Page 6 of The Beach Shack Artists 3
Her son arrived at the Beach Shack at exactly 9:15 a.m.—early enough to avoid the morning rush, late enough to look official. He carried his leather portfolio like a shield and wore the expression of someone delivering bad news to people who wouldn’t want to hear it.
“Margo,” he said, settling into the booth across from her moving like he'd rather be anywhere else. “We need to talk.”
“Good morning to you too.” Margo poured coffee from the pot she’d prepared for this exact conversation. “How are you?”
“Fine.” Rick opened his portfolio with the sense of someone who’d rehearsed this moment. “This isn’t a social visit.”
“I figured. You only drive down here for problems.” She softened it with a small smile. “Or birthdays. You did come for my eightieth.”
“That was different.” He pulled out documents—official-looking papers. “You don’t have a will.”
“We’ve discussed this.”
“We’ve discussed it. You’ve refused to do anything about it.” Rick sounded like he'd been worrying about this for months.“Do you understand what can go wrong if something happens to you?”
Margo stirred her coffee, buying time. “I’m fine, Rick.”
“You needed twelve stitches three weeks ago. The knife slipped for the first time in fifty years.” His voice cracked slightly. “Tyler had to drive you to the emergency room because you were bleeding all over the prep station.”
The memory was still sharp—the sudden slice of pain, the shock of seeing her own blood on the cutting board, Tyler’s white face as he helped her to his car. Fifty years of handling knives, and her hand had just... slipped.
“Accidents happen,” she said quietly.
“Not to you. Not like that.” Rick leaned forward. “Mom, if something happens tomorrow—if you have another dizzy spell, if you fall, if anything happens—the Beach Shack goes into probate. Do you know what that means?”
She knew exactly what it meant. Had been avoiding thinking about it for months.
“It means lawyers. Court proceedings. Estate taxes.” Rick’s businessman tone couldn’t quite hide his emotion. “It means this place could be sold to pay legal fees. Fifty years of your life, gone to bureaucracy.”
“Rick—”
“Sam’s been MIA for five years. I live hours away and have no interest in running a restaurant. Your grandchildren are all busy with their own lives.” He gestured around the dining room—their dining room, the place Richard had built, the place she’d kept alive. “Who gets it? Who’s prepared to take this on?”
The question hung in the air like smoke. Margo looked around the Beach Shack—the worn wooden tables, the shell mosaic ceiling she’d spent decades creating, the window where morning light fell exactly right across the counter. Fifty years ofher life, and she’d never officially decided what would happen to it.
“I don’t know,” she said finally.
“That’s the problem,” Rick said, his voice gentle. “You have to know. You have to make decisions.”
“The Shack isn’t just a restaurant, Rick. It’s funded kids through school, kept people employed, given them a place to start again. It’s a big responsibility.”
Margo thought about Tyler, photographing tides and disappearing when things got complicated. About Anna, arriving with her artistic visions and her daughter Bea. About Sam, somewhere in the world, sending the occasional postcard but never coming home. And Meg—Meg at the threshold of a new beginning in her life.
“What if none of them want it?” she asked quietly.
“Then we’ll figure something else out. But we need to know.” Rick pulled out a business card. “I’ve talked to an estate attorney. She can draw up papers, create a trust, make sure your wishes are followed. But Margo—” He reached across the table, covering her hand with his. “You have to have wishes first.”
Through the window, Margo could see Bernie approaching with his usual morning purpose. In a few hours, the lunch rush would begin. Anna and Bea would arrive. For the first time in almost twenty years, all three grandchildren would be here together.
“How long do I have?” she asked.
“To make decisions? As long as you want.” Rick’s grip tightened. “To avoid probate if something happens? You don’t have any time. Every day you wait is a risk.”
Margo looked at the papers in Rick’s portfolio, then at the Beach Shack around them. Her life’s work. Richard’s dream. The place that had held their family together through decades of chaos and change.
“They’re all coming home this week,” she said thoughtfully. “Anna arrives soon. Meg’s been here for months. Tyler is here to stay.”
“All the more reason to get this settled,” Rick said. “While everyone’s here to discuss it.”
