“So,” Luke said finally. “How are you really doing with all this? Being back, helping Margo, Tyler’s mysterious departure?”
Meg considered deflecting with her usual “everything’s fine” response, but something about the genuine concern in Luke’s question made her hesitate.
“It’s—an adjustment,” she admitted. “The Beach Shack is both exactly the same and completely different from what I remember.”
“How so?” Luke asked as they navigated around a piece of driftwood.
“The place itself, the smells, the sounds—all the same. But Margo is...” She paused, searching for the right words.
“Older?” Luke supplied gently.
Meg nodded. “I never noticed it in our phone calls. But seeing her work the grill for hours, the way her hands shake sometimes when she thinks no one’s watching?—”
“She’s eighty,” Luke reminded her. “But tougher than most people half her age.”
“Tyler seemed to think she needed help,” Meg said, voicing the question that had been nagging at her. “But she keeps insisting she’s fine. I feel like I’m missing something.”
Luke was quiet for a moment, watching a group of sandpipers scurry along the edge of the water. “Margo would never admit to needing help. It’s not in her DNA.”
“That’s the Turner family trait,” Meg said with a small laugh. “Stubbornness disguised as self-sufficiency.”
“Wondered where you got that from,” Luke teased, bumping her shoulder lightly with his.
The casual contact shouldn’t have affected her, but Meg found herself acutely aware of him, the familiar scent of salt water and sunshine that she’d always associated with him.
“There’s something else,” she said, steering her thoughts away from dangerous territory. “I’m still trying to figure out how the Beach Shack even operates. The limited hours, the seasonal fluctuations... the business model seems unusual.”
Luke’s expression shifted subtly. “Unusual doesn’t mean unsustainable.”
“I haven’t had a chance to really look at the books yet, but I just don’t get how a place open only four hours a day has survived for fifty years.”
“Margo’s never been one for paperwork,” Luke said, but something in his tone suggested he wasn’t surprised by her observation.
“It’s more than that. I haven’t had time to really dig into it, but there seem to be regular withdrawals going back years. Always the same amount, always the same day of the month.”
Luke stopped walking, looking out at the horizon as if carefully considering his next words. “Some things have been in place at the Beach Shack for a long time, Meg. Before Margo, even.”
“What does that mean?” Meg frowned.
“Just that...” He hesitated. “Margo has her reasons for doing things the way she does. And she’s kept that place running for fifty years.”
“Through what appears to be a completely unsustainable business model,” Meg countered. “The hours alone don’t make sense for profitability, let alone these mystery payments.”
“And yet, it survives,” Luke pointed out. “Maybe there’s more to success than what shows up on a balance sheet.”
Meg couldn’t help feeling slightly defensive. “I know there are intangible values in a family business. But numbers still have to add up.”
“They do for Margo.” Luke’s expression softened. “Just maybe not in the way they taught you at business school.”
Before Meg could press further, her phone buzzed with a text. She pulled it from her pocket to find a message from Joey:
Delivery here early. Margo asking for you.
“Break time’s over,” she said, holding up the phone.
Luke nodded, and they turned back toward the Beach Shack. They walked in silence for a moment, the conversation about finances hanging between them.
“Hey,” Luke said finally. “There’s a bonfire tonight. Just locals, nothing fancy. You should come. Get away from spreadsheets for a few hours.”
