Page 1 of The Beach Shack Legacy

CHAPTER ONE

The grill was almost there.

Stella could hear it ticking from across the room, the metal expanding the way it did every morning while Anna held her hand two inches above the surface and counted. Three seconds, pull away, wipe palms on apron, back to the cheese. Anna had a system for the cheese—cheddar, Gruyère, Monterey jack, and the sharp white that Margo insisted gave everything its bite—and she lined them up the same way every morning, in the same order, like she was setting out paints.

Tyler was in the dining room, towel over his shoulder, wiping down tables. He couldn’t stand still before the doors opened and never had been able to. Stella had stopped pointing it out. Some things about your father you just let happen.

She was supposed to be filling the sugar caddies and she was not filling the sugar caddies. Camera around her neck instead, one hip against the counter. Joey came through the back door carrying a crate of tomatoes, set it down, looked at the stack of napkins Anna had folded ten minutes ago, and immediately straightened them.

“Those were fine,” Anna said from the kitchen.

“They were close to fine. There’s a difference.” He squared the bottom edge against the counter and stepped back to evaluate. “Better.”

The Shack smelled the way it always smelled first thing—coffee, clean wood, and grilled cheese baked so deep into the walls you could probably taste it if you pressed your face against the grain. Which nobody had ever done. Probably.

Bernie was in his booth—same booth, same crossword, coffee steaming in the mug with the chip on the rim that nobody was allowed to throw away.

“Six-letter word for ‘unfinished,’” he said to nobody in particular.

“Undone,” Tyler called from across the room without looking up.

“That’s six.” Bernie wrote it in. “Not bad for a man who thought ‘archipelago’ was a type of pasta.”

“That was a long time ago.”

“Yes, but it was memorable.”

The front door opened and Bea came through it like a small hurricane—bag over one shoulder, hair everywhere, something clutched against her chest with both hands.

“I got it,” she said to the entire restaurant. “It came. It’s here. Look at this.”

She held up a thick white envelope with the CalArts logo in the corner—the orientation packet. Registration forms, housing assignments, a campus map she unfolded across the nearest table like she was planning an invasion.

Anna came out from behind the counter, took one look at the packet, and pulled Bea into a hug that lasted long enough for Joey to respectfully look away and reorganize two salt shakers.

“Let me see.” Anna released her and picked up the housing form, holding it at arm’s length because she refused to admit she needed reading glasses. “A roommate from up north. That sounds nice.”

“Her name is Sage. She does ceramics.” Bea’s whole face was lit up—luminous in a way that made Stella raise her camera and click without thinking.

“When’s move-in day?” Joey asked, appearing at the table with a pen and the small leather notebook he kept in his apron for situations that required documentation.

“Right after Labor Day.”

“And orientation starts?”

“That first week.”

Joey wrote it down. “How far is it from here? Drive time.”

“About an hour and a half, depending on traffic.”

“At what time of day? Because the 5 northbound at three-thirty is a completely different freeway than the 5 northbound at seven.”

“Joey, I haven’t mapped my trip yet. I just got the packet.”

“I’m being proactive.” He tucked the notebook back into his apron, squared his shoulders, and nodded once.

Tyler came over, towel still on his shoulder, and traced a route on the map with his finger. “Good campus. I shot a wedding near there once. The light in those canyons is unbelievable in the fall.”