“He’s not wrong,” Rick said finally. “Bernie, I mean. I’ve been trying to figure out what’s different, looking for something I can fix. But maybe it’s not something I can put in a ledger.”
“We can’t replicate Margo.”
“No.” Rick stared at the table. “I don’t know what to do with that.”
“Neither do I.”
Joey came over with a basket and held it out to Rick. “Can I offer you a muffin, Mr. Turner? To go with your coffee? I made them.”
Rick took one and nodded at Joey. “Thank you, son.” He took a bite and looked at it, then looked at Joey. “This is really good.”
“Thank you, Mr. Turner,” Joey said with a wide smile.
Joey headed to the other customers, offering them a muffin also.
Rick looked around the room. “Sparse as it is, they seem to really like these.”
“They do,” Tyler said as he watched Bernie take two.
Tyler thought for a moment. “Meg’s been experimenting. Menu additions. And Anna’s been takingmore shifts. Maybe we don’t need to replicate Margo. Maybe we just need to figure out what we bring to it. Our version.”
Rick looked at him for a long moment. Then, slowly, he nodded and smiled.
“That’s either very wise or very naive.”
“Probably both.”
“Probably.” Rick stood, straightened his sensible slacks. “Keep me updated. On whatever you figure out. And thanks for wanting to try. You have my full support.”
“I will.”
Rick headed for the door. He paused with his hand on the handle.
“Tyler.”
“Yeah?”
“I’m glad you’re here. Doing this.” Rick’s voice was gruff, almost embarrassed. “The family needs people who understand the parts that don’t fit in spreadsheets.”
Then he was gone, the sensible gray sedan pulling out of the parking lot and disappearing down the coast road—but Tyler thought he caught something like a spring in his step on his way out.
Joey materialized beside Tyler. “So. That sounded intense.”
“You were eavesdropping.”
“I was monitoring. For safety purposes.” Joeyhanded him a fresh coffee. “Bernie’s right, you know. About Mrs. Patterson.”
“I know.”
“So what do we do?”
Tyler looked around the Shack — the faded booths, the ancient grill, the ceiling covered in fifty years of shells and stories. His grandmother had built this. His family had kept it going. Now it was their turn to figure out what came next.
“We find our version,” he said. “Whatever that means.”
“That’s very vague.”
“I know.”
