Page 63 of The Beach Shack
The early morning light caught the iridescence of the shells on the cloth.
“Did Uncle Rick try to change things? After Grandpa died?”
Something flickered across Margo’s face—a brief shadow of remembered hurt. “He had... ideas. About restructuring. Modernizing. Making things more ‘efficient.’” The last word carried a weight that suggested deeper context. “We disagreed about the direction the Beach Shack should take.”
Meg thought about her own recent attempts to “improve” the Beach Shack’s operations, how quickly they’d been dismissed by the staff. History repeating itself, perhaps.
“Is that why he stays away? Because you didn’t take his advice?”
Margo sighed. “It’s more complicated than that. Rick felt I was being sentimental, holding onto Richard’s way of doing things out of loyalty rather than good business sense. And perhaps he was right, in some ways.” She picked up her brush again. “But I made a promise to your grandfather. And I’ve kept it, all these years.”
“What promise?” Meg asked, leaning forward slightly.
Margo’s hands stilled for a moment. “To remember what matters most,” she said finally. Then, as if realizing she’d said too much, she straightened and glanced at the clock. “My goodness, is that the time? I need to start the sourdough if we want it ready for opening.”
The abrupt subject change was clear, but Meg wasn’t ready to let go. “Margo, about the Beach Shack’s finances?—“
“Would you mind bringing in the herb delivery when it arrives?” Margo interrupted, already moving toward the kitchen. “Joey should be here by seven to help with prep.”
Meg recognized the deflection technique—she’d used it herself countless times in uncomfortable client meetings. Redirect, assign a task, change the subject. Her grandmother might be eighty, but she was still sharp as ever when it came to avoiding topics she didn’t want to discuss.
As Margo disappeared into the kitchen, Megremained on the stool, looking at the collection of shells still laid out on the cloth. Each one perfect in its own way, selected with care, destined for a specific place in the larger pattern overhead. A pattern her mother had helped create.
Was there a message in that? Some wisdom her pragmatic business mind was missing?
Margo measured flour with practiced precision, though her thoughts were far from the familiar routine of dough preparation. Meg’s questions had stirred memories she typically kept carefully contained—Richard’s laugh, his generous hand on a customer’s shoulder, his absolute conviction that the Beach Shack was meant to be more than just a business.
“Promise me, Margo,” he’d said in those final days, his voice weak but his grip on her hand still strong. “Promise me you’ll keep our word. No matter what Rick or anyone else says.”
And she had promised. For fifty years, she’d kept that promise, even when it meant tight finances, even when Rick had argued furiously about “throwing good money after bad,” even when it would have been easier to simply explain everything to her family.
Some promises weren’t hers alone to break.
Margo glanced through the kitchen doorway, watching Meg study the shells with a furrowed brow. So much like Sam in expression, like Richard in determination. The Turner stubborn streak, Richard had called it, present in every generation.
She’d hoped Tyler’s absence might bring Meg backtemporarily, but hadn’t anticipated how it would stir everything up—the old questions, the financial concerns, the family tensions that had never fully healed. And Meg, with her business background and analytical mind, was far more likely than Tyler to piece things together.
Perhaps that was inevitable. Perhaps, after fifty years, it was even time.
But not yet. Not until she was certain Meg would understand the choice Richard had made all those years ago—a choice guided by compassion rather than business sense.
Margo turned her attention back to the dough, working it with hands that knew this recipe by heart. Whatever came next, the Beach Shack would open on time today, serving the community as it always had. One day at a time, one customer at a time.
Some things, at least, remained constant.
When Joey arrived at seven, he found Meg reorganizing the storage closet, sorting items and creating detailed inventory labels for each shelf.
“Whoa,” he said, surveying her work. “You’ve been busy.”
“Just trying to help in ways that actually make sense for this place,” Meg replied with a self-deprecating smile, thinking of her failed operational overhaul attempt.
“Cool. Need a hand?”
They worked side by side for the next hour, Joey providing context for various supplies that Meg wouldhave otherwise misclassified. He showed her the special storage requirements for the sourdough starter, explained why certain ingredients needed to be kept separate from others, pointed out which items needed regular restocking and which were only occasional purchases.
Throughout their conversation, Meg found herself thinking about what Margo had said—about Richard’s business philosophy, about her promise, about the purpose beyond the balance sheet. She’d spent her career evaluating businesses, recommending optimizations, measuring success in revenue and growth. What would it mean to measure success differently? To see purpose beyond profit?
“You okay?” Joey asked, noticing her distraction. “You went quiet on me.”
