“Anna.” He looked around the patio. “This is what I want for the holiday party. Exactly this. Paige’s setup. The food. The patio at sunset.”
“You want to book the Shack.”
“I want to book the Shack. Forty people. December. I’ll pay full event rate.” He dropped his phone in his pocket. “And I’ll have three colleagues calling you by Monday. They saw the photos Stella’s been posting.”
He squeezed her shoulder—Rick’s version of a hug—and went back to the party.
Anna stood by the food station and looked at the patio. Paige was across the room, talking to Natalie, but her eyes kept sweeping the space — professional habit, checking the flow, noting what worked. She caught Anna’s eye and raised her glass. The look saidI told you so.
Tyler appeared at her elbow with Lindsey, both holding wine. Lindsey’s hand was on his arm.
“Did Rick just say what I think he said?” Tyler asked.
“Holiday party. Forty people. Full event rate. And three more bookings by Monday.”
Tyler looked at Lindsey. Lindsey looked at Anna. The three of them stood in the string lights with the party going on around them and the number that had been hanging over the Shack for months starting to dissolve.
Michael appeared. Of course he appeared. He’d heard the conversation from six feet away because Michael heard every conversation that involved numbers.
“Rick’s party at event rate,” he said. “Plus three referrals. Plus the art nights. Plus weekend brunch. Plus Friday and Saturday dinners.” His eyes were doing the thing they did when the math was working. “Anna.”
“What?”
“That covers the scholarship. Full funding. And salaries.”
Nobody said anything for a moment.
“The gap,” Anna said.
“Closed.”
“The thirty percent.”
“Gone. If the private event bookings hold—and with Paige’s client list, they will—you’re not just covering the shortfall. You’re building a reserve.”
Tyler’s hand tightened on his wine glass.
“So the Shack is?—”
"The Shack is going to be fine," Michael said. "More than fine."
The number landed. Three months of early mornings and burned eggs and cancelled photography jobs and family meetings and a thirty percent gap that had hung over everything—gone. Tyler exhaled. Lindsey grabbed his arm. Anna put her hand over her mouth. And Michael stood there with his pen in his pocket and let them have it.
“My eggs are part of this,” Tyler said. “My eggs are part of the model that saved the scholarship.”
“Your eggs are the highest-margin item on the weekend menu,” Michael said.
“I’m going to need a minute,” Tyler said. His eyes were bright. Lindsey squeezed his arm.
“Take your time,” Anna said.
"We should tell Meg," Tyler said.
"Not tonight. This night is hers. We have years to celebrate."
Tyler and Lindsey drifted back toward the dance floor. Anna watched them go—her brother, who had burned eggs on the ceiling three months ago and was now part of the financial model that kept their grandfather’s promise alive.
The DJ shifted to something slower. Tyler led Lindsey onto the clearing Paige had left near the railing. They danced — Tyler stiff and earnest, Lindsey patient, her hand on his shoulder. His ears were pink. Her face was open. They looked ridiculous and perfect.
