“The pelicans will survive without me.”
“The pelicans?”
“Don’t ask.” Margo moved to the grill and put her hand above it. The right temperature. Anna had learned well. “What needs doing?”
“We’re covered. You don’t have to?—”
“I know I don’t have to.” Margo picked up the spatula. “But I’m here and the grill is hot and there are three grilled cheeses on the board that aren’t going to make themselves.”
Anna opened her mouth. Closed it. Smiled. “Table two’s been waiting.”
Margo grilled. The cheese melted. The bread crisped. Her hands moved in the rhythm she’d been doing since before Anna was born—flip, press, check the color, plate. The customers at table two got their sandwiches and one of them said “this is the best grilled cheese I’ve ever had” and Margo said “I know” without looking up, and Anna laughed from the register.
It was good to be back. It was good in a way that petunias and pelicans and wine tasting could never be, because this was hers. Not the building—she’d given that to the grandchildren. But the grill, the rhythm, the satisfaction of feeding someone well. That was still hers.
The lunch rush thinned. Tyler left at noon, camera bag over his shoulder, looking tired in a way that Margo recognized—the tiredness of someone doing too much and loving all of it. Anna started the transition to dinner prep, which involved rearranging the menu board and pulling soup from the walk-in and looking at the clock more than she needed to.
Margo poured two coffees and brought one to Anna at the counter. The Shack was quiet now—Bernie in his booth, two tables lingering, the afternoon settling in.
“How’s it going?” Margo asked. “Really.”
Anna took the coffee and wrapped both hands around it. “It’s a lot. Breakfast at seven, lunch, then dinner until eight or nine. Tyler’s running on fumes. The girls are helping after school instead of doing homework.” She took a sip. “But people are coming. The numbers are up.”
“Michael’s numbers?”
“He’s been coming in for dinner. Every night.” Anna set the cup down and wiped the counter—the clean counter, the one that didn’t need wiping. “His audit’s been done for weeks. He just shows up.”
Margo watched her granddaughter’s hands on the rag. The wiping that wasn’t wiping. The way Anna’s voice had changed when she said his name — not sharper, not defensive. Softer. Like a door she’d opened without meaning to.
“He made something,” Anna said. “The other night. After close. Salsa, in his mother’s molcajete—this old stone mortar she used to cook with. He carried it in his car.” Anna stopped wiping. “His mother had a taqueria. Rosa. She lost it because nobody was watching the money. That’s why he became a consultant.”
“He told you all this?”
“We were cleaning up. It just—came out.” Anna picked up the rag again. Put it down. Picked it up. “The salsa was really good, Margo. Like, really good. I put it on the menu the next day.”
Margo looked at her granddaughter. At the rag in her hand. At the way Anna’s voice had gone when she said “it just came out.”
“Let me try it,” Margo said.
Anna went to the walk-in and came back with a small container and a bag of chips. She spooned salsa into a ramekin and set it on the counter.
Margo scooped a chip and tasted.
She took a second chip and dipped.
“That’s the kind of recipe that’s not written down. Can’t be,” Margo said. “His mother would be proud of that,”
Anna’s face changed—just for a second, just a flash of something warm and unguarded before she picked up the rag again. Margo caught it. Filed it away.
“Tell him I said so,” Margo said, and stood. She untied her apron and hung it back on the hook. Two hours. That was enough.
She kissed Anna’s cheek on the way out. “You’re doing well. All of you.”
“We’re surviving.”
“That’s the same thing, at this stage.”
She pushed through the door and stepped onto the boardwalk. The afternoon sun was warm. The ocean was doing its afternoon thing—flat and bright, the kind of surface that photographers loved and painters found impossible.
