“Does he have some kind of Beach Shack radar?” Meg muttered, trying not to notice how easily Luke navigated the crowded dining area, how naturally he chatted with customers while efficiently managing the flow.
“Something like that,” Margo agreed.
Before Meg could respond, a new wave of tickets came in from the window. She forced her attention back to the grill, aware that she was falling behind despite her best efforts.
Twenty minutes later, she was still struggling to catch up when Luke appeared beside her, somehow having addressed the dining room chaos enough to step behind the counter.
“Mind if I help?” he asked quietly, not reaching for anything until she nodded permission.
Unlike Margo’s gentle suggestion earlier, Luke’s assistance came without any hint of judgment or criticism. He simply picked up where the workflow had stalled, preparing bread and fillings for the next batch while Meg focused on the sandwiches already on the grill.
“The Saturday morning chaos is legendary,” he commented, his tone conversational rather than condescending. “First time I tried to help during a rush like this, I dropped an entire tray of sandwiches. Margo still brings it up sometimes.”
The admission made Meg feel marginally better about her own struggles. “How do you manage it all without losing your mind?”
“You stop seeing individual orders after a while,” Luke said, assembling ingredients with practiced efficiency. “It becomes more like... a rhythm. Like catching waves. You can’t fight the ocean—you have to feel its pattern.”
Meg wanted to point out that restaurant management was hardly comparable to surfing, but she bit back the comment. Luke was genuinely trying to help, and more importantly, his approach was working. Somehow, the backup of orders was diminishing, the frantic energy shifting into something more manageable.
She also couldn’t help noticing how he interacted with the staff—giving gentle direction to Joey when needed, anticipating Lisa’s questions before she asked them, all without undermining Meg’s authority ortaking over completely. It was a delicate balance that he managed with surprising grace.
By eleven-thirty, the initial rush had finally eased. Customers still filled most tables, but the line had disappeared, and the kitchen had caught up with pending orders. Meg stepped back from the grill, wiping her forehead with the back of her hand.
“You survived,” Luke said with a smile, passing her a glass of water.
“Barely.” She took a grateful sip.
“Today was especially busy.”
Meg glanced around the dining area, taking in the mix of tourists and locals, all happily consuming what were, objectively, just cheese sandwiches. What made this place so special that people would wait in line for thirty minutes for something they could make at home?
Meg was about to respond when an older couple approached the counter, the man using a cane while the woman carried their empty plates.
“We just wanted to thank you,” the woman said, addressing Meg directly. “We were worried when we heard Tyler was away, but you’ve kept everything exactly as it should be.”
Meg blinked in surprise. “Oh. Thank you, but I’m just helping out temporarily.”
“We’ve been coming here every Saturday for thirty-five years,” the man added, his weathered face creasing in a smile. “Since our first date, right after Roger here finished his first US Army tour. Your grandfather gaveus free milkshakes that day when he found out I was just back.”
“Richard always remembered a face,” the woman—apparently Roger’s wife—said fondly. “And Margo’s kept that tradition alive all these years. This place... it’s been the constant in our lives through raising kids, career changes, everything.”
Meg felt a strange tightness in her chest. “That’s... that’s lovely to hear.”
“Our grandkids love it now too,” Roger continued. “Four generations of our family, coming to your family’s place. That’s something special these days.”
As the couple made their way toward the exit, Meg found herself momentarily unable to speak. They had thanked her, but not for anything she’d actually done. They were thanking the Beach Shack itself, the legacy and traditions she’d spent years distancing herself from. What right did she have to accept their gratitude when she’d been absent for so long?
“You okay?” Luke asked quietly.
“Fine,” she said automatically, then reconsidered. “Actually, no. That was... I don’t know what that was.”
“And that’s the magic of the Beach Shack.” Luke said.
Meg looked around the dining area with fresh eyes.
“I never saw it this way before,” she admitted. “When I was growing up, it was just the place that took up all of Margo’s time. A business that Uncle Rick complained was ‘barely breaking even’ despite the hours she put in.”
Luke leaned against the counter, his expression thoughtful. “Your uncle sees spreadsheets. Margo sees people.”
