“This is not just a diner,” she said, opening her notebook. “It is a ritual. Fishermen at five in the morning who smell like salt and diesel. Teenagers sneaking in after curfew for fries like we used to. Night shift workers. Lonely regulars. Hungover Sunday brunches. The Lighthouse matters because it means warmth and constancy and home.”
I nodded before I realized I was doing it.
“This is not a personality overhaul,” she said. “I’m not turning the Lighthouse into a concept.”
Relief hit fast. “Good. I would fight a concept.”
“The problem is not the diner,” she said. “It’s the website.”
I winced. “I had a feeling.”
“It’s old. It’s hard to use. The menu is wrong. The hours feel like a guess.”
“That tracks.”
“Locals know your rhythm,” she said. “They walk in and ask what is good today. Tourists do not. They Google, see a menu from three years ago, and keep driving.”
I leaned on the counter and listened.
“I want a new site,” she said. “One page. Phone-friendly. The first thing people see is whether you are open, what today’s specials are, and what kind of food you serve.”
I nodded. “That alone would cut the phone calls in half.”
“Exactly,” she said. “Locals can check specials without calling. Visitors can tell you are real and operating in the current decade.”
I smiled. “I like this.”
“The menu stays the same,” she said. “We just make it honest. Live updates. Soup changes online when it changes in the pot. Pie sells out and disappears. No disappointment. No arguments with people who drove twenty minutes for something that no longer exists.”
“That happens more than I admit.”
“I also want a short note on the site,” she said. “Nothing cute. Just yes, we are local, and yes, you are welcome.”
I laughed. “You have seen the looks.”
“I have worn the looks.”
She flipped the page. “Clear hours. Parking info. Busy times. Fewer confused people standing outside staring at the sign like it betrayed them.”
I rubbed my chin. “This all sounds doable.”
“It is,” she said. “Low cost. High reward. No change to how you cook or who you serve.”
I straightened. “I want this.”
“Good,” she said. “I already started sketching it.”
I grinned. “Of course you did.”
“I am thorough.”
“I hired you for this,” I said. “I just forgot to say it.”
She closed her notebook. “Say it again.”
“I hired you for this,” I said. “And I am glad you are here.”
She turned the page and slid it toward me.
