“Because you’re you.” He reached across the table and took the salt shaker out of her hands, which she’d been turning without realizing it. “The beach part is still simple. The rest is just logistics.”
“Logistics matter.”
“Not as much as you think.”
Meg looked at his hand on the salt shaker. At the kitchen, warm and garlic-scented and his. At the man who’d waited and never once complained about the waiting.
“Saturday,” she said. “We figure out the Shack. And then we figure out the wedding.”
“Deal.”
She picked up her fork and ate his shrimp and didn’t check her phone for the rest of the night, which was either growth or exhaustion.
CHAPTER TEN
They gathered around the prep table on a Saturday because it was the only day everyone could be in the same room, and even then Meg was on speakerphone from San Clemente because Margaret Cassidy needed her at the property by noon and she refused to miss both.
“I’m here,” Meg’s voice said from Anna’s phone, propped against the salt shaker. “I have forty-five minutes. Go.”
Tyler leaned against the walk-in door with his arms crossed. Margo sat on the stool at the end of the counter—her first time inside the Shack in days. She hadn’t put on an apron. She’d come straight to the stool, sat down, and folded her hands in her lap. She hadn’t said a word since she arrived, which was its own kind of statement.
Michael stood at the head of the prep table with his laptop open and the legal pad beside it. He’d prepared a printed sheet — columns, not handwritten this time. His shirt was pressed. His briefcase sat closed on the floor beside his feet.
Anna had already heard the numbers. Meg had heard them on the phone. But Margo hadn’t. And Tyler had only gotten the broad strokes from Anna over coffee yesterday. This meeting was for the people who needed to hear it from Michael directly,with the full weight of the columns and the red circles and the two pens.
“I’ll keep this brief,” Michael said.
He walked them through it. Revenue. Operating costs. The break-even months and the months they dipped below. Anna watched the information land differently on each person—Tyler’s arms uncrossing as the picture got clearer, Meg’s silence on the speakerphone going sharper, the way you could hear someone listening harder.
And Margo. Margo, who hadn’t spoken. Whose hands stayed folded. Whose eyes moved from the printed sheet to Michael to Anna and back to the sheet as the numbers stacked up.
“The scholarship costs eighteen thousand a year,” Michael said. “That’s funded. It’s tight, but it’s funded. The problem is here.” He tapped the second column. “More adults drawing salaries. Two years ago, this restaurant ran with part-time help and lower overhead. The costs have changed. Revenue hasn’t.”
“We knew that,” Meg said from the phone. “We discussed it when we took over.”
“You discussed the costs, but you didn’t model the gap.” Michael closed the laptop. “At current revenue, you can keep the scholarship or pay yourselves. Not both. Not sustainably.”
The grill ticked. Outside, a jogger passed the window without looking in.
“The scholarship stays,” Anna said. She’d said it before. She’d say it again. As many times as it took.
“I’m not suggesting otherwise. I’m showing you the math so you can make a decision based on what’s real.” He pointed to a third column. “You need thirty percent more revenue. That’s the gap. Combined with a five-hour service window?—”
“Four hours,” Tyler said. “We open at ten, close at three. Technically five, but the last hour is slow.”
“Which reinforces the point.” Michael set down his pen. “The question is how you close the gap.”
Tyler pushed off the walk-in door. “Breakfast. We’ve talked about this.” He looked at Anna. “Seven AM, the boardwalk’s packed and our chairs are on the tables. Michael saw it himself.”
“Or dinner,” Meg said. “Sunset service. The view alone is worth a premium.”
“Extended hours increase both revenue and overhead,” Michael said. “The margin improvement would be?—”
“Marginal,” Anna said. “You’ve mentioned.”
“I’ll keep mentioning it until it’s factored into the plan.”
Anna looked at him. He looked back. His pen stayed on the table, which meant he’d said what he needed to say and was waiting.
