The observation stuck with her all morning.
As she prepped orders with Luke and Joey, Meg found herself paying more attention—not to the workflow or the wait times, but to the people. How Margo greeted everyone by name. How Joey had started heating up Mr. Harada’s grilled cheese before he even ordered. How someone left a jar of homemade marmalade on the counter with a sticky note that just said, “Extra batch.”
By the end of lunch service, her legs ached, her shoulders were sore, and yet her brain felt clearer than it had in weeks.
She’d spent years trying to optimize businesses. But the Shack wasn’t built to be efficient. It was built to be known.
As she wiped down the last table, she looked up at the ceiling again. The shells. Thousands of them, no two alike. From far away, they looked random. But now, she could see it. Not a pattern exactly. But a shape. A story.
Maybe that was the whole point.
“Penny for your thoughts,” Margo said, appearing beside her with a fresh rag to help with cleanup.
“I was just thinking that I might have missed more than I realized,” Meg admitted. “About this place. About what you’ve built here.”
Margo’s expression softened. “It’s not something that shows up in account ledgers.”
The comment lingered. Not an accusation, exactly—just a reminder that they’d always seen things a little differently.
“No,” Meg agreed quietly. “It wouldn’t.”
She watched as Luke helped Joey with the end-of-day restocking, the two of them laughing about something she couldn’t hear. The rhythm between them was easy, built on time and familiarity.
And suddenly, Meg felt unsettled. Maybe even a little jealous.
Not just of Luke’s comfort here—but of the fact that he hadn’t had to earn it. That he belonged, while she still felt like she was waiting for permission.
And yet, watching him joke with Joey, then show him a quicker way to break down the cardboard boxes, she couldn’t deny it?—
“He’s good with people,” Margo said, following her gaze.
“He always was,” Meg acknowledged. “Even in high school.”
“He’s grown up a lot since then,” Margo said, with a pointed look that made Meg wonder how much her grandmother knew about their shared history. “We all have, I suppose.”
As the last of the staff headed out and Luke waved goodbye with a promise to check in tomorrow, Meg found herself alone with Margo in the now-quiet Beach Shack.
The silence was thick with all the things they hadn’t said—about the finances, about Richard, about how strange it felt to belong to a place that still didn’t quite feel like hers.
“I’ve been thinking about the Standing Obligation,” she said quietly, her thumb brushing the edge of a napkin on the counter. “Trying to piece together what it really meant to Grandpa. And to you.”
She expected her grandmother to change the subject. But Margo just nodded, her face unreadable.
“You were always the one who needed answers,” she said. “Your mother was like that too.”
Meg blinked. The mention of her mom—so rare, so casually spoken—landed like a dropped stone in still water.
“She was?”
“Oh yes. Never satisfied with ‘because I said so’ or ‘that’s just how things are,’” Margo said with a small smile.
“Why won’t Uncle Rick talk about the Beach Shack?” she asked directly. “What happened between him and Grandpa Richard?”
Margo’s smile faded. “Some wounds heal slowly, if at all. Rick has his reasons for keeping his distance, just as you had yours.”
The gentle parallel wasn’t lost on Meg. “Are they the same reasons?”
“No,” Margo said after a moment’s consideration. “But perhaps more similar than either of you would care to admit.” She picked up her purse from behindthe counter. “I’m heading home. These Saturday shifts aren’t as easy as they used to be.”
