“Anna?”
“Teaching until three-thirty. She usually swings by after.”
Margo checked the time. Almost four. “When they’re all here, tell them I need to talk to them. All three of them. Together.”
Joey’s eyes went wide. “That sounds ominous.”
“It’s not ominous.It’s overdue.”
They gatheredin the corner booth at four-fifteen—Tyler sliding in first, then Meg still in her work clothes, then Anna breathless from rushing over. Margo sat across from them, her coffee refilled, the half-eaten sandwich pushed aside.
“Margo, what’s going on?” Anna asked. “Joey said it was urgent.”
“I said overdue,” Margo corrected. “Joey added the urgency.”
“He’s very dramatic,” Tyler said.
“He’s very worried. So is Bernie. So is Rick.” Margo folded her hands on the table. “So am I.”
The three siblings exchanged glances. Margo watched them do it — the silent communication of people who’d grown up together, who knew each other’s rhythms without thinking.
“We know things have been slow,” Meg said carefully. “We’re working on it.”
“Are you?”
“We’ve been covering shifts. Making sure someone’s always here?—”
“That’s not what I’m asking.” Margo looked at each of them in turn. “Rick showed me the numbers. Twenty-three percent down. Regulars coming less often. New customers not coming back.” She touched the edge of her plate. “And Joey just made me a perfect grilled cheese that tasted like nothing.”
“It didn’t taste like nothing,” Tyler said. “It tasted fine. I mean, I’m sure it did.”
“Exactly.” Margo let that land. “Fine. After fifty years of people calling my food ‘like a hug,’ we’re serving fine.”
Anna shifted uncomfortably. “We’re following your recipes exactly?—”
“I know you are. That’s not the problem.” Margo took a breath. This was the hard part. The part where she had to say out loud what she’d been turning over in her mind for days. “Do you know what Rick told Tyler? In fifty years, there’s never been a stretch where a Walsh or a Turner wasn’t here. On the floor. In the kitchen. Not for more than a day or two.”
“We’re here,” Meg said. “We’ve been covering?—”
“Covering isn’t the same thing.” Margo’s voice was gentle but firm. “You’re covering shifts. You’re filling gaps. You’re making sure the doors stay open and the food gets served. But none of you are... here. Not really.”
Silence. The ceiling fans turned overhead. Shells gleamed in the sunlight.
“What does that mean?” Tyler asked quietly.
“It means this place was never about the food. Not really.” Margo gestured around the Shack — the faded booths, the ancient grill, the ceiling covered in fifty years of stories. “It was about someone knowing your name. Remembering your order. Asking about your mother’s hip surgery. Handing you a shell and saying ‘this one reminded me of you.’” She looked at them. “You can’t schedule that. You can’t cover for it.Someone has to be the heart of this place. The anchor.”
“You were the anchor,” Anna said softly.
“I was. For fifty years.” Margo smiled, and it hurt a little. “But I can’t do it anymore. And I shouldn’t have to. I’ve earned my painting. I’ve earned my quiet mornings.” She leaned forward. “What I haven’t earned is watching this place fade because my grandchildren are too busy being busy to actually be here.”
The words landed hard. Margo watched them absorb it — Tyler’s jaw tightening, Meg’s eyes dropping to the table, Anna’s hands twisting in her lap.
“That’s not fair,” Meg said finally. “I have San Clemente. A full-time job. The expansion is?—”
“Important. I know. Your career matters.” Margo reached across the table and touched Meg’s hand. “I’m not saying it doesn’t. I’m saying you can’t do everything. None of you can. You’ve been trying to keep the Shack running as a side project, something you squeeze in between the rest of your lives. But this place was never a side project to me. It was the project.”
“So what are you saying?” Tyler asked. “One of us has to give up everything else?”
