And they were doing it.
“We should add the Anzac biscuits to the trial menu,” Meg said. “If Stella’s okay with it. And if we can get the recipe from Fiona.”
“She’d probably be thrilled,” Stella said. “She was already talking about teaching me everything from Nana’s whole recipe box.”
“International collaboration,” Anna said. “Very on-brand for a beach town.”
“We’d need to test them with the honey lemon butter,” Joey said, already making notes. “For optimal pairing documentation.”
“We already did, the other night at dinner,” Stella said. “You just want an excuse to eat more biscuits.”
“Both things can be true.”
The lunch crowd started trickling in—a few regulars, a couple of tourists studying the menu board. Joey snapped back into work mode, clearing the tastingstation with impressive speed while Bernie reluctantly surrendered his plate.
“Same time Thursday?” Tyler asked Meg as they packed up. “For the next round?”
“If Margo’s okay with it.”
“I’m okay with it.” Margo was already heading for the door, purse over her arm. “More than okay with it.”
“Your booth is always saved,” Joey called after her.
“I meant at the table. With everyone else.” She paused at the door, looking back at them—her grandchildren, her chosen family, the next generation of whatever this place was becoming. “I’ve been observing long enough. Maybe it’s time to join in. I’m clearly missing out on all the fun.”
Then she was gone, the bell chiming behind her.
Meg stood in the middle of the Shack, surrounded by empty plates and family and the smell of something new beginning.
“She’s proud of you,” Anna said quietly. “You know that, right?”
“Yeah.” Meg smiled. “I do.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
The painting was almost finished.
Margo stood in her studio, morning light streaming through the windows, studying what she’d created. The Beach Shack filled the canvas—not a photograph, not a precise rendering, but something more. An impression. A feeling. Fifty years of love and labor and grilled cheese sandwiches made visible.
And the people.
Tyler behind the counter, spatula in hand, caught in the act of turning toward something. Meg at a table with papers spread around her, phone in hand, that particular expression she wore when she was solving a problem. Anna at the grill, sleeves rolled up, finally comfortable in her skin.
Stella at an outdoor table, camera raised, framing a shot. The newest Walsh. The one Margo had painted before she’d known for certain the girl would stay.
And at the edge of the canvas, barely visible, a figure looking in through the window. Sam. Not inside, not quite outside. Present in the way she’d always been present — partially, peripherally, with one foot already somewhere else.
Margo had debated that figure for days. Whether to include her. Whether it was cruel or kind. Whether the children would understand.
In the end, she’d decided that a family portrait without Sam wasn’t honest. Sam was part of them, even in her absence. Especially in her absence.
She loaded her smallest brush, mixed a touch of gold into the light falling through the Shack’s windows. One more detail. One more layer.
Then it would be done.
Her phone buzzed on the worktable. A text from Tyler.
New menu items debut today. Bernie’s already here. Says he’s been “training his palate.” Pretty sure that means he skipped breakfast.
