” Anna said. “Tyler’s here.”

“Good. Okay. I have a situation.” Meg’s voice had the pitch it reached when she had too many browser tabs open in her head.

“Luke thinks people can stand for an hour on sand. On sand, Anna. For a wedding ceremony. He said—and I’m quoting—‘the ocean is the backdrop, nobody’s going to be looking at chairs. ’”

Tyler crossed his arms. “He’s not entirely wrong.”

“He is entirely wrong. You can’t have eighty-year-old Margo standing on sand for an hour. That’s not a wedding, that’s an endurance event.”

“So, get chairs,” Anna said, putting half the cheese blocks in the walk-in.

“I’m trying. But there are fourteen chair rental companies in Orange County and they all have different styles and none of them match and the folks at San Clemente just moved our project timeline up by two weeks so I’m supposed to finalize the resort’s rebrand and pick chairs and Luke is texting me pictures of driftwood benches like that’s a real option—”

“Meg.” Anna leaned forward on the counter. “White folding chairs. Done.”

“White is too expected.”

“White is classic.”

“White is what every beach wedding in California has had since 1987.”

“And they all looked fine.”

Tyler leaned toward the phone. “Meg. Get the white chairs. Focus on the resort thing. The wedding will happen whether the chairs are white or not.”

A pause. They could hear Meg typing something—she was always typing something.

“You’re probably right. I just—there’s a lot going on.

San Clemente wants the full brand presentation by the fifteenth, and the resort’s hosting some corporate retreat next month that I’m supposed to build the marketing package for, and Luke found a caterer he likes but they don’t do tastings until October—”

“Meg,” Anna said. “Breathe.”

“I’m breathing. I’m breathing and working. I can do both.” More typing. “Okay. White chairs. Fine. I’ll deal with it. How’s the Shack?”

“Good. Roberto sent me furniture instead of tomatoes but otherwise perfect.”

“Do you need me to come down this week? I could move some things around—”

“I’ve got it. Focus on your project.”

“You sure? Because I could—”

“Meg. I’ve got it.”

Another pause. The typing stopped. “Okay. Call me if anything comes up. Anything.”

“I will.”

“I mean it. Anything.”

“Goodbye, Meg.”

Tyler waited until Anna hung up, then shook his head. “She’s going to plan that wedding, run the resort rebrand, and try to manage the Shack from San Clemente all at the same time.”

“She’s going to try.”

“Is she going to be okay?”

Anna arranged the cheese blocks along the counter in order—cheddar, gruyère, monterey jack, and the sharp white that gave everything its bite. “She’s Meg. She’ll be okay until she’s not, and then she’ll call us.”

“And then we’ll fix it.”

“And then we’ll fix it.”

Tyler grabbed the towel and headed back to the tables.

The Shack was hers now. Not technically—the trust belonged to all three of them, and Margo’s name was still on everything that mattered.

But the daily running of it, the opening and closing, the ordering and prepping and managing and improvising when Roberto sent rocks instead of tomatoes—that was Anna.

Had been since the end of summer, when she’d quit full-time teaching to take the anchor position.

She’d spent her whole life being the chaotic one. The artistic sister who rearranged furniture without asking and implemented “improvements” nobody wanted. She’d nearly gotten them a health code violation with art supplies in the kitchen. Tyler still brought it up at family dinners.

But something had shifted. The Shack didn’t need her to be artistic. It needed her to be steady. And steady, it turned out, was the first deep breath she’d taken in years.

The front door opened again and Margo walked in, wearing her painting smock over a blue cotton blouse and carrying a canvas tote.

She looked around the way she always did now—quick scan, left to right, checking that everything was where it should be.

The look of someone who’d built something from nothing and was learning, slowly, to let other people hold it.

“Just stopping by,” Margo said, setting her tote on the counter.

“You stopped by yesterday.”

“I forgot my good brush. The flat sable. Red handle.”

“You don’t keep brushes here, Margo.”

“I might have left it after the meeting.” Margo was already opening drawers, moving things aside like who knew every inch of this kitchen by touch. “It was right here—”

Anna watched her grandmother check three drawers she’d already checked and said nothing. Margo didn’t need a brush. Margo needed to see that the grill was heating, the cheese was out, the prep was on schedule. That her life’s work was still breathing.

Tyler came back from the dining area and kissed Margo’s cheek. “Morning! You’re here early.”

“Looking for a brush.”

“Sure you are.” He caught Anna’s eye over Margo’s head. “Everything looks great, by the way. Anna’s got it handled.”

Margo straightened a stack of napkins that didn’t need straightening. “I can see that.” A pause. Then, softer, “The avocados look good today.”

“Roberto’s best,” Anna said. “Unlike the tomatoes, which are basically furniture.”

Margo picked one up, turned it in her hand the same way Anna had. “Two days. Put them in a paper bag with a banana.”

“Roberto’s bringing ripe ones by ten.”

“Good. But bag these anyway. Never waste.” Margo set the tomato down and looked at Anna. Pride, maybe. And something underneath it that looked like relief. “I’ll get out of your way.”

“You’re never in the way.”

“I know. But this is yours now.” She picked up her tote—the one that definitely didn’t contain a missing brush and headed for the door. “Circle’s got me booked until Friday. Eleanor signed me up for a garden club.”

“You hate gardening.”

“I hate petunias specifically, but I do enjoy things that grow on their own. Like basil. But Eleanor was very enthusiastic and I didn’t have the energy to argue.

” Margo pushed through the door, then turned back.

“The bread delivery is usually six minutes late on Tuesdays. Don’t let the driver blame traffic. It’s a six-block drive.”

“Got it.”

“And the pilot light on the left burner flickers when the wind’s from the west. Just tap it.”

“I know, Margo.”

“Of course you do.” Margo smiled—which made her look thirty years younger—and left.

Anna stood in the quiet kitchen and listened to her grandmother’s footsteps fade on the boardwalk.

The grill ticked as it heated. The ocean murmured through the propped-open windows.

Morning light climbed higher now, warming the wood floors, catching the shells on the ceiling—hundreds of them, decades of family pressed into plaster and paint.

Tyler reappeared from the storage room with a case of napkins balanced on his shoulder. “She find her brush?”

“There was no brush.”

“I know. She just needed to see that it was okay.”

“Yeah.” Anna turned back to the cheese. “It’s okay.”

Her phone rang a few minutes later. She wiped her hands on her apron and checked the screen. Rick. Their uncle rarely called unless something involved numbers, paperwork, or both.

“Hi, Uncle Rick.”

“Anna. How are things at the Shack?”

“Good. Really good. We’re about to open.”

“Excellent. Listen, I’ve been looking at the books from last quarter. You’ve added menu items, you’ve got three adults drawing salaries now, the revenue from summer needs to be accounted for properly—”

“Rick, we’re managing fine.”

“I’m sure you are. But ‘fine’ and ‘sustainable’ are different things.” A pause. She could hear him tapping a pen against something hard. Rick always tapped pens. “I’m sending someone to do a proper audit. A consultant I’ve worked with. He’s good. Thorough.”

Anna leaned against the counter and looked out at the ocean. The morning was perfect. The Shack was humming. Everything was exactly as it should be.

“When?”

“Next week. His name is Michael Torres. He’ll need access to everything.”

“Everything—”

“Books, receipts, payroll, the scholarship accounts. All of it.”

Anna hung up and stood for a moment, staring at the kitchen she’d just gotten comfortable running. Outside, the bread delivery truck pulled up to the curb.

Six minutes late.